Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [91]
“I wonder what new revelations our lovely Ms. Huston will conjure up on her next newscast,” Consuela said.
“At least we won’t be surprised with whatever it is. I heard she winged off to Los Angeles.”
“Oh? Chasing David Driscoll?”
“Probably. But he’s not there. Or is said not to be. My money is on her. She’ll find him and get something from him. She’s good at that.”
“Do you think—?”
“The only thing I’m thinking at the moment, Consuela, is that I’ve gotten too old to stay up all night. Pardon me if my head suddenly ends up in this salad.”
Consuela patted her friend’s arm. “If it does, I’ll have to tell Lucianne Huston, and she’ll have it on the evening news. Finish up and let’s get back to my office. Among Sue Gomara’s new duties is keeping the coffeepot going. I know you’re not a fan of institutional java but Sue makes the world’s strongest coffee. One cup and you’ll stay up for a week.”
Chapter 35
Lucianne Huston didn’t bother booking a hotel in Los Angeles. She grabbed the first available flight from Washington, got off the plane, and took a taxi directly to Parker Center.
“Detective Davis, please,” she told the desk sergeant.
“Who wants him?”
“Lucianne Huston, NCN.”
He cocked his head and smiled. “Yeah, it is you.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” she said, going to a corner and sitting, her carry-on bag at her feet.
A few minutes later LAPD homicide detective Sam Davis emerged from a door behind the desk, came up to Lucianne, stopped a few feet away, and laughed.
“What’s funny?” she asked, not getting up.
“Seeing you, Lucy. You always bring a smile to my face.”
“You know I hate being called that,” she said, standing and closing the gap between them. She kissed his cheek, causing him to look nervously at the desk sergeant.
“Still the handsome, dashing foe of all evil,” she said, stepping back and making an exaggerated point of looking him up and down.
Davis was a strapping middle-aged man, forty-five years old, an LAPD veteran who’d been assigned to, and solved, some of the city’s high-profile cases. And in Los Angeles, many cases quickly became high profile, even if the profile was altered by cosmetic surgery. Local media had given him a lot of play as a celebrity; he’d become known as a hunk, a homegrown heartthrob whose appeal to the opposite sex soared when his divorce from his wife was reported three years ago.
“And still the globe-trotting reporter,” he said. “I saw you last night on the tube. Things must be slow at the network, Lucy—Lucianne. The Library of Congress?”
“More exciting than you think.”
“Let’s go outside. Leave your bag.”
“With cops around? I’m not that crazy.”
They walked up Los Angeles Street until reaching the Otani Hotel at the corner of First Street. Lucianne looked up at it. “Returning to the scene of the crime?” she asked.
“Sleeping with me was a crime? I thought I was supporting the First Amendment.”
“I considered it more a matter of search and seizure.”
“I was good, wasn’t I?”
“You were—good. Time for a drink?”
“Sure. I went off duty two hours ago but hung around to catch up on paperwork. Your timing’s impeccable, as usual. Another fifteen minutes and I’d have been on my way up the coast. Two days off starting tomorrow.”
They settled in the Rendezvous Lounge in the center of the main lobby.
“So, here we are,” Davis said after they ordered from the kimono-clad waitress, “déjà vu all over again. Another case of looking for inside information, Lucianne, or tired of sex with the wimps of your profession and looking for something better?”
“Your modesty is overwhelming.”
“Just fishing for the real reason you’re here. I’d rather it be the second one, but—”
“I’m looking for information.”
“Ah ha,” he said, smiling