Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [86]
Broadhurst walked down First Street to the Madison Building, passing a familiar homeless woman in whose paper cup he often dropped coins. He ignored her. He crossed against a traffic light and went directly to his office.
“No visitors or calls, please,” he told his secretary.
He hung his tweed jacket on a coat tree, went to the large globe and gave it a vigorous spin, then sat behind his desk. He picked up the phone and dialed Mary Beth Mullin’s extension.
“Any luck?” he asked.
“No.”
“Get some people working the phones and call any place he might be, California, Alaska, Mexico, the South Pole, any place. I want to talk to him now!”
Chapter 34
Despite not having slept the previous night, Annabel arrived at LC feeling energized and purposeful, as a person sometimes does on too little rest. It’s the second day that terminal fatigue usually strikes. She walked through the door of the Jefferson Building at eight-thirty and was in her space on the upper gallery before Consuela or any of the other Hispanic-Portuguese staff members showed up.
She plugged in her laptop and inserted the last of the five discs taken from the envelope found in the so-called Aaronsen Collection. She’d run out of time at home; another fifteen pages were still to be read and notes taken.
She was so intently focused on the screen that she wasn’t aware of someone standing behind her until that person cleared her throat. Annabel turned to look up at Dolores Marwede. Was she reading the computer screen over Annabel’s shoulder?
“Oh,” Annabel said, shifting in her chair in an attempt to block the screen.
“Early start, huh?” Dolores said.
“Yes. I feel the clock ticking, the deadline for my article looming larger and closer.”
“I heard you’ve found computer discs in one of the collections that might bear on Michele’s case.”
“Actually, Sue Gomara came up with them.”
“Is that what you’re looking at now?”
“Yes. I’m waiting for Consuela to arrive so I can give them to her.”
“What’s on them?” Dolores asked, pulling the chair from what had been Michele Paul’s desk to Annabel’s side.
“A lot of research notes, nothing especially enlightening so far.”
“From what I hear, you told Consuela you thought the discs might belong to Michele.”
“The grapevine is in full flower. Do you know if Consuela is here yet?”
“I didn’t see her when I came in, but she should be.”
Annabel popped the disc from the drive, slipped it into its paper sleeve, added it to the envelope containing the other four discs, and stood. “I’ll go down and check,” she said.
She walked away, aware of Dolores Marwede’s eyes following her as she stepped aside to allow Sue Gomara to pass—“How was the stuff on the discs, Annabel?” “Ah, fine, Sue. Interesting.”—and went downstairs. Consuela Martinez had just arrived. There was no need to say anything. Annabel stepped into the office, closed the door, and laid the envelope on the desk.
“Were they helpful?” Consuela asked.
“I’m not sure yet. I do know that what’s on those discs is disturbing.”
“How so?”
“Consuela, I thought these discs belonged to Michele Paul.”
“And?”
“I don’t believe that now. I think they were the product of John Bitteman.”
“Bitteman? What makes you say that?”
“I compared some written materials I had from Bitteman’s files with the material on the discs. They track. The discs didn’t come from Michele Paul’s hand because they’re filled with disparaging comments about him.”
“What sort of disparaging comments?”
“Oh, snide remarks, mentions of professional inadequacy, claims that someone known as ‘MP’ stole his research, things like that. He never mentions Paul by name. It’s always initials. The material is filled with initials. I have no doubt that ‘MP’ stands for Michele Paul. But all those negative references aren’t what concern me, Consuela. It’s what’s on the final fifteen pages that really captured my attention.”
Consuela’s wide eyes urged Annabel to go on.
“Bitteman—and I’m convinced it’s Bitteman’s writing—says he knew all about