Murder at the Library of Congress by Margaret Truman Page A

that was where movie stars stayed; his cellmate in prison had told him he’d stayed there once. “They got a bar called the Polo Lounge, Warren,” he’d said. “You should see the broads hang out there, starlets wall to wall. Like calendar girls.”
    The clerk at the hotel’s registration desk eyed Munsch suspiciously, with his cheap overnight bag, ill-fitting brown corduroy jacket, and no reservation.
    “I’m just in from Miami. Last-minute trip. Had to meet with some producers.”
    The clerk said nothing.
    “You got one of those cottages out back?” Munsch asked.
    “No, sir, but we do have an available room.”
    “I’ll take it.”
    He took a nap and felt somewhat better when he wokeup. The headache was gone. He called Miami. The voice and tone told him that Morrie’s blond girlfriend was answering.
    “Morrie there?”
    “Who’s this?”
    “Warren. Munsch. Put Morrie on.”
    “Call the jail. They arrested him and Garraga.”
    “Oh, man,” Munsch muttered.
    “They arrested Morrie at the dock. We were going to Nassau to gamble. I was there. I’ve never been so embarrassed. Where are you?”
    “I’m—What about Garraga?”
    “Him, too. They got him, too. I told Morrie you were a loser, not to get involved.”
    Munsch hung up, thought for a minute, then called his daughter in Oregon.
    “It’s Papa.”
    “Hello.”
    “How’s things?”
    “Things are just fine.” She always sounded cold when she spoke with him.
    “Good. That’s good to hear. How are the kids?”
    “Fine. Are you in trouble again?”
    “Me? Nah. No trouble. Just thought I’d check in. I’m on the Coast. On business.”
    “What coast?”
    “The West Coast. Got to run. Good talking to you. Say hello to the kids for me.”
    “I will.”
    He looked up airline numbers in a listing he found in a welcome package and called three of them. The third had a flight for Mexico City leaving in two hours. He opened his passport as though to make sure it was legitimate. It wasn’t, but it looked good, good enough to getinto Mexico. He’d picked it up in Miami six months ago at a bargain price.
    Munsch didn’t bother telling the hotel he was checking out. No need. He’d paid cash up front. He poked his head into the Polo Lounge before heading for the hotel’s main entrance. A nubile redhead in a tight dress smiled at him from where she sat at the bar. Munsch considered having a drink, nodded at her, had one of the parking valets hail a cab, and headed for the airport.
    No need to send Morrie and Garraga their share of the money now, he decided. Where they were going, they couldn’t spend it anyway. Where he was going …
    Where was he going?
    The first thing was to get out of the country. You could fly to Cuba from Mexico City. That was it, he decided, Havana, drinking mojitos like Hemingway with a bunch of wild Cuban women hanging over him. As long as the U.S. and Fidel didn’t decide to bury the hatchet, he was home free.
    “A drink?” the flight attendant asked after they were airborne.
    “Yeah, sure. Got any mojitos ?”
    “What’s that?”
    “Forget it. A vodka on the rocks, and make it a double.”

7
    Michele Paul, arguably the nation’s foremost living scholar on the role Bartolomé de Las Casas played in the life of Christopher Columbus, as he would be the first to agree, was up early in his condominium on the top floor of an apartment building in Bethesda, in Montgomery County. This was north of the District, as Washington, D.C., is often referred to. The few close friends who’d been invited to the apartment over the years were impressed with its opulence, considering what Paul did for a living. Pursuing scholarly research was not destined to make one rich; the psychic benefits were expected to compensate.
    There were, of course, the small advances paid by publishers for esoteric books he’d written, and the magazine fees for articles. But the three-bedroom apartment and its furnishings better reflected the