Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [81]
The computer notes went on to mention that a separate diary prepared by Bartolomé de Las Casas, said to have been written during those three previous voyages, contained information detrimental to Columbus’s claims of having been cheated out of vast riches. Ovando wanted those diaries and offered a large sum to anyone delivering them.
“Did this Ovando ever get the diaries?” Mac asked.
“Not as far as I know. I’ve done my own research on Ovando. There’s no record of his ever taking possession of them.”
“What do those initials mean?” Mac asked.
Annabel turned, looked up at him, and smiled. “My question exactly,” she said, scrolling back to the beginning of the notes. “There are sets of initials all over the discs. Here. I’ve been making note of them.”
She handed her husband a slip of paper on which she’d written “MP,” “LC,” “DD,” “JS,” “DM,” “BE,” “CX,” and “WA.”
“MP?” Mac said. “Michele Paul?”
“Could be. If it does refer to him, it reinforces my belief that he didn’t write these notes.”
“A reasonable assumption. What about ‘DD’? Would that be David Driscoll?”
“The initials fit.”
“What about the rest of them?”
“I don’t know. Except for ‘LC,’ of course.”
“Others?”
“I originally thought some of them might refer to names out of Columbus’s past, one of his sailing companions, a member of his family. I went through all the names in my database but came up empty.”
“Are you finished for the night?” Mac asked.
“No. I have the other discs to get through. You go to bed.”
“Not on your life. If you can stay up all night, so can I.”
“Mac, it’s not a contest.”
“Just want to show I can keep up.”
“Keep up? With me?”
“Uh huh.”
“Why?”
“A newfound spirit of proving age doesn’t matter. If John Glenn can blast off into space, I can stay up all night with my young wife.”
Annabel shook her head. “I’m only five years younger than you.”
“I’m aware of that. Go on, get back to work. I started on that speech I’m supposed to give next month at the D.C. Bar. I’d better get back to work, too.”
He kissed her on the cheek and started to leave. Annabel watched as he took a step, grimaced, then continued through the door favoring his right leg.
“What happened to the magnet?” she called after him.
He stopped, turned, and said, “I took it off. Better get it back on. It works miracles.”
Her thought before returning to the subject that had consumed her all night was, Get that damn leg operated on, and do it fast! It’s got you talking like an old man.
He looked back over his shoulder. “Oh, yes, my love: If you come across anything pertinent to Michele Paul and the payoffs, log when, where, how long between presumed delivery of whatever and the payoff. As they were supposed to have said in the Watergate case, follow the money.”
But not thinking like an old man. She placed disc number four into the CPU, drew a deep breath, and went back to work.
Chapter 32
David Driscoll entered Hacienda de los Morales, his restaurant of choice whenever in Mexico City. He navigated the crowded main room and passed through French doors to lush gardens behind the restored fifteenth-century mansion. The table for two he’d reserved in a secluded corner was the only vacant one in the garden. A chair was held out for him. He was seated and served a “Mexican,” rum and tequila with honey and lime juice—a drink he’d grown fond of when visiting Havana’s La Bodeguita del Medio, where Ernest Hemingway had ordered doubles. Two waiters hovered nearby, keeping anxious eyes open for any subtle signal that he wished something else.
He wore a double-breasted navy blazer with gold buttons bearing his family crest, white