Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [94]
“I’m not sure I agree,” she said, her tone soothing. “No matter what the source of the Las Casas diaries, and no matter how flawed the individuals involved, people will turn a blind eye on how they’re obtained. No one will stand on principle and let something as important as those diaries slip away.”
“I hope you’re right,” Broadhurst said grimly, signing the bill.
“Know what I’m thinking, Mary Beth?” he said as they parted on the sidewalk in front of the club.
“What?”
“If David Driscoll did anything to sully the reputation of the Library of Congress, I just may commit the next murder.”
Mullin watched him walk away, seeming even smaller than he actually was. Two things crossed her mind as she hailed a passing cab: She ached for her boss, and what she’d said inside represented unfortunate reality. Events would steamroll ahead with the force of an avalanche, and those standing in the way couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.
“Dr. Broadhurst, a number of people called while you were gone,” his secretary told him upon his return, “but I think you’ll want to see this one first. He says it’s urgent that he speak with you this afternoon.” The slip she handed him said David Driscoll—2:15—Urgent—Call at 555-9100.
“A local number?”
“The Willard. He said he’ll be there all afternoon awaiting your call.”
It was the same suite Driscoll had occupied when he and Broadhurst last met at the venerable landmark hotel. Driscoll had been brusque on the phone: “I’ll only be in Washington until early this evening,” he’d said. “It’s important we talk before I leave.”
“David, do you mind telling me why—?”
“When you get here, Cale.”
Broadhurst was left with a loud click in his ear.
The Librarian arrived at four-fifteen. A tray of hors d’oeuvres and a bar setup had been delivered from room service just prior to Broadhurst’s arrival. Judging from Driscoll’s demeanor on the phone, the Librarian of Congress expected a tense, confrontational atmosphere. Instead, Driscoll greeted him with an outstretched hand and broad smile. “Come in, Cale, make yourself at home. Single-barrel bourbon, if I remember correctly. Blanton’s. The best. Help yourself. The scallops are excellent. They do something special with them. It’s the lime juice, I suppose.”
A drink was the last thing on Broadhurst’s mind, but he poured some bourbon over ice and tasted a scallop. “Yes, quite good, David. To be honest, your call this afternoon took me by surprise. I’ve been trying to reach you since—”
“… since that whore of a reporter, Lucianne Huston, started with her trash on TV about me. Is that what you were about to say?”
“Yes.”
“Sit down, Cale. Let me refresh your drink.”
“Thank you, no, I—”
“I insist. I’ll join you. It’s been a hell of a day.”
Drinks in hand, they sat across from each other at a small dining table. The multimillionaire peered out a nearby window, drink in hand, eyes narrowed against his thought of the moment. Broadhurst sat silently, content to wait for what his friend of many years had to say.
Driscoll slowly turned, smiled, raised his glass to Broadhurst, and said, “Here’s to those, Cale, who enjoy making mountains out of molehills.”
Broadhurst didn’t respond as Driscoll continued.
“I presume all the irresponsible reporting that’s been going on has caused you some grief.”
“Yes, it has. The timing was bad.”
“Is there ever a good time for such things? I’m certain you know the high regard in which I hold you and the library.”
“Of course I do, David. Your friendship and generosity to the library have always been deeply appreciated.”
“I’ve done it—I do it—because I believe that without knowledge, without centers of knowledge like LC, the future of this nation is questionable.”
Broadhurst looked down into his drink and pondered where the conversation was headed. He’d heard Driscoll pontificate many times before, wrapping the Republic