Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [90]
Annabel stared at the laptop, her face creased as she tried to resurrect whether she had, in fact, taken the disc from the computer and placed it to the side. She was sure she had, but how sure could you ever be of something like that?
She put aside the question and got to work on material for her article. By one, the night without sleep had caught up with her, although the morning’s work, during which the structure of the article had suddenly become clearer, buoyed her spirits if not her tired body.
She called Mac’s office at the university.
“Holding up?” he asked.
“Fading fast but I’ll make it. You?”
“Feel great. We ought to pull all-nighters more often, and not just reading discs. What was the outcome of giving the discs to Consuela?”
“We met with Cale. Since I was the only one who’d read everything on them, Consuela wanted me with her. He was upset.”
“I don’t wonder.”
“He’s still trying to get through to David Driscoll.”
“Did he confirm the reports that Driscoll was paying off Michele Paul?”
“He said the police have confirmed it. Consuela is having copies of the discs made before Cale turns them over to the police.”
“I’m glad he’s giving them the discs. It’s obviously not clear what bearing they might have on the murder, but there could be something there.”
“I agree. How’s the knee?”
“Pretty good. I think the magnet is working. I don’t like the bulge it makes in my pants but that’s a minor price to pay to avoid the knife.”
Avoid the knife! He could be too dramatic at times.
“See you at dinner?” she asked.
“Sure, only let’s make it an early one. I have a feeling we won’t be seeing the ten o’clock news.”
“Or the nine o’clock. Love you.”
“Me, too.”
She smiled and hung up.
Consuela had set Sue Gomara up with a computer in a cramped meeting room off her office. The intern peered intently at the screen as she brought up each individual file from a disc, then replaced it with another disc on which she copied the file. Annabel looked in on her.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Okay,” she said, not taking her eyes from the screen. “Some of this stuff is interesting.”
“Don’t get bogged down reading everything,” Annabel said. “I know that Consuela needs the duplicate discs as quickly as possible.”
“Yeah, she told me that.”
“Good. I’m going out for a sandwich. Want me to bring back something?”
“No, thanks, I had lunch.”
When Annabel came out of the office, John Vogler was coming from Consuela’s office. From the anguished expression on his face, it had not been a pleasant meeting. For a moment, he seemed startled to see Annabel. He said nothing and walked away. Annabel poked her head into Consuela’s crowded space. “Feel like a sandwich?” Annabel asked.
“I feel like a large margarita. Make that a triple.”
“Something else happen since this morning?”
Consuela answered by jerking her head toward the door.
“Vogler?”
A sigh was the only response to the question. “You buying?” she asked.
“Absolutely.”
They walked to Bullfeathers and sat at the long bar. Midday temperance won out; it was soft drinks for both, and crab salads.
“Dr. Vogler did not look happy when he left your office,” Annabel commented.
“Is he ever?” was Consuela’s response. “He’s an enigma. Beneath that neurotic outer shell is a very decent man, but, boy, is he a wreck over the murder investigation.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“He wants me to go to the police and tell them he wasn’t anywhere near Hispanic the night Michele was killed.”
“Do you know that he wasn’t?”
“No, and I told him that. He said someone informed the police that he was there, and that they consider him the prime suspect because of past incidents he had with Michele. You know about his wife, don’t you?”
“Only because Vogler told me about it himself.”
They raised their glasses in a halfhearted toast to nothing special.
Their conversation dealt mostly with the events of the past twenty-four hours—Annabel having stayed up all night going through the discs; of her initial belief that