Murder at the Library of Congress Read Online Free PDF Page A

guess. When you deal with someone with his credentials—he’s the sole reason some donors to the Hispanic collection look to us first—Consuela might not have been able to find a way to—well, there I go again.”
    “Find a way to get rid of him?” Annabel felt like she was on a game show where one person starts a thought and the next contestant finishes it.
    “Talk with Consuela about it. We’ll go in that door over there.”
    “I get the feeling I won’t be interviewing him,” Annabel said.
    “Oh, I suspect you will—eventually. Ever since he started his research on Las Casas six or seven years ago, he’s defined secrecy, not just rudeness. Every note, every scrap of paper goes home with him at night.”
    “But he does give interviews,” Annabel said as they approached the Jefferson, the oldest of LC’s three buildings. “And he occasionally writes for the scholarly journals.”
    “Under threat of decapitation from the Librarian’s office. But you’ve probably noticed that he never writes about what his research has uncovered. All he does is add fuel to the rumors about Las Casas.”
    “He claimed in one article that he would prove the existence of the diaries and map within two years. That was a year ago.”
    “Typical of Paul—predict something but don’t back it up. He’s very good at provocation.”
    They paused before entering the Jefferson.
    “Mrs. Reed-Smith,” Joanne Graves said, placing ahand on her arm, “don’t listen to me when it comes to Michele Paul. Okay? I don’t want to color your perception of him. He’s not popular with colleagues, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be utterly charming and helpful with you.”
    “Fair enough, although I have to admit certain preconceived notions about Mr. Paul.”
    “And I’m delighted having you write for Civilization. It can use some new creative energy. Come on, Consuela’s expecting us.”
    The Hispanic room occupies what is known as the Southeast Gallery on the second floor of the Jefferson Building. Until 1938, its space had been devoted to “Invention.” The conversion of the space into the Hispanic room had obliterated a stained-glass ceiling with the names of twenty-nine famed inventors—Bell, Edison, Westinghouse, et al.— to the chagrin of those more interested in inventions than Hispanic-Portuguese history.
    They entered the north vestibule and an entrance to the 130-foot-long vaulted reading room. Annabel stopped in the center of the vestibule and said of four dramatic murals: “Every time I’m here, these Portinari murals grab me. It’s as though they’re pulling me into the scenes.”
    “I have the same reaction,” Joanne Graves said. “The Brazilian’s powerful.”
    They turned in the direction of the reading room to see Dr. Consuela Martinez approaching. “Hello, you two,” she said.
    “Good morning, Consuela,” Annabel said.
    The chief of the Hispanic and Portuguese division was an attractive, vivacious woman of uncertain middle age, with a body language that spelled energetic. She was fond of vivid makeup—bloodred lipstick and dark blue eyeliner—and large gold jewelry.
    “Coffee?” Consuela asked. “Let’s go into my office.”
    “I left one behind, but thanks,” Joanne said. “Have to be running now that I’ve delivered your latest scholar. Stop in and say hello now and then, Annabel.”
    “Shall do. Thanks.”
    “Annabel? Coffee?”
    “Couldn’t handle another,” Annabel said, comfortable with small lies.
    They settled in the cramped, overfilled office. Piles of books, maps, and file folders created small mountains on every surface.
    “Ready to dig into the life of Bartolomé de Las Casas?” Consuela asked.
    “Can’t wait to get started.”
    “Good. I’ve reserved a cubicle for you on the upper gallery. Not terribly large but sufficient, I’m sure. As long as you don’t sneeze.”
    “I’ll feel important,” Annabel said, “having my own space here.”
    “They considered