Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [92]
“It was last time, too, in a different way. Sam, I’m out here following up on a murder case at the Library of Congress.”
Davis looked at her quizzically. “What would I know about a murder in Washington?”
“Maybe more than you think. Is the name David Driscoll familiar to you?”
“Sure. Richer than God and aspiring to the title. Why? Oh, that’s right, you reported something about him having paid money to someone at the Library of Congress. The guy who was murdered?”
“Uh huh. I’m out here hoping to interview Driscoll. He’s in Mexico, I’m told. Let me fill you in.”
She ran through what she knew of Driscoll’s connection with Michele Paul and laid out the details of the theft of the Reyes painting in Miami, the shooting of the guard at the museum, and Warren Munsch’s flight with the painting from Florida to Los Angeles, disappearing in Mexico only to be gunned down by Mexican authorities.
“So?” Davis said when she was through. “Are you suggesting that Driscoll had something to do with all that?”
“I’m suggesting that I’d like to know whether LAPD has anything on it. Look, I know from cops in Miami that your people were informed that the painting headed this way, and that this slob, Munsch, who was wanted for the theft and guard shooting, was here, too, before skipping across the border. No bells ringing?”
Davis shook his head.
“But you will find out for me, won’t you?”
“For a lousy drink?”
“Dinner’s on me, too. Spago. Morton’s. Your choice— provided you give me something I can use.”
“It’s a deal. The Belvedere at the Peninsula Hotel. Got your credit cards with you? It’ll run you a couple of hundred.”
“Nickels and dimes, my friend. But first the info, then dinner.”
Davis ordered another round and pulled out a small cell phone. He settled back in his chair and made three calls, making notes as he did. Lucianne watched, a bemused smile on her face. When he completed the third call, he flipped the phone closed, returned it to his pocket, and said, “This is worth six dinners. The painting ended up with an art restorer named Abraham Widlitz. The art squad—yeah, we have an art squad—they pulled a raid on Widlitz’s studio looking for stolen art. They came up empty except for the painting that was stolen in Miami. Piece of junk, according to our art experts. Widlitz told them the painting had been brought to him on Driscoll’s behalf by a guy named Conrad, only it turns out that’s his first name, Conrad Syms. Mr. Syms is some sort of a gofer for Driscoll and was picked up after leaving Driscoll’s house. He confirmed he took the painting to Widlitz on Driscoll’s orders. How am I doing?”
Lucianne looked up from notes she was taking, grinned, and replied, “Not bad. What else?”
“What do you mean, ‘what else’? I’ve just handed you your story.”
“What’s the disposition so far?”
A shrug from Davis. “They want to bring Driscoll in for questioning but, as you say, he’s out of the country.”
“He’s an accessory to murder,” Lucianne said.
“He’s a rich and powerful guy. Sits on a dozen boards, big arts benefactor.”
“Including the Library of Congress.”
“I’m hungry.”
She placed an American Express card on the bill.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
“Haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Stay at my place. I’m leaving in the morning.”
“Visiting an elderly spinster aunt? Or a nubile young starlet?”
“None of your business.”
“True, but I’ll have the answer before the night is over.”
Davis laughed and stood. “Yeah, I’m sure you will. But you’ll have to drag it out of me.”
“Oooh, sounds like fun. I can’t wait to get started.”
Chapter 36
Upon returning from lunch, Annabel spent a few minutes with Sue, who sat at a computer in a semi-isolated corner behind the Hispanic division’s reference librarian’s desk. She’d started making copies of each file on the five discs and printing out a hard copy of each.
“How’s it coming?” Annabel asked, sipping from a mug of the intern’s coffee, which, as promised, seemed to