Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [83]
“Of course you haven’t, David, but I am having trouble understanding your concern. The man was a common thief and murderer—a security guard died during the theft, did he not?”
Driscoll didn’t respond, and Sebastian continued.
“You provided three thousand dollars for me to give to this reptile so that he could fly to Cuba and enjoy the good life. Why should he be rewarded for his vile deeds, David? The money is in more worthy hands. Our police aren’t paid very much, as you know. Three thousand dollars is a great deal of money for them. They are hardworking family men. But most important, you never have to worry about Mr. Munsch again. He told me he was certain he could identify your man, Conrad. He seemed proud that he could. It was my judgment—and you paid me for my judgment, David—it was my considered judgment that he posed a significant threat to you. I acted in your best interests. An expression of appreciation would be more appropriate.”
Conversation during the meal was one-sided. Sebastian left the subject that had brought them together and talked of the political situation in Mexico, of its soccer team’s prospects in the World Cup, the young woman with whom he’d recently been involved, new restaurants he’d discovered, and other banal topics to which Driscoll barely responded.
“Dessert?” Sebastian asked.
“No. I must leave.”
“As you wish. We should do this more often.” Sebastian grabbed the check from the waiter and laid cash on it.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Driscoll said.
“If it had been, I wouldn’t take such pleasure in doing it. You know, David, you never did tell me why you wanted that particular painting. Hardly a worthwhile addition to your collection.”
“It’s no concern of yours.”
“A shame about your contact at the Library of Congress. A brutal, premature ending to a good life. You didn’t order that, either, did you.”
Driscoll merely stared at him.
They stood in front of the restaurant, where both men had cars and drivers waiting. As Driscoll was about to climb into his limo, Sebastian grabbed his elbow and urged him back. “David,” he said, “there is nothing to worry about. Justice was served when our police were forced to shoot Munsch as he tried to escape. There is no one now who can link you to what happened in Miami.” Sebastian’s laugh verged on being a girlish giggle. “Your worries are over. Keep in touch. Smile, my American friend. It’s a beautiful day. How many more will there be?”
Driscoll said to his driver, “Airport.” He closed his eyes and took a series of deep breaths. Sebastian had been right, he decided. With Munsch dead, justice had indeed been served, and there was no one who could link him to the theft of the Reyes painting in Miami and the unfortunate shooting of the security guard there.
But his eyes snapped open.
There’s always someone, and I’ve just left him.
Chapter 33
Dr. Cale Broadhurst waited in the anteroom to Senator Richard Menendez’s office in the Russell Senate Office Building. He’d been there for fifteen minutes, the senator’s delay due to an unexpected floor vote.
Broadhurst had spent most of the morning at LC huddling with members of his management team, including Mary Beth Mullin; a representative from Public Affairs who knew from experience with Broadhurst never to refer to that office’s activities as putting a “spin” on something; Broadhurst’s chief of staff, Helen Kelly; and a senior staffer from Congressional Relations. Those in attendance were treated to a rare burst of anger from the Librarian.
“I’ve only been Librarian for three years. I came here expecting to spend my days and nights helping guide this institution to even greater prominence than it currently enjoys, and to find the money to do that. I expected rocky going in some areas, and turns in the road that would require some skillful maneuvering. But I did not expect to have a scandal like this Driscoll and Michele Paul matter taking center stage. Does anybody here remember what Harry Truman said