Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [58]
“Yeah? Okay. I didn’t catch your name.”
“My name doesn’t matter. What happened in Miami?”
“In Miami? What ’a you mean?”
“We can make this little meeting short and painless, or we can make it long and painful. Miami. The painting you stole with your colleagues. What happened to the security guard?”
Munsch exhaled and sat back. Was this some sort of cop?
“Why was he killed?” the man asked. “You weren’t supposed to kill anyone.”
“It wasn’t me. It was Garraga.”
“Garraga?”
“This hot-headed Cuban I brought on the job. Dumb bastard. Drinks too much. The guard comes up on us as we’re leaving and thinks he’s a hero. Garraga shot him. We could have taken the guy. There were three of us. He didn’t have no gun. But Garraga pulls a piece and shoots the guy. I was really mad, believe me I was. Felt like shooting Garraga myself. But I had nothing to do with it.”
The man at the table listened impassively, an occasional nod his only response.
“I brought the painting out to L.A. like I was supposed to do, handed it over to some guy who calls himself John Smith, if you like that one. Kind of a big guy with a red beard, wore a white jacket and some big floppy straw hat, like a woman wears. I give him the painting, he gives me the money, and I come to Mexico. I was supposed to go to Cuba but I got mugged, all my money gone.”
“A sad tale.”
“Tell me about it. Look, Mister Whatever Your Name Is, I had nothing to do with that guard getting whacked. Nothing! Zippo! Nada! All I want to do is get to Cuba and forget it ever happened. You seem like a reasonable gentleman. Stake me to a plane ticket and you’ll never hear from me again—except, of course, I’ll pay you back as soon as I make a score there. Pay you back in spades.”
“This man you gave the painting to, with the red beard and white jacket. Would you recognize him again if you were introduced to him?”
“Sure. How do you forget a character like that? Know him anywhere, spot him in a crowd.”
The man stood: “Would you excuse me for a few minutes?” He disappeared through a door into the house.
Munsch couldn’t believe he was now alone. Again, he considered attempting to leave but instinct told him to stay put. Maybe that’s what they wanted, for him to make a break for it. The older guy at the table seemed receptive to what he’d suggested. Wouldn’t even have to be a first-class ticket, although he preferred that. He’d answered his questions. He kept nodding so I must have given the right answers. Just sit tight, he told himself, glancing at the pile of mail on the table. Two envelopes visible to him were addressed to Señor Emilio Sebastian. At least I know who he is. Just wait it out. Things are looking up.
Inside the house, Emilio Sebastian sat behind an inlaid leather desk in a large study filled with Hispanic and Portuguese art and artifacts. He’d been on a call placed to the States for the past two minutes. He hung up, went to the front door, and summoned the two men from where they sat in the car. After whispering something to the Mexican, he returned to his study and placed a call to AeroMexico, wrote down what the reservations agent told him, then opened a safe, removed three thousand dollars in American currency, placed it in a number-ten envelope, and returned to the patio, where Munsch still sat at the table.
“Here,” Sebastian said, handing the envelope to Munsch.
“What’s this?” Munsch asked.
“Money for your trip to Cuba and for your time this morning.”
Munsch hurriedly counted the envelope’s contents. “Gee, I didn’t expect this much, Mr. Sebastian,” he said, now wishing there was more to replace what he’d brought with him from L.A.
“There is a flight leaving Mexico City for Havana at seven this evening. I have reserved a seat on it for you.”
“That is really nice of you, sir—Mr. Sebastian. I really appreciate it.” Munsch stood. “I won’t forget this. You can count on that.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Munsch. Have a safe and pleasant trip. The two gentlemen who were good enough to bring you here will take you to the airport.”
“Okay.” Munsch punched the air. “All