Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [99]
“We’ve already gone over that,” Mac said, shaking his head at the waitress, who’d asked if they’d like more drinks.
“True,” said Lucianne, “but Driscoll can’t stop there. Let’s say Michele Paul decides he wants more money than he’s been getting from Driscoll. Let’s say he tells Driscoll he intends to reveal their arrangement to the Librarian of Congress and others who wouldn’t be too happy with the news. Paul must have known about the bungled Miami heist and could identify Driscoll as an accessory to that theft and murder. So, your client, David Driscoll, has to get rid of Michele Paul.”
Mac laughed. “David Driscoll—my client—didn’t come into the Library of Congress, Ms. Prosecutor, and hit Michele Paul over the head. Not his style.”
“Of course it isn’t, but again, people like Driscoll can always find someone else to do their dirty work. He did in Miami; no reason he couldn’t have paid someone in the Library of Congress.”
“Prove it!”
“I was hoping to get some help with that from you and your wife.”
“You’d like the defense to help the prosecution make its case?”
She nodded.
“Nice try.”
“Driscoll is going to be brought in and questioned when he gets back to L.A.”
“If I were his attorney, I’d be with him.”
“I’d love another drink.”
“One’s my limit, at least tonight.”
“I don’t set limits on myself.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“What I haven’t figured out is the connection between Michele Paul’s murder and the disappearance of that other Las Casas researcher, John Bitteman.”
“Maybe there isn’t one.”
“Has to be. That’s why I want to talk to Annabel. I assume she told you about discs some intern found in a collection back in the stacks.”
“You know about them?”
“Yes.”
“Another impeccable source?”
“Of course.”
“From inside the Library of Congress?”
A noncommittal shrug.
“Well, Ms. Huston, I am duly impressed with your ability to get people to confide in you.”
“What was on those discs, Mac?”
“How would I know?”
“My source tells me your wife ended up with them.”
“Maybe all your sources aren’t as impeccable as you think.”
Lucianne smiled. “I’m pretty good at reading people, and judging from my read on you at this moment, I think my source was better than impeccable.”
“Think what you wish.”
He signaled for a check.
“My treat,” Lucianne said.
“Good. I think I’ll skip dinner here in the hotel, go back and make myself something simple.”
“Am I invited back with you?”
“No.”
They stood. Lucianne extended her hand, which Mac took.
“I’m not offended at being disinvited for dinner,” Lucianne said.
“And no offense intended. I just think we’ve run out of things to talk about.”
“Maybe you’re right, but there’ll be more—things to talk about.”
“Undoubtedly.”
He walked away, paused at the entrance to the lounge, looked back and saw her standing next to the table, hands on her hips, head cocked, a smug, knowing smile on her lips. Another tourist came up to her and handed her a napkin on which Lucianne scrawled her signature. For a moment, Mac considered going back and extending the evening with her. There was something strangely compelling about being close to someone who managed to know so much about things she wasn’t supposed to know anything about. He’d enjoyed the what-if exercise, the role playing, being cast as a criminal defense lawyer again.
But the pleasure was fleeting. He quickly returned to the apartment, prepared a cheese-and-cracker platter for himself, and settled down to watch Lucianne Huston’s all-news network, NCN, hoping Annabel would call, and soon.
Chapter 38
Annabel was immersed in what was on her computer screen when Consuela Martinez entered her space on the upper gallery. It was six-thirty.
“I think we’re ready,” Consuela said.
“Running late.”
“For some reason it took longer than I thought for Dolores to copy and print all the discs.”
Annabel removed her disc of selected