Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [96]
Broadhurst stared intently at Driscoll. Yes, and some, while valuable, had not benefited the library all that much. Driscoll had gotten out of his chair and stood at the table, his chin jutting out in defiance of what Broadhurst would say next. The Librarian wanted to ask about John Bitteman, about what role Driscoll played in Michele Paul’s murder, about so many things. He would have if the phone hadn’t rung.
Instead, he watched and listened as the founder of the nation’s largest discount brokerage firm said, “Yes, Constance, I’m here with Cale Broadhurst…. They are? What do they want? … All right, put them on.”
After thirty seconds, Driscoll said, “I’ll be returning to Los Angeles tonight. I’ll be happy to meet with you tomorrow—with my lawyer. What was that? No, there’s no need to have someone meet me tonight when I arrive. I’m a man of my word, Detective. My lawyer and I will be at your office at ten. Oh, and please, do not harass my wife. She isn’t well. Thank you.”
Broadhurst looked away as Driscoll hung up, pretending he hadn’t heard. When he again looked at Driscoll, he saw a man whose defiant stance had been replaced by a sagging humility.
“Thank you for coming, Cale,” Driscoll said.
“Is there anything I can do?” Broadhurst asked, meaning it.
“No, thank you. A misunderstanding, that’s all. Easily resolved. Rest assured, Cale, that I continue to pursue those diaries. I have my exclusive sources. I assume you want me to do that.”
“I … yes, of course, David. We’ll all be in your debt once more if you’re successful. Safe trip home. My best to Constance.”
Broadhurst returned to the Madison Building and rode the elevator to his office floor. Waiting anxiously for him was Mary Beth Mullin, who followed him into his office.
“Cale,” she said, “there’s something vitally important I must discuss with you.”
“Yes?”
“Public Affairs received a call a half hour ago from Lucianne Huston. She called from Los Angeles. It’s about David Driscoll.”
Chapter 37
“Annie, it’s Consuela. Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
Annabel checked her watch. Five-thirty. Wow. She raised her head wearily from the notes. Almost time to pack up and go home.
She came downstairs into the reading room and went to Consuela’s office, but on impulse stopped first to say hello to Dolores, who was still working at duplicating files and printing out the discs. She was so intensely focused on the task that Annabel said nothing.
Consuela, who was on the phone when Annabel arrived, waved her in, cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, and said, “Only be a minute.”
Annabel browsed a copy of the library’s latest annual report until Consuela ended her phone conversation with “No, not a problem at all. I sort of expected it. See you later.”
“Hi,” Annabel said.
“Hi. Getting anything done up in your rabbit warren?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Once I realized how to structure the article, I’ve been able to focus my research, aiming a rifle instead of a shotgun. I see you’ve still got Dolores hard at work.”
“Sure have. Annie, can I impose upon you again?”
“I’m not aware you already have. What’s up?”
“Can you come to the meeting tonight when I deliver the discs and hard copy to Cale?”
“What time?”
“I told him six-thirty.”
“Sure. Nothing on the home-front agenda tonight except Mac and getting to bed. Staying up a few extra hours won’t kill me—I don’t think.”
“I’ll order in dinner. Preferences?”
“Keep it light. A heavy meal will sink me, literally. I might as well go back upstairs and keep working. Yell when you want me.”
Despite Annabel’s determination to continue working on her article, the road to hell being paved with such intentions, she found it hard to concentrate. She turned on her laptop computer and inserted the disc on which she’d copied sections