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

Broadhurst break bread together.”
    “Who’s Cale Broadhurst?”
    “The Librarian of Congress. By the way, it was he who killed your Africa assignment.”
    “The Librarian of Congress?”
    “No, our fearless leader. Look, even if you don’t come up with anything startling, we’ll use what you get for the documentary on the Columbus celebration.”
    They locked eyes.
    Baumann said, “Our crack research desk has info on Michele Paul and the stuff from the Web. Any of your sources happen to be in the Library of Congress?”
    “Oh, sure, lots. But I’ll have to go back through my files, search under ‘egghead.’ ”
    “I knew I could depend on you, Lucianne. Look at it this way. Instead of being where you might get your pretty head shot off by some rebel gunman, you can operate for a little while in the genteel safety of the Library of Congress.”
    “I’m thrilled. Yawn.”
    “Every library is more exciting than it looks. Ask any real reader. You’re a hard-digging reporter. That’s whatpeople do in libraries—they dig for information. Or entertainment or distraction, whatever. By the way, you look tired. Why don’t you get more sleep?”
    “Because of your phone message. I’ll get plenty of sleep sitting in a library. Thanks for nothing.”

6
    Munsch waved off the flight attendant who came down the aisle passing out magazines.
    Warren Munsch didn’t read much. The last book he’d gotten through was during his second stint inside, two and a half years for possession of stolen property. The book was Know Your Rights: A Layman’s Guide to Criminal Law .
    Armed with knowledge from the book, Munsch decided he knew more than any lawyer on earth, and believed he had become expert at analyzing his future activities. He’d given it plenty of thought before agreeing to lift the painting from Casa de Seville and had written down his expert analysis:
     
Nobody cares about paintings unless they’re worth millions, so stealing a piece of junk isn’t a big deal.
Morrie and Garraga do the break-in. If we get caught, they do the hard time. I don’t know when I drive them why they want to go there. They hand me this lousy painting and tell me to take it to L.A. and turn it over to some guy.
I know nothing. Any clown in Legal Aid gets me off on that rap, like they did with the last two busts.
Home free.
    The problem, he knew as he pondered this on the plane to Los Angeles, was Number Five. He’d never figured on the shooting of a security guard. The book he’d read in prison stopped short at advising how to beat a murder rap. He added a fifth item to his list: “I’m shocked when this Cuban named Garraga shot that poor security cop. I would have gone to the police but he threatened to kill me.”
    Not bad. Prove otherwise.
    Munsch was glad the buyer of the Reyes painting had sent a first-class ticket. The drinks were free and plentiful. He’d fortified his nerves at the Miami airport bar before boarding and kept the liquid tranquilizers flowing throughout the flight.
    He got in the back of a taxi at L.A. International carrying a small overnight bag and the rolled-up Reyes painting covered by brown wrapping paper.
    “Santa Monica,” he told the driver.
    “Where in Santa Monica?”
    Munsch fished for a slip of paper in his jacket pocket and read an address off it. “It’s a restaurant,” he said.
    “I know it,” said the driver.
    Now, on the Santa Monica Freeway, Munsch wished he hadn’t had so much to drink on the plane. There was bound to be some sort of confrontation once the buyer saw that the painting had been cut from the frame. Maybe I should offer to cut the price so he can get a new frame, he considered, popping two Tums in his mouth, followed by a squirt of breath freshener he’d bought at the airport. He squeezed his eyes shut tight against a fuzziness in his brain and shook his head. Don’t offer to cut the price, he silently told himself. Never show weakness. Cutting away the frame