Murder at the Library of Congress Read Free Page A

Cool it till then. And keep your mouth shut, huh, especially with your bimbo.”
    “I’m outta here,” Garraga said, leaning through the open driver’s side window, his long, thin face inches from Munsch’s face. “You bring the money back, Munsch. I’ll keep in touch with Morrie. You bring it back, understand?” Munsch thought Garraga was about to draw the gun again but the Cuban left it in his waistband.
    Garraga and Morrie watched Munsch drive off.
    “I never liked Munsch,” Morrie said. “What’d you shoot the guy for? You’re nuts. You’re one crazy Cubano.”
    “Forget it. It never happened. He better come back from L.A. with the loot. You want a drink?”
    “No. My sinuses are still killin’ me. It’s all this humidity, and the rain don’t help. I ought to move to Arizona or some other desert.”
    “Yeah, why don’t you do that, Morrie?” Garraga said. “Stay in touch.”
    “Yeah, do that, Garraga. Enough art appreciation for one night. Hasta luego. ” He disappeared into the rain.

2
    “Mac, it’s Annabel.”
    The five o’clock rush hour within New York’s La Guardia Airport was as busy as the roads surrounding it, thousands of people moving methodically and with purpose, many running, jackets flapping, glasses sliding down noses, narrowly avoiding knocking each other over, leather briefcases in hand or slung over shoulders, the constant stream of flight announcements over the PA fueling the mad scramble to leave New York.
    “Mac, I’m at the airport running for the shuttle. I—I’m losing you. This cell phone is … Oh, there you are. What? … The meeting went very well—I’ll fill you in tonight…. What about the doctor?—Excuse me—No, not you, Mac, I bumped into someone…. Surgery? Really? Are you okay? … No, I—I’m losing you again…. You’ll pick me up? Great. See you in an hour—love you.”
    Annabel Reed-Smith dropped the tiny phone into her oversized bag and picked up her pace in the direction of the Delta Shuttle gate. Senator Menendez, with whom Annabel had spent the day at the offices of Civilization , the magazine published in concert with the Library of Congress, had already checked in.
    “Reach Mac?” he asked.
    “Yes. He’ll pick me up.”
    “Good.”
    Richard Menendez was in his third term as United States senator from Florida. His position of political power, coupled with a reputation, before running for the Senate, as a champion of Hispanic-American causes, thrust him into the role of leading spokesman of that large, and growing, constituency. He was rakishly good-looking, sword thin and erect, on the tall side of six feet, with senatorial gray at his temples, the rest of his hair coal black and precisely cut. His expensive suits draped nicely on him; this day he wore a gray one with the unmistakable look of English bespoke tailoring, the whitest of shirts, and a muted gold tie splashed with dozens of tiny replicas of the Spanish flag. But what people usually remembered about Richard Menendez’s physical presence was his smile, a warm, wide, genuine one that said all was well, or would be.
    They settled in adjacent seats on the 727.
    “What did you think of the meeting?” he asked.
    “I thought it was useful,” she replied. “You?”
    He ran his tongue over his lips. “I was pleased to see the level of enthusiasm for the theme. From what I’d been told by the library’s public affairs people, there was some resistance to devoting an entire issue to Columbus.”
    Annabel smiled. “There’s been a lot of consternation at the library since this new publisher started publishing Civilization for them. The conflict is evidently over whether the magazine is publishing enough articles that reflect the Library of Congress.”
    “Yes, I’ve heard that,” Menendez said. “Of course, there’s always a debate when a magazine is published on behalf of an institution or organization, balancing theneed for a ‘real’ magazine with it being used