Unlike many widows and widowers, his routine didn’t change following his mate’s
death. He just kept doing what he’d done for the past fifty years, up at five, a light
breakfast, an hour devoted to the plants and flowers he and Sylvia took pleasure in cultivating, a walk to a neighborhood convenience store for the morning paper, a second cup of tea with honey while reading the news, a phone call to their only child, Philip, an orthodontist in Pittsburgh, then boarding an RTD bus for the ride downtown to where he had opened his small art restoration and conservation studio in El Pueblo de Los Angeles a year after leaving Columbia.
This morning, like all other mornings, he stopped at a bakery before entering his building to buy for his lunch one churro, a Mexican doughnut, and then on to a street vendor’s puesto where he purchased a peeled mango and papaya.
Abraham Widlitz was a familiar figure in the lively, multiethnic neighborhood, although few knew him through conversation. Aside from never failing to extend pleasant greetings to others in the area, he kept to himself, seldom leaving his small studio until it was time to retrace his route home.
He went to work immediately in the outer room of the two-room studio on a small, damaged oil a customer had picked up in a thrift shop. The painting was of a garden and featured a frog in the lower left-hand corner; the client collected anything depicting frogs, including coffee mugs, jewelry, bric-a-brac, and pictures. A tree overhanging the frog had suffered water damage and Widlitz carefully repainted its leaves.
He completed the task by noon, and after consuming the fruit and doughnut went into the back room where he’d spread the Reyes painting on a large flat surface. He’d started work on it the previous day, going over every inch with a jeweler’s loupe, through which he examined the pigments the artist had used, seeking visual evidence that the scene of Columbus kneeling before the king and queen might have been painted over another work of one sort or another. Heavy coats of varnish had been applied to the entire painting; Widlitz judged the most recent to be no older than fifty years, probably done when the painting was last put up for sale. He also noted that the original, finely woven canvas had been lined with an equally fine canvas with an aqueous adhesive.
He worked in one corner, carefully removing the varnish—he now realized there were at least three distinct and separate layers—until exposing what appeared to be two lines that were not part of the painting itself, unless, of course, they had been drawn by the artist while making initial sketches. If so, the lines evidently had not been incorporated in the finished work.
He extended the square until it became three inches by three inches. As he worked, he muttered to himself about the artist’s crude brushwork and clumsy rendering of the figures in the painting. Abe Widlitz realized years ago that he would never become an artist of note—dozens of classes at local colleges and studios convinced him of that. But he knew good art when he saw it, and this painting didn’t qualify.
The task was tedious and tiring for the aging craftsman. Ordinarily, such a project would be attacked over many weeks. But Widlitz knew from previous experience that his client was not a patient man. He’d handled a number of projects for Driscoll,
put off by his abrasive, demanding demeanor but appreciating how quickly and
generously the multimillionaire paid for the work Widlitz performed on his behalf.
He continued using solvents to remove the varnish in the painting’s corner until the area had been expanded to approximately two square feet. From what he could ascertain, the only material contained beneath Reyes’s painting was, with few exceptions, preliminary pencil sketches of the scene.
At precisely five, he put away the materials he’d used that day and sat down at his desk to pay bills that had arrived in the mail that morning. At 5:45, he washed the few dishes he’d used, put on his jacket, adjusted the blinds on the windows, and prepared to depart the studio, leaving just enough time to catch the 6:02 bus.
He set the burglar alarm, opened the door, and came face-to-face with two men in suits and two uniformed officers from the LAPD.
“Abraham Widlitz?” one of the suits asked.
“Yes.”
“We have a warrant to search these premises.” He showed Widlitz a piece of paper and his badge.
“Search?” said Widlitz. “Why would you want to search my studio?”
“Excuse me.” The man led his plainclothes partner inside and snapped on overhead lights. One of the cops in uniform escorted Widlitz back into the studio while the other officer remained in the hall.
“Please, would you explain to me why you are here?” Widlitz said, hands outstretched. “What are you looking for?”
“My partner and I are with the LAPD art squad, Mr. Widlitz. We’ve been told you sometimes turn your back on who really owns some of the paintings you work on.”
“That is not true.”
“If it’s not, we’ll find that out. In the meantime, why don’t you just sit down and relax. If our information is wrong, maybe we’ll see something we like and buy it from you. If our information is right, we can all go down to headquarters and have a little heart-to-heart about art and artists. How’s that sound to you?”
“Am I allowed to make a phone call?”
“Your lawyer?”
“My son. He will know what to do.”
“Sure. Call your boy.” He surveyed the larger, outer room. “Lots of stuff here, Mr. Widlitz. Business must be good.”
Widlitz didn’t respond as he dialed the number in Pittsburgh with a hand that trembled in rhythm to his heartbeat.
27
“So, where are we?”
Detective Marcus Shorter took a bite of his burrito and washed it down with a sip of Coke. He and his partner, Frank Nastasi, had spent the morning in the old Librarian’s office interviewing a dozen people from LC, including the two researchers who occupied
work spaces adjacent to Michele Paul; Dolores Marwede for the second time; members
of the public affairs department; General Counsel Mary Beth Mullin; the intern, Susan Gomara; and John Vogler for the third time. It was Nastasi’s day to choose where to eat lunch, and he had opted for Burrito Brothers, nestled in the string of inexpensive restaurants on Pennsylvania Avenue, a block from the library.
“Where are we?” Shorter repeated, pulling a pad from his jacket pocket on which he’d made notes that morning. “Let’s see. Kelman made no bones about not liking the deceased, but he’s got an alibi the night of the murder. I have a feeling it’ll check out. Same with Ms. Warren.” He laughed. “Another hour with her and we’d know everything we’d ever want to know about burying people.”
“Go figure, a pretty little thing like her loving buried bodies. She admits she went out with Paul a few times—”
“Twice. For drinks.”
“But no sex, right?”
“Right, and no alibi either, home alone all evening, but a call to her father in Denver around eight. We’ll have her phone records this afternoon.”
“Had a relationship with the guy, though,” Nastasi said. “Maybe they did get it on and he failed the test, ticked her off.”
Shorter shrugged and finished his burrito. Nastasi’s was long gone.
“The intern—what’s her name? Gomara?—cute kid. Said the guy verbally abused her but I’m sure she didn’t whack him in the head. Too sweet, and for real. I’m not sure she could even lift the weight that whacked Paul.”
Shorter consulted his notes. “She was working in the main reading room until nine-thirty. Checks out.”
Nastasi nodded. “Let’s leave this burritoville before I eat another.”
They paid and slowly walked back to the Jefferson Building, continuing to discuss the morning’s interviews as they went.
“That Ms. Graves from Public Affairs is an impressive piece of work,” Nastasi said, stopping to prop a foot on a bench to tie a shoelace that had come undone. “What ’a you think of Mrs. Smith?”
“I like her,” said Shorter as they resumed their walk. “Her husband was a big-shot attorney in D.C. years ago.”
“Yeah, I know that. He got off a scumbag I collared. He was good, smooth as silk. Should we look at her again? She found him.”
“No. She’s off my screen. I keep going back to Vogler. He swears he never went that night to where the murder took place, but Marwede swears she saw him there. He sure had motive.”
Nastasi nodded and—he knew he ate too fast—belched against his fist as they reached the main entrance.
“What do you think Broadhurst will do about the money this Mr. Driscoll was sending Michele Paul?”
“No idea. When he said he’d follow through on it, he tried to act like it was nothing but he was shaken. You read that, too?”
“Uh huh. Maybe Paul got greedy and wanted more.”
They flashed their badges at the library security guard but were made to go through the metal detector anyway, and went directly to what had been their home since the murder, the handsomely appointed, genteel old Librarian’s office. Waiting there for them was John Vogler, chief of the manuscripts division.
“What can we do for you, Dr. Vogler?” Nastasi asked.
“I’d like to speak with you.”
Shorter checked his watch. “We have a few minutes before our next interview. Come on in.”
Sue Gomara knocked on Consuela Martinez’s closed office door.
“Yes, Susan?”
“I don’t want you to think I’m unhappy or anything,” Sue said, “but I was wondering whether I could do something else in Hispanic besides the Cuban newspapers.”
Consuela smiled. She’d been waiting for the young woman to assert herself and ask for greater responsibility.
Sue continued with her pitch: “I could still do the newspapers some of the time, but not all of the time. Maybe you could get another intern to help out—if that’s possible.”
“What sort of things would you like to do?” Consuela asked.
Sue shrugged, said, “I don’t know, like maybe go through one of the collections, catalog it, feel like I’m helping to do something important.”
“Keeping track of the Cuban newspapers is important.”
“Oh, sure, I know that, but …”
“I think it’s a fine idea that you branch out a little.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I do. Tell you what. We have dozens of collections sitting in the stacks just waiting for someone to go through them carefully, make notes on what’s in them, that sort of thing. Make up a preliminary inventory, a simple report.”
“That would be great, Dr. Martinez. I’d love that.”
“Okay.”
Consuela pulled a printed list of collections that had been donated to Hispanic over the past few years and jotted down a list of names of the contributors. She handed the paper to Sue.
“Start with the first three on the list, Koser, Aaronsen, and Covington. They’re small collections, not much more than a box for each.”
“Which one should I do first?”
“Your choice. Lay out the material, break it down into categories that make sense, note what each section contains, and put the materials back in file folders marked with the name of the subject.”
“I really appreciate this, Dr. Martinez.”
“And I’ll appreciate the good job I know you’ll do.”
Sue eagerly went to leave but Consuela stopped her with “But you’ll still have to handle the Cuban newspapers.”
“Oh, sure, I can do both. Thanks again.”
After the fourth ring, Cale Broadhurst picked up the phone himself, his secretary having left her desk for a moment. “Broadhurst.”
“Hi, Cale. This is Annabel Smith. Do you have a moment?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks. I just had a talk with Lucianne Huston, and she told me something she knows that I thought you should know.”
“Okay.” Feeling blood rush to his head, Broadhurst asked, “What despicable rumor is she peddling now?”
“Apparently one of her more reliable sources informed her that Michele Paul was receiving large sums of money from David Driscoll. I know she assumes that Paul was selling information about rare books he had found to Driscoll, who would then buy them for the library.”
“Is she going to make this public?” Broadhurst asked nervously.
“I think so.”
“Well, thanks for calling me. I guess I better talk to Ms. Huston before she does permanent damage to the library.” As he hung up, he couldn’t strike the image of a gleeful Lucianne Huston—“Reporting from Washington, money and murder at the library”—from his mind.
28
Los Angeles’ “art squad” was, as in all major cities, small and not considered terribly important in the overall scheme of law enforcement. Stealing an expensive piece of art from someone who obviously had enough money to buy it in the first place didn’t rank up there with drive-by shootings, racial unrest, rape, and arson.
Still, the few detectives assigned to the task in Los Angeles took their job seriously. While investigating the studio of Abraham Widlitz, they methodically looked at every piece of art in the studio while the owner tried in vain to reach his son in Pittsburgh: “Daddy’s at a dentists’ convention in Florida, Papa Abe,” his sixteen-year-old granddaughter told him, “and Mom went to a garden show.” Widlitz didn’t want to upset his granddaughter. “Nothing important,” he said in a tremulous voice. “I’ll call again.”
He’d sat at his desk while the police continued their examination of the contents of the studio, answering an occasional question but spending most of the time thinking about calling an attorney. He hesitated to do that because he felt it might make him appear guilty. As far as he was concerned, he hadn’t done anything wrong in accepting art from clients despite knowing they might have obtained their “finds” from less than honest sources. It wasn’t his responsibility to determine the provenance of any work of art. He was just a craftsman.
The detective who seemed to be in charge asked Widlitz for his records.
“Those are confidential,” Widlitz protested weakly.
The detective laughed. “You’re not a lawyer or a doctor, Mr. Widlitz. You can cooperate with us, which would be in your best interests, or we can do it the hard way,
take you downtown and subpoena your records.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Depends on what we find here. Do we see the records or not?”
Widlitz gave them what few records he kept, which they packed into an empty leather catalog case they’d brought with them. Widlitz was told he was free to go, but that he was not to leave Los Angeles.
“What about my work?” he asked.
“Look at it this way, Mr. Widlitz. We’re giving you a few days vacation while we take a closer look at what’s here in the studio. We’ll let you know when you can come back.”
Abe Widlitz’s final words as he left were “I have a lawyer.”
“That’s good. Have a nice evening, sir. We’ll be in touch.”
Having operated on a tip from an informer that Widlitz was in the business of fencing stolen art, the two detectives spent the next day comparing lists of stolen art contained in a publication used by art squads around the world, the Stolen Art Alert, produced monthly by the International Foundation for Art Research, with the canvases in Abe Widlitz’s studio. They came up empty. They then went through their own reports of stolen art from the Los Angeles area and attempted to find a match. There was none.
At the end of the day, they sat in their cramped two-man office and went over their findings, or lack thereof.
“Joey called,” one said, referring to the snitch who’d sent them on their fruitless search of Widlitz’s studio. “The little twerp wants his money.”
His partner’s laugh was half snarl. “Tell him he owes us. You want to call Widlitz and tell him he can go back to work?”
&n
bsp; “Sure. Nice old guy.”
“Don’t get soft. Behind that ‘nice old man’ facade could lurk a serial killer. Call him before his lawyer decides to sue the city.”
As his partner made the call, the chief of the art squad started writing a report on their activities on the Widlitz case. He was interrupted by a homicide detective from down the hall. “How’s everything with you two Rembrandts?” he asked.
“All right. You?”
“Good. O’Connell wanted me to give you this.” He tossed a file folder on the desk and sat down.
The art squad chief opened it and began reading.
“It’s that security guard murder they forwarded us from Miami,” the detective who’d delivered the report said. “The perp evidently stole that painting and killed the guard in the process. This guy, Munsch, brought the painting with him to L.A. after the heist, then ended up in Mexico, where our esteemed colleagues south of the border gunned him down by the airport.”
“Yeah, we’ll put it on our list,” the art squad chief said, closing the folder.
His partner, who’d just hung up after informing Abe Widlitz he was free to return to his studio, absently opened the file.
The homicide detective said, chuckling, “You guys ever find a stolen Picasso or
Andy Warhol and consider selling it on the side?”
Murder at the Library of Congress Page 18