Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [67]
“Dr. Vogler,” Annabel said, “I would love to help you but there’s nothing I can do. Why are you telling me this?”
“You were there that night. You discovered the body. Was it you who—?”
“Was it me who told the police you were at the scene? It wasn’t.”
“Do you know who it might have been?”
Annabel shook her head.
“Would you try and find out for me?”
“I—no, I’m afraid that isn’t my responsibility. Look, Dr. Vogler—”
“John.”
“John, I’m certain that if what you told the police was completely truthful—and I’m sure it was—you have nothing to worry about. Now, excuse me. I really have to go.”
He stood, again threatening to tip over the table. “Of course,” he said, offering his hand. “You’ve been very gracious taking time from your busy schedule.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“Mrs. Reed-Smith.”
“Annabel.”
“Yes, Annabel. If you do hear who might have told the police this lie about me, you will let me know?”
Annabel left without answering.
Her concentration impaired by Vogler’s call and their meeting, Annabel walked back to LC with conviction, determined to shut the rest of the world out from her upper-gallery space for the rest of the day. She almost made it. As she passed Consuela’s open office door, Lucianne Huston, who was on the phone, stretched the cord to reach the door and motioned for Annabel to join her. Annabel waved back and was about to continue on her way when Lucianne’s words to whoever was on the other end of the call caused her to stay.
“… can we get a statement from somebody in Mexico? Yes, someone who knows the details of how he was killed. There’s got to be somebody who doesn’t spout the official Mexican line, damn it. I may want to go there…. Of course I’ll let you know…. Right. I’ll check in later. Uh huh. Okay. All right, Bob.”
“Hi,” Annabel said when Lucianne hung up.
“Great dinner last night. Your husband’s quite a guy.”
“No debate.”
“They found the man who pulled off the art theft and security guard killing in Miami. Masterminded it, you might say.”
“Where did they find him?” Annabel asked.
“Just outside the Mexico City airport. When Mexican police tried to arrest him, he ran. They shot him.”
“He’s dead?”
“Very.”
“How did you find out?” Annabel asked.
“My boss in Miami. The Miami cops were notified by the Mexicans.”
She motioned for Annabel to join her in the office. Annabel stepped inside and Lucianne shut the door.
“You’ve taken over Consuela’s office?” Annabel said.
“Anything to get away from my keepers in Public Affairs. Consuela offered. At least somebody around here makes sense.”
“You’re too hard on Joanne and her people, Lucianne. They’re doing their job.”
“And keeping me from doing mine. Want to know where that hundred thousand to Michele Paul came from?”
“I’d like to say no but go ahead.”
“David Driscoll. Turns out he’d been sending checks to our Michele Paul for years.”
“It’s not a surprise, is it? I mean, your sources said it was Driscoll spreading money around in search of the Las Casas materials.”
“But to Michele Paul? Paul worked for this library. If he was feeding Driscoll information about Las Casas, he violated his agreement with the Library of Congress—didn’t he?”
“I don’t know what agreement Paul might have had with LC.”
“I do. He was an employee, paid by LC. His research belonged to LC, just like engineers inventing something on GE’s time. What they come up with belongs to the company.”
“You’re assuming Paul was selling his research findings to Driscoll.”
“What else did he have to sell?”
“Hmmm.”
“Driscoll lives in L.A.”
“And?”
“And this two-bit thief Munsch steals a painting with Columbus as its theme and heads to L.A. with it. Munsch was no art collector. He had to have stolen the painting at someone else’s behest.”
“That’s what Mac said. David Driscoll?”
“Got any better ideas?”
“Do you know what I decided last night after you left our apartment, Lucianne?”
“That you wouldn’t invite me back?”
“That I didn’t want to spend another minute thinking about the murder.”
“That’ll teach you to invite a journalist