Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [49]
They pulled up in front of the Bethesda apartment building that had been Paul’s home until his murder, one of hundreds of such buildings in the Maryland and Virginia suburbs, all so similar that they might have been designed and built by a single individual.
The plainclothes detective found the super, who led the officers, Consuela, and Annabel to the top floor, where he let them into Paul’s apartment. The super, a portly gentleman who spoke with a Slavic accent, lingered.
“Thanks,” the detective told him. “I’ll let you know when we’re leaving.”
“Do you know who killed Dr. Paul?” the super asked on his way out.
“No,” the detective answered, “but you’ll be the first to know.”
“It’s a lovely apartment,” Annabel said, going to sliding glass doors leading to the terrace.
Consuela agreed.
“You knew this man pretty well,” one detective, Simmons, said.
“Yes,” Consuela said. “We worked together.”
“He was what, a professor?”
“A researcher. Hispanic and Portuguese history.”
“Impressive,” Simmons said. “Looks like it pays pretty well.”
“Where do we start?” Annabel asked.
“In here.”
Detective Simmons led them into the largest of three bedrooms, which Paul had set up as his office. On their way, Annabel glanced into the other two smaller bedrooms. One had obviously been where Paul slept. The other served as a storeroom of sorts, with floor-to-ceiling steel shelving on which at least a hundred file boxes, labeled with an electronic labeling device, were neatly arranged.
“Do you think that’s all library materials, too?” Annabel asked Consuela.
“We’ll have to see.” She looked to Simmons: “Can we examine what’s in this room, too?”
“Sure. My orders are to let you look at anything you want. We’ve already gone over the apartment.”
“It’s going to be awhile,” Consuela said.
“Take your time. You’ve got us for the rest of the day, whatever’s left of it.”
“Where do we start?” Consuela asked when she and Annabel were alone in the office.
“Those four two-drawer file cabinets, I suppose,” Annabel said. “We’re looking for anything bearing upon or belonging to LC?”
“Uh huh,” Consuela said, opening the top drawer of one of the units.
Annabel pulled out another drawer. Five minutes after she’d begun, she said to Consuela, “Everything in here is related to his research. I assume the police removed anything of a personal nature for their investigation.”
“Looks that way,” Consuela said, opening another drawer. “Let’s see if we can arrange to have all this shipped back to the library. We’ll be days if we have to go through it here.”
While the Hispanic division chief conferred with Simmons, Annabel went into the storage room and perused the labels on boxes. It appeared that everything in that room was linked to Michele Paul’s professional life, too.
“What did he say?” Annabel asked when Consuela returned.
“He said that’s up to us. I’ll call Helen Kelly and see if she can arrange for a truck and personnel to get everything out of here. In the meantime, we might as well go through what’s in his office. The most recent work he’d been doing is probably there. We can carry some of that back to LC ourselves.”
They worked silently, examining each file folder in the drawers, occasionally commenting on what they’d found, and placing selected folders on the floor next to them. One file labeled SEVILLE-REYES caught Annabel’s eye. She took it to a black leather sling chair in the corner and began reading.
“What do you have?” Consuela asked.
“Handwritten notes, in Michele’s hand, I assume. It’s about some artist from Seville named Fernando Reyes.”
“Not familiar with him.”
“I don’t think I am, either, although for some reason his name rings a bell. That’s why I picked it up.”
“What’s it say about him?”
“Sort of a biography, a list of paintings attributed to him, family