Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [70]
“Go figure, a pretty little thing like her loving buried bodies. She admits she went out with Paul a few times—”
“Twice. For drinks.”
“But no sex, right?”
“Right, and no alibi either, home alone all evening, but a call to her father in Denver around eight. We’ll have her phone records this afternoon.”
“Had a relationship with the guy, though,” Nastasi said. “Maybe they did get it on and he failed the test, ticked her off.”
Shorter shrugged and finished his burrito. Nastasi’s was long gone.
“The intern—what’s her name? Gomara?—cute kid. Said the guy verbally abused her but I’m sure she didn’t whack him in the head. Too sweet, and for real. I’m not sure she could even lift the weight that whacked Paul.”
Shorter consulted his notes. “She was working in the main reading room until nine-thirty. Checks out.”
Nastasi nodded. “Let’s leave this burritoville before I eat another.”
They paid and slowly walked back to the Jefferson Building, continuing to discuss the morning’s interviews as they went.
“That Ms. Graves from Public Affairs is an impressive piece of work,” Nastasi said, stopping to prop a foot on a bench to tie a shoelace that had come undone. “What ’a you think of Mrs. Smith?”
“I like her,” said Shorter as they resumed their walk. “Her husband was a big-shot attorney in D.C. years ago.”
“Yeah, I know that. He got off a scumbag I collared. He was good, smooth as silk. Should we look at her again? She found him.”
“No. She’s off my screen. I keep going back to Vogler. He swears he never went that night to where the murder took place, but Marwede swears she saw him there. He sure had motive.”
Nastasi nodded and—he knew he ate too fast—belched against his fist as they reached the main entrance.
“What do you think Broadhurst will do about the money this Mr. Driscoll was sending Michele Paul?”
“No idea. When he said he’d follow through on it, he tried to act like it was nothing but he was shaken. You read that, too?”
“Uh huh. Maybe Paul got greedy and wanted more.”
They flashed their badges at the library security guard but were made to go through the metal detector anyway, and went directly to what had been their home since the murder, the handsomely appointed, genteel old Librarian’s office. Waiting there for them was John Vogler, chief of the manuscripts division.
“What can we do for you, Dr. Vogler?” Nastasi asked.
“I’d like to speak with you.”
Shorter checked his watch. “We have a few minutes before our next interview. Come on in.”
Sue Gomara knocked on Consuela Martinez’s closed office door.
“Yes, Susan?”
“I don’t want you to think I’m unhappy or anything,” Sue said, “but I was wondering whether I could do something else in Hispanic besides the Cuban newspapers.”
Consuela smiled. She’d been waiting for the young woman to assert herself and ask for greater responsibility.
Sue continued with her pitch: “I could still do the newspapers some of the time, but not all of the time. Maybe you could get another intern to help out—if that’s possible.”
“What sort of things would you like to do?” Consuela asked.
Sue shrugged, said, “I don’t know, like maybe go through one of the collections, catalog it, feel like I’m helping to do something important.”
“Keeping track of the Cuban newspapers is important.”
“Oh, sure, I know that, but …”
“I think it’s a fine idea that you branch out a little.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I do. Tell you what. We have dozens of collections sitting in the stacks just waiting for someone to go through them carefully, make notes on what’s in them, that sort of thing. Make up a preliminary inventory, a simple report.”
“That would be great, Dr. Martinez. I’d love that.”
“Okay.”
Consuela pulled a printed list of collections that had been donated to Hispanic