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

worked for a small museum called Casa de Seville. In Little Havana.”
    “Latin Quarter. You’re behind the times.”
    “Whatever. The guard was on his first night at this museum. They never had a security guard before.”
    “Timing is everything. My condolences to his family.”
    “Whoever killed him stole a painting from the museum that same night.”
    “Uh huh.”
    “It was a painting that depicted Columbus on his knees in front of the king and queen of Spain. See the picture there?”
    Lucianne took a second look at what Baumann had given her. The clip from The Miami Herald included a picture of the ribbon-cutting ceremony when Casa de Seville was dedicated two years ago. Posing in front of the painting by Fernando Reyes were the museum’s curator, the two businessmen who’d provided the initial funding, and U.S. senator from Florida Richard Menendez.
    “Okay, I see it,” Lucianne said, “but so what? Some overly dedicated art connoisseurs break into this museum, steal a painting, and shoot the security guard. I see it wasn’t considered a great work of art. They could have done better.”
    “The question, Lucianne: Why did they bother stealing this particular painting if it wasn’t worth much, and murder someone in the process?”
    “A bad eye for art and a ruthless disregard for human life.”
    “Maybe.” Baumann got up, stretched against an ache in his back, went to the window, and looked down at a man-made lake. He turned, leaned against the sill housing the vital air-conditioning, and said, “I got a call last night from Joe Betz in Los Angeles.” Betz was the network’s L.A. bureau chief. “He thinks there’s a story inthis Las Casas diary business. My nose tells me there is. According to him, some people out there, identity unknown at this point, are offering big bucks for the Las Casas diaries and map.”
    “Map?”
    “Yeah. Those who believe those diaries exist also believe that Las Casas drew a map showing where Columbus buried gold. A lot of gold. Sixty Minutes did a piece on it six months ago.”
    “Yeah, I saw it. Where’s the news? If I find the gold, do I get a cut?”
    “No, but you’ll get a letter of commendation in your file, and have the satisfaction of having contributed to mankind’s understanding of his origins.”
    “Cute. Forget it. Give me a nice little war. When do I leave for Africa?”
    “You’re not going to Africa.”
    “Why? I was supposed to cover the unrest in Mozambique.”
    “It’s cooled off there, Lucianne. I want you to follow up on this art theft, the murder, and Las Casas. See if they’re joined at the hip. Everybody loves missing treasure. Like who’ll win the lottery.”
    “But we don’t even know whether a map and diaries exist.”
    “Right, but I’d like us to be in the hunt along with the eggheads. Speaking of them, there’s a guy at the Library of Congress who’s supposed to be the most knowledgeable scholar in this area. Name’s Michele Paul. I pulled up some material from the Web on Las Casas. Dr. Paul predicted in a piece he wrote a year ago that he’d prove within two years that the diaries and the map are real. Go to Washington and get an interview with him. In the meantime, I’ll keep tabs on the art theft and murder. The police say, off the record, that it looks like the museum’smaintenance man might have set things up from inside, left a skylight unsecured for the thieves to get in. He’s disappeared, never showed up for work after the theft. The cops say he had a record of drug use. If they find him, they’ll probably know who pulled the heist. A couple of days off the stuff and every hophead spills.”
    “Washington? I’d rather go to Africa. Or some other war zone like L.A.” Lucianne stood.
    “Maybe when this is over. Might I add that our fearless leader has a special interest in this?”
    “He does?”
    “Yeah. Among his many charitable activities is raising money for the Library of Congress. He and Cale