Free Murder at the Library of Congress by Margaret Truman

said, “tell me why you’re so interested in this de Las Casas character.”
    “I’ve never heard him referred to that way,” Annabel said, smiling. “I was wondering why you’re interested in him. I thought you only covered wars and famine and sensational murder trials and crooked governments.”
    “I was surprised when they sent me on this story, too. Something to do with a rare books underground offering big money for the diaries and maybe a map— if they even exist.”
    “I thought you might be doing this for a special on Columbus for the celebration.”
    “That’s the fallback position to justify sending me here. Do you know anything about this so-called underground interest?”
    “No. I mean, I’m aware there are such things, certain people who’ll pay a lot of money for something rare. No different from the surreptitious art scene. But tell me more.”
    Lucianne shrugged and drew from a half-full bottle of designer water. “I’m supposed to learn all about it from people like you. There was an art theft and murder in Miami that triggered sending me to D.C.”
    “An art theft? Murder? What does that have to do with Las Casas?”
    Lucianne gave a handsome shrug. “That’s what I asked my boss.”
    “What was stolen? Who was murdered?”
    “From what I’ve been told, a second-rate painting by an artist named Reyes, Fernando Reyes, depicting Columbus giving something called a Book of Privileges to the king and queen of Spain. A security guard, his first night on the job, was shot.”
    “How dreadful,” Annabel said. “There’s a copy of the book here at LC.”
    “LC? Oh …”
    “I spent part of yesterday looking at it. It’s the most important piece of early Americana in the collection. But the painting was second-rate? The thieves must not have known much about art.”
    “I guess not. It was an inside job. Or inside and outside. A maintenance man allegedly left a skylight open for the thieves.”
    “Who was the painting’s owner?”
    “A small museum in the Latin Quarter. Casa de Seville. I’ve never been there.”
    Annabel spent the next fifteen minutes telling Lucianne what she knew of the Las Casas legend. He was alleged to have been Columbus’s sailing companion on the first three voyages, and had been not only the explorer’s close friend, he’d helped him prepare his logs and diaries, according to those who’d spent their professional lives delving into the history. She sensed that the TV journalist was listening more out of courtesy than interest.It was obvious that Lucianne was not happy having been assigned this story. Annabel could understand. Lost diaries and maps, if there even were such things, paled when contrasted to being in the midst of shell fire, turmoil, and strife in exotic places.
    “I’d like to get some of what you’ve said on tape,” Lucianne said.
    “If you wish.”
    “This guy, Michele Paul. You know him, I assume.”
    “Yes. He’s your best source. No one knows more about Columbus and Las Casas than Michele.”
    “Does he have a gender problem?”
    A small smile from Annabel. “No, I don’t think so. He’s suave, sure of himself.”
    “A Romeo?”
    “I suspect so, only you can’t prove it by me.”
    “Available after I interview him, Annabel?”
    “Uh huh. My husband is attending a going-away party for a teaching colleague. I’m not meeting him for dinner until seven.”
    Annabel went to her assigned space in Hispanic and had just begun reading a book about Columbus that Consuela had recommended when young Susan Gomara appeared. She was crying.
    “Sue, what’s wrong?”
    “Dr. Paul. He’s so nasty. I was looking at some papers he left on a table by my desk. He came by, saw me, grabbed the papers, and started yelling at me.”
    “Yelling at you about what?”
    “About spying on him or something. I don’t know. I really don’t like him. I wish he’d … break a leg or something.”
    Annabel got up and placed her hand on the young