Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [71]
“Start with the first three on the list, Koser, Aaronsen, and Covington. They’re small collections, not much more than a box for each.”
“Which one should I do first?”
“Your choice. Lay out the material, break it down into categories that make sense, note what each section contains, and put the materials back in file folders marked with the name of the subject.”
“I really appreciate this, Dr. Martinez.”
“And I’ll appreciate the good job I know you’ll do.”
Sue eagerly went to leave but Consuela stopped her with “But you’ll still have to handle the Cuban newspapers.”
“Oh, sure, I can do both. Thanks again.”
After the fourth ring, Cale Broadhurst picked up the phone himself, his secretary having left her desk for a moment. “Broadhurst.”
“Hi, Cale. This is Annabel Smith. Do you have a moment?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks. I just had a talk with Lucianne Huston, and she told me something she knows that I thought you should know.”
“Okay.” Feeling blood rush to his head, Broadhurst asked, “What despicable rumor is she peddling now?”
“Apparently one of her more reliable sources informed her that Michele Paul was receiving large sums of money from David Driscoll. I know she assumes that Paul was selling information about rare books he had found to Driscoll, who would then buy them for the library.”
“Is she going to make this public?” Broadhurst asked nervously.
“I think so.”
“Well, thanks for calling me. I guess I better talk to Ms. Huston before she does permanent damage to the library.” As he hung up, he couldn’t strike the image of a gleeful Lucianne Huston—“Reporting from Washington, money and murder at the library”—from his mind.
Chapter 28
Los Angeles’ “art squad” was, as in all major cities, small and not considered terribly important in the overall scheme of law enforcement. Stealing an expensive piece of art from someone who obviously had enough money to buy it in the first place didn’t rank up there with drive-by shootings, racial unrest, rape, and arson.
Still, the few detectives assigned to the task in Los Angeles took their job seriously. While investigating the studio of Abraham Widlitz, they methodically looked at every piece of art in the studio while the owner tried in vain to reach his son in Pittsburgh: “Daddy’s at a dentists’ convention in Florida, Papa Abe,” his sixteen-year-old granddaughter told him, “and Mom went to a garden show.” Widlitz didn’t want to upset his granddaughter. “Nothing important,” he said in a tremulous voice. “I’ll call again.”
He’d sat at his desk while the police continued their examination of the contents of the studio, answering an occasional question but spending most of the time thinking about calling an attorney. He hesitated to do that because he felt it might make him appear guilty. As far as he was concerned, he hadn’t done anything wrong in accepting art from clients despite knowing they might have obtained their “finds” from less than honest sources. It wasn’t his responsibility to determine the provenance of any work of art. He was just a craftsman.
The detective who seemed to be in charge asked Widlitz for his records.
“Those are confidential,” Widlitz protested weakly.
The detective laughed. “You’re not a lawyer or a doctor, Mr. Widlitz. You can cooperate with us, which would be in your best interests, or we can do it the hard way, take you downtown and subpoena your records.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Depends on what we find here. Do we see the records or not?”
Widlitz gave them what few records he kept, which they packed into an empty leather catalog case they’d brought with them. Widlitz was told he was free to go, but that he was not to leave Los Angeles.
“What about my work?” he asked.
“Look at it this way, Mr. Widlitz. We’re giving you a few days vacation while we take a closer look at what’s here in the studio. We’ll let you know when you can come back.”
Abe Widlitz’s final words as he left were “I have a lawyer.”
“That’s good. Have a