Murder at the Library of Congress by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online

was in the rear of the building, on the top floor. Lucianne fielded a succession of greetings as she passed desks in the spacious newsroom and breezed through the open door into the news director’s corner office.
    “Hello,” he said from behind a boomerang-shaped black desk. He was in his shirtsleeves, a tie pulled loose from his neck. Baumann was a burly forty-five-year-old man with hair like a bear, a black thatch of it curling out from his neck through the shirt’s opening. He’d come to TV news after a good career in print journalism. His news judgment was considered solid; management liked and backed him at almost every turn. Lucianne liked him, too, although she wasn’t always in agreement with his judgment calls where her assignments were concerned.
    She dropped her bag on the carpeted floor and pulled a director’s chair closer to the desk.
    “So,” he said, “tell me about the BVI. They must be pretty good at covering up if they kept you at bay.”
    “I’ll break through,” she said. “I’ve got a few sources working on it.”
    Baumann looked up from something he was reading and laughed. “You have more sources, Lucianne, than Miami has Cuban restaurants.”
    “Lots more.”
    “How close do you get to them?”
    Now, a laugh from her. “You mean do I sleep with them? A few. That they’re still my sources must mean I’m pretty good at that, too.”
    Baumann dropped his reading material on his lap, leaned back in his high-backed black leather chair, and fixed her in a bemused stare.
    Lucianne Huston was a star at the network. Her willingness—no, make that enthusiasm—to be where the action was, no matter what danger it posed for her, had made her compelling to millions of TV news junkies: hurricane winds threatening to blow her over, rockets whistling past her ear, fierce mountain freedom fighters glaring at her as she asked how they felt about killing their fellow countrymen. Baumann had occasionally considered moving her into an anchor chair to take advantage of her popularity and good looks, but reversed himself whenever the notion struck him. The one time he’d suggested it to her, she’d laughed it off, saying, “I’m not a talking head, Bob. I’m a real journalist. Keep your anchor job; just pay me what your pretty-boy readers get.”
    Baumann appreciated Lucianne’s reporting skills. Her looks weren’t lost on him either. It wasn’t that she was beautiful in a magazine cover or Hollywood way. Herfeatures were less than perfect, nose a little too broad, mouth a little too small. It was the overall impression that counted. She was five feet seven inches tall, slim and fit, and carried herself with confidence. Her auburn hair was worn short but not too short, an easy style to maintain in the jungles of Central America or the winter winds of Bosnia. Her complexion was dusky, brown eyes large and round; many assumed she was of mixed parent-age. She wasn’t.
    “So, what’s this story you want me on?”
    “Columbus.”
    “Columbus? You mean Columbo? Peter Falk?”
    “Christopher. He discovered us.”
    “Oh, that Columbus. He’s surfaced?”
    Baumann grinned. “You might say that. See this?” He slid papers across the desk. “Just got these this morning.”
    Lucianne read quickly, dropped the papers on the desk. “So?” she said.
    “Interesting, huh?”
    She shook her head.
    “Happened night before last.”
    “Bob, this was my day off. You said you had a story for me—‘top priority,’ you said.”
    “Right. This is it.”
    “A local murder? What’s the big deal?”
    “I’m not sure it is a big deal, Lucianne, but it could be. You do know that the Columbus celebration is coming up in six months.”
    “Uh huh.”
    “And that there’s been this controversy for years over whether one of Columbus’s sailing companions, Bartolomé de Las Casas, might have written his own account of the voyages.”
    “I read something about it.”
    “The security guard who was shot