Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [53]
International events, and a brewing ethical scandal in Congress, led the newscast. Then, as Sue considered a second glass of wine, Lucianne Huston’s face filled the screen.
“I’m Lucianne Huston at the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. The murder of senior specialist and researcher Michele Paul in this imposing institution of learning has predictably shaken those who worked with him. The police have been conducting nonstop interviews with his colleagues, many of whom I’m told were not particularly fond of the deceased. I’ve also learned that eight years ago, another researcher from the library was a possible murder victim. I say ‘possible’ because his body was never found. His apartment had been ransacked and police found traces of blood. This victim, whose name was John Bitteman, was a rival of Michele Paul’s—both had devoted their professional careers to attempting to prove the existence of diaries allegedly written by Bartolomé de Las Casas, close friend and sailing companion of Christopher Columbus on his first three voyages from Spain to the Americas. It was also alleged that Las Casas had drawn a map pinpointing where Columbus had hidden millions in gold. Where the investigation into this latest murder leads is conjecture at this point, but we’ll continue to report developments as they occur. I’m Lucianne Huston in Washington.”
Sue had heard about the disappearance of John Bitteman, but only in snippets. It had happened long ago; she was only sixteen years old. Those who had been there at the time and with whom she talked about it worked in the collections management division, which administered book services through the main reading room, not the Hispanic and Portuguese division. Most had known Bitteman by reputation only.
She went to the kitchen to see what was in the fridge for dinner when the ringing phone stopped her. She reached for it but paused, her hand hovering over the instrument. Was it him again?
“Hello?” she said, voice taut.
“Sue. It’s Hope.”
A sigh.
“Think I was your secret admirer calling?”
“It crossed my mind.”
Hope Martin worked as an assistant at the Corcoran Gallery of Art; she and Sue had been friends since meeting there at a fund-raiser a year ago.
“Rick out of town?” Hope asked.
“Yes. Denver, I think. Or Chicago. One of those places out there. How are you?”
“Great. Had dinner?”
“No. I was just foraging for something.”
“Let’s go out. My cupboard’s bare.”
“I suspect that’s the case with mine, too. Where?”
“Zorba’s? I’m in the mood for tabouli.”
“Okay.” The cafe was around the corner from Sue’s apartment. “A half hour?”
“You’ve got it. If you get there first, which I know you will, grab a patio table. It’s warm enough.”
Sue changed into slacks, a sweater, and light purple and pink crinkled windbreaker and was out the door when the phone rang again. Go back in and answer it? Hard not to. She picked up on the fourth ring, just before her answering machine kicked in.
“Hello, Ms. Gomara.”
The deep male voice spoke slowly, hesitantly, as though he’d stammered at some point in his life.
“Who the hell are you?” Sue said. She’d asked the police to provide a way to trace the calls, but they suggested she see whether the caller persisted. What constituted persisting? she wondered. This was the sixth call, at least, even more when you added the times he reached the answering machine and said nothing.
“Don’t be angry with me, Ms. Gomara. This is a friendly call.”
Hang up? She wished the answering machine had been activated. She wanted his voice on tape.
“How do you know me?” she asked. The police had told her to say nothing when he called, simply to hang up: “That generally frustrates guys like this. They want a conversation with you. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”
“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “I love the way you look, the way you walk. I like beautiful women who are intelligent, too. Such a beautiful woman