Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [69]
He worked in one corner, carefully removing the varnish—he now realized there were at least three distinct and separate layers—until exposing what appeared to be two lines that were not part of the painting itself, unless, of course, they had been drawn by the artist while making initial sketches. If so, the lines evidently had not been incorporated in the finished work.
He extended the square until it became three inches by three inches. As he worked, he muttered to himself about the artist’s crude brushwork and clumsy rendering of the figures in the painting. Abe Widlitz realized years ago that he would never become an artist of note—dozens of classes at local colleges and studios convinced him of that. But he knew good art when he saw it, and this painting didn’t qualify.
The task was tedious and tiring for the aging craftsman. Ordinarily, such a project would be attacked over many weeks. But Widlitz knew from previous experience that his client was not a patient man. He’d handled a number of projects for Driscoll, put off by his abrasive, demanding demeanor but appreciating how quickly and generously the multimillionaire paid for the work Widlitz performed on his behalf.
He continued using solvents to remove the varnish in the painting’s corner until the area had been expanded to approximately two square feet. From what he could ascertain, the only material contained beneath Reyes’s painting was, with few exceptions, preliminary pencil sketches of the scene.
At precisely five, he put away the materials he’d used that day and sat down at his desk to pay bills that had arrived in the mail that morning. At 5:45, he washed the few dishes he’d used, put on his jacket, adjusted the blinds on the windows, and prepared to depart the studio, leaving just enough time to catch the 6:02 bus.
He set the burglar alarm, opened the door, and came face-to-face with two men in suits and two uniformed officers from the LAPD.
“Abraham Widlitz?” one of the suits asked.
“Yes.”
“We have a warrant to search these premises.” He showed Widlitz a piece of paper and his badge.
“Search?” said Widlitz. “Why would you want to search my studio?”
“Excuse me.” The man led his plainclothes partner inside and snapped on overhead lights. One of the cops in uniform escorted Widlitz back into the studio while the other officer remained in the hall.
“Please, would you explain to me why you are here?” Widlitz said, hands outstretched. “What are you looking for?”
“My partner and I are with the LAPD art squad, Mr. Widlitz. We’ve been told you sometimes turn your back on who really owns some of the paintings you work on.”
“That is not true.”
“If it’s not, we’ll find that out. In the meantime, why don’t you just sit down and relax. If our information is wrong, maybe we’ll see something we like and buy it from you. If our information is right, we can all go down to headquarters and have a little heart-to-heart about art and artists. How’s that sound to you?”
“Am I allowed to make a phone call?”
“Your lawyer?”
“My son. He will know what to do.”
“Sure. Call your boy.” He surveyed the larger, outer room. “Lots of stuff here, Mr. Widlitz. Business must be good.”
Widlitz didn’t respond as he dialed the number in Pittsburgh with a hand that trembled in rhythm to his heartbeat.
Chapter 27
“So, where are we?”
Detective Marcus Shorter took a bite of his burrito and washed it down with a sip of Coke. He and his partner, Frank Nastasi, had spent the morning in the old Librarian’s office interviewing a dozen people from LC, including the two researchers who occupied work spaces adjacent to Michele Paul; Dolores Marwede for the second time; members of the public affairs department; General Counsel Mary Beth Mullin; the intern, Susan Gomara; and John Vogler for the third time. It was Nastasi’s day to choose where to eat lunch, and he had opted for Burrito Brothers, nestled in the string of inexpensive restaurants on Pennsylvania Avenue, a block from the library.
“Where are we?” Shorter repeated, pulling a pad from