Murder at the Library of Congress Read Free Page B

as a public relations vehicle for the sponsor.”
    “I got the feeling from the new editor in chief that he’s capable of handling that balancing act.”
    “An impressive young man.”
    “How do you feel about being Civilization ’s guest editor for the Columbus issue?” Annabel asked.
    His laugh was low and gentle. “I should be flattered, being in the company of such notable guest editors—Martin Scorsese, Spike Lee, Julia Child, Jules Feiffer—a heady experience for a humble U.S. senator.”
    A laugh from Annabel. “You show me a humble senator and I’ll make you guest emperor.”
    “And you, Annabel? Writing the lead article for the issue should be quite a challenge.”
    “I love it. I’ve always been fascinated by the idea that Las Casas might have written his own diaries about Columbus’s first three voyages.”
    “If he did,” said Menendez, “and if those diaries are ever found, history will be enhanced—and someone will become very, very rich.”
    “Or famous,” Annabel said, “or even infamous. Hopefully, whoever does uncover the diaries—and let’s not forget they say there’s the possibility Las Casas included a map where Columbus might have buried gold—ideally, that person will be altruistic enough to see that the materials end up in a place of public learning.”
    “Like the Library of Congress.”
    “Yes, like our library.”
    The plane had been taxiing during their conversation. Now, the captain’s amplified voice said: “We’ve been cleared for takeoff, ladies and gentlemen. Flight attendants, prepare.”
    Seconds later, thrust from the 727’s three powerful jet engines pressed Annabel and Menendez back in theirseats. The aircraft lifted off La Guardia’s main runway, made a gentle left turn, and headed south, for Washington, D.C., for home.

3
    It was raining in Washington when Annabel walked from the terminal to where her husband, Mackensie Smith, stood next to their car. Rather than providing a cooling respite, the rain simply added to the August humidity, which, when combined with a ninety-degree day, gave credence to the old D.C. joke that the first-prize winner in a contest receives one free summer week in the nation’s capital, the runner-up two weeks. Like all such gags, it applied to Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Miami, too.
    They embraced fully despite the heat and the rain, got in the car, and Mac pulled away from the curb.
    “So, tell me all about it,” he said.
    “After you tell me about your knee.”
    Mac smiled. “Sounds like the title of an art movie. ‘My Knee.’ Dr. Scuderi says I need arthroscopic surgery to solve the problem. It’s the meniscus, he says. It’s ragged and torn.”
    “Sounds like you’re getting off easy. At least Giles didn’t suggest a knee replacement.”
    Mac accelerated. He said without taking his eyes from the road, “It’s called planned obsolescence.”
    “It is?”
    “Yeah. Like car manufacturers. Make sure the productwill wear out so consumers have to keep buying new ones. God has the same plan. Make sure we wear out—”
    “So that I have to buy a new Mac?”
    He looked at her. “I’m getting old, Annie.”
    “Nonsense. You’re young, or at least youthful, and vigorous. Your problem is you’ve never been sick a day in your life, never had an operation. Have the surgery. You’ll stop limping and be the terror of the tennis courts again.”
    He grunted, turned onto the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, crossed the Potomac, and took local streets until driving down into the underground parking garage of the Watergate’s South Building. They’d purchased a three-bedroom apartment there a little over a year ago and loved it.
    They were greeted upstairs by Rufus, their Great Blue Dane.
    “I’ve only been away a day,” Annabel told the welcoming dog, almost as tall as she, rubbing behind his ears to keep from being devoured. “Both you guys know how to welcome a girl.”
    Mac called from the kitchen,