Murder at the Library of Congress Read Free

Some gentle back-and-forth movement caused them to eventually pull free of the wall, leaving the large framed canvas in Garraga’s hands. He leaned it against the wall and went to a supply room in which Reina said there would be another stepladder. Garraga positioned it beneath the opening in the roof, brought the painting to it, climbed the ladder until he was close to the ceiling, and pulled the painting up behind him. Morrie positioned himself to receive it.
    “It’s too big,” Garraga said as he tried to wedge the painting through the opening.
    “Try it on an angle,” Morrie suggested.
    “I did. It’s too big. Can’t you see that?”
    “Take the frame off. Munsch said to get the painting, not the frame.”
    Garraga returned to the floor, opened his jackknife,and began to cut the canvas away from the simple wood frame, staying as close to the perimeter as possible. That task finished, he rolled the canvas, went up the ladder, and pushed it through to Morrie. He hoisted himself up to the roof: “We got to put the skylight back.”
    They did, the painting was dropped to Munsch, and Garraga and Morrie joined him on the ground. Garraga tossed the ladder in a Dumpster and they turned to leave the area, Munsch in the lead. As he turned to start down the alley, he stopped abruptly. Morrie and Garraga came to his side. Coming toward them was the fat man in the tan uniform they’d seen in the bodega.
    “Hey, what are you doing back there?” he asked, continuing to waddle in their direction.
    “Who the hell are you?” Munsch asked.
    “What’a you got there?” he asked, still narrowing the gap.
    “Come on,” Munsch said, starting to lead his colleagues up the alley again.
    The guard placed himself squarely in their path.
    Munsch and the others now saw that the guard was carrying something in his right hand.
    “He’s got a piece,” Garraga said, his voice rising.
    “Stop!” the guard ordered.
    Garraga answered by pulling a small Saturday night special from the waistband of his jeans, pointing it at the guard, and pulling the trigger. The shot struck him in the stomach.
    “What the hell did you do that for?” Morrie asked.
    “Stupid,” Munsch said. “Let’s get out of here.”
    They ran past the guard, moaning and writhing on the ground, his stubby fingers pressed to the wound. The “piece” he’d held in his right hand was lying next to him. It was a cell phone. Morrie started to bend over the guard but Munsch grabbed his collar and pulled him upright.
    “Leave him,” Munsch said.
    “I think he’s dead,” Morrie said.
    “He ain’t dead,” Garraga said. “All that fat stopped the bullet.”
    The three men reached the street and continued running to where they’d parked the silver Taurus. They jumped in, and Munsch drove too fast to his Cadillac.
    “I thought there wasn’t supposed to be no guard,” Morrie muttered.
    “Why the hell did you shoot him?” Munsch asked, running a light. “There were three of us. The guy didn’t even have a gun.”
    “I thought I saw one,” Garraga said. “Just shut up and drive. Forget about it. Just get the money, Munsch, and we split.”
    “The buyer’s not going to be happy there’s no frame,” Munsch said.
    “The hell with that,” Morrie said. “It’s the best we could do. It was too big. Dumb bastard, shooting the guy.”
    “He won’t be happy,” Munsch repeated.
    “Who?”
    “The buyer. Maybe he wanted the frame, too.”
    “What do we do with the Taurus?” Morrie asked.
    “Just leave it. Do I have to think of everything?”
    Munsch dropped Garraga and Morrie where they’d met up with him at the DeSoto Plaza and the fountain.
    “How about a lift home?” Morrie said to Munsch.
    “Call your cheerful blond chauffeur. I don’t have time.”
    Munsch handed Garraga and Morrie envelopes, each containing two thousand dollars in cash.
    “When do we get the rest?” Morrie asked. “I got bills to pay.”
    “When I get back from L.A.