Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [50]
“He spent a lot of time in Seville over the past couple of years,” Consuela said.
“Makes sense,” said Annabel, continuing to read. “Michele seems to have gotten most of his material about the artist from someone he refers to as Sebastian. Familiar?”
“No.”
“Look at this.” Annabel handed Consuela a group of papers attached to one another with a paper clip.
“A list of paintings by Reyes.”
“Yes. And a second list of paintings by others, all depicting that famous scene where Columbus presents his Book of Privileges to Fernando and Isabella.”
Annabel laid the folder on the floor and went to the living and dining rooms, where the walls were covered with Hispanic art. “There’s no painting in the apartment depicting that scene,” she said when she returned to the office.
“It says Reyes painted in the nineteenth century,” Consuela said. “Aside from the scene, I can’t imagine what it would have to do with Las Casas.”
“I can’t either,” Annabel said, inserting the list she’d given Consuela into the folder and adding it to others on the floor.
At five, Annabel took out her cell phone. “I have to call Mac.”
“Where are you?” her husband asked. “I called the library. Someone in Hispanic said you’d left for the afternoon.”
“I’m at Michele Paul’s apartment.”
“Why?”
“Going over materials he had here that should be returned to the library. I’m with Consuela.”
“How long will you be there?”
“We’re about to leave. Consuela and I are carrying back some of the files. They’re sending a truck tomorrow for the rest. There’s a room full of file boxes.”
“Home for dinner?”
“Yes. I’d say about six-thirty.”
“I’ll have it waiting.”
“Don’t fuss. How was school?”
“Pretty good. I’m impressed with some of my students this term, at least I was today. Tomorrow’s another matter.”
“And how’s your knee?”
“It’s, ah—hurting today. I took a wrong step leaving the building. Must have twisted it.”
“Stay off it. We’ll order in from the hotel.”
“I’ll play it by ear. Or by knee. Safe home.”
Annabel and Consuela, each carrying an armload of file folders, were driven back to LC by Detective Simmons and his uniformed colleague. They went directly to the Hispanic and Portuguese section, where they spread the folders on a small conference table in a room adjacent to Consuela’s office.
“What are you going to do with them overnight?” Annabel asked.
“Lock them in my office, I suppose, unless you want to stay awhile and keep going through them.”
“No, thanks,” Annabel said. “I’ve got to head home.”
She went to her desk space on the upper gallery and gathered her belongings. She’d come down the stairs and had said good night to Consuela when Lucianne Huston entered the reading room. “I was looking for you,” she said.
“I was out for the afternoon.”
“Where did you go?”
“Just out. Part of my research. Did you get the interviews you wanted?”
“The security chief, but he didn’t have much to add to what I already know. That Prussian, Ms. Graves, says she’s got me set up tomorrow with the lawyer, name’s Mullin. I hate interviewing lawyers, party of the first part and that crap. I’m on my way to our D.C. affiliate to file a report for the seven o’clock news. Want to come with me?”
“Thanks, no.”
“I’m leading with the Bitteman story. Two murders here, both victims chasing the elusive Las Casas. You know John Vogler?”
“Yes.”
“Seems he had a fistfight with Michele Paul over an affair Paul had with Vogler’s wife.”
Annabel said nothing.
“Getting juicier all the time. Or at least live. Well, take it easy, and thanks for lunch.”
“Sure.”
Annabel watched Huston walk toward Consuela’s office.
“Lucianne.”
The journalist turned. “What?”
“You told me you were sent here because there had been an art theft and murder in Miami.”
“Not because of that, but it started the process. Why?”
“The artist? Did you say his name was Reyes?”
“That’s right. Fernando Reyes.”
“Oh.”
“Why do I get the feeling this is meaningful?