Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [78]
“Why?” she exploded. “You’re the news director, you make the decisions.”
“I told you, Lucianne, that our leader happens to be a friend of the Library of Congress’s top guy, Broadhurst. Driscoll is a big supporter of LC, as you call it. Right?”
“Right.”
“So I’m not letting you go further on Driscoll until I have a talk with the guy who signs our checks. You’re at the hotel?”
“Right.”
“Cool it, Lucianne. Go get a pedicure and a stiff drink. My treat. Relax.”
“I don’t get pedicures, Bob. They’re tough to find in Somalia.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
“I can’t wait.”
Two LAPD detectives sat in an unmarked car a few houses down from Driscoll’s. They’d called the house and received the same message as Lucianne Huston, that Driscoll was “out of the country.” Naturally suspicious, they decided to spend a few hours watching the house on the chance they’d been lied to. After four boring hours, during which no vehicle or person came to or left the house, they decided to return to headquarters. They started the engine when a car arrived, a white BMW convertible with its top down. Its driver, wearing a white jacket and full-brimmed straw hat, and sporting a neatly cropped red beard, got out of the vehicle and went to an intercom mounted next to a pair of black iron gates.
“That’s the guy Widlitz described,” one of the cops said. “Our Conrad. We should have a little talk with him.”
“Let’s see what he does, where he goes after this.”
The electronically operated gates swung open and Conrad Syms drove into the compound. Ten minutes later he emerged and turned right, followed at a discreet distance by the detectives. He drove south on the San Diego Freeway until exiting for Hermosa Beach, and pulled into the parking lot of Woody’s Comedy Club, a one-story building close to the water. The detectives pulled up next to him as he was getting out of the BMW.
“Conrad?” one of them said. “LAPD.” They displayed their credentials.
“So, what do you want from me?”
“You related to David Driscoll?”
“What? Come on!” He started to walk away but they blocked his path.
“Look, dimwit, we can talk nice and friendly here, or we can take you in for wearing an illegal hat.”
“Illegal hat? What are you guys, auditioning at Woody’s?”
They moved in unison, one on each side of him, pinning him against his car. “What is your last name?” one asked.
“Syms.”
“Conrad Syms?”
“Yeah. How come you asked about Driscoll?”
“Know a gentleman named Abraham Widlitz?”
“Jesus, what’s this all about?”
“It’s about a murder in Miami, which we’re led to believe you were an accomplice to.”
“Murder? Miami? Ah, come on, guys, you’ve got to be joking.”
“So how come you’re not laughing, Conrad?”
“I don’t know anything about any murder. I’ve never been to Miami. Look, I’m here to audition for a comedy flick. I’m an actor.”
“I bet you are.”
“I told you—”
“And we’re telling you that we have a lot to talk about. Be a nice boy and put the top up on your fancy car there, lock it, and come with us.”
“Am I being arrested? I want a lawyer.”
“No, Conrad, you are not being arrested. You’re being invited to a party. If you want to bring a lawyer as your date, be our guest.”
• • •
The only people, it seemed, who weren’t looking for David Driscoll that day were Annabel Reed-Smith and Consuela Martinez. After Annabel had taken the envelope containing the discs to her friend, and the door to the office had been closed, they continued talking about Sue Gomara’s discovery.
“And you think these discs were not Aaronsen stuff, that they belonged to Michele?” Consuela asked.
“From what I’ve read, yes. The question is, how did they end up in the Aaronsen file box? When was that collection donated?”
Consuela consulted a card. “Almost three years ago.”
“What do we do with the discs?” Annabel asked. “I’d like to be able to go through all of them.