Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [101]
“This,” he said, handing her a computer printout of details, pointing to the section dealing with the DOA from Franklin Park.
“What about it?” she asked.
“The address,” he said.
She squinted in the dim light. “Oh,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “This Rudolph Grau lived at the same address as our French friend.”
“He had to live somewhere,” she said.
“I know. Just thought it was interesting.”
“We’ll be back there later to canvas the building.”
“Right. Well, anyway, I thought it was worth mentioning.”
“It was, Wade. Grab some sleep. See you in a few hours.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
When they got home from the restaurant, Joe and Georgia Wilcox, one hunger sated, made love, an infrequent event of late. Both slept soundly. Joe was first up, feeling refreshed. After showering and dressing in his favorite gray suit for a TV interview later in the day, he donned an apron and made scrambled eggs and toast, another infrequent event, and had it ready and piping hot when Georgia appeared in a freshly pressed robe.
“Still celebrating?” she asked playfully.
“Right you are,” he replied, “but not about the book. I thought I’d forgotten how to do it—and don’t give me that ‘it’s like falling off a bicycle’ routine.”
“You haven’t forgotten a thing,” she said. “Not even your bicycle. What’s up today?”
“The same. I’ve got to come up with a new slant for the series.”
“I wish they’d catch him.”
“So do I, but not too soon.”
“Joe!”
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounds, Georgia. I hope they catch the guy before he kills anyone else. At the same time, I’d like to be able to play out the story a while longer. Morehouse sure as hell would like that.”
He finished breakfast, kissed her, and said, “We should do it again soon.”
“I’m here,” she answered, walking him to the door. “You look great.”
“Thanks. Be sure to watch.”
“I will. I’ll tape it and run it over and over.”
He drove his usual route into the District, but instead of going to the Tribune Building, he drove to Michael’s apartment house. He parked a block away and called his brother’s number. The machine answered. He hung up without leaving a message, got out of the car, and went to the door. The duplicate keys Michael had provided allowed him to enter the building and the apartment. Maggie meowed as she came from the kitchen where she’d been eating from her bowl, and rubbed against his leg. He bent and ruffled the fur behind the cat’s ears, went to the desk, pulled a piece of blank paper from where it was neatly stored in a drawer, inserted it in the typewriter, and began to type. Ten minutes later, and after assuring himself that everything was as it had been when he entered, he bade Maggie a farewell, locked the apartment behind him, and emerged from the building. An older woman, pulling a collapsible shopping cart, came up the walkway. She stopped, blocking his way. “Terrible, isn’t it?” she said.
“Hello,” he said and tried to go around her.
“Poor man, being killed like that.”
His first thought was Michael.
“Who was killed?” he asked.
“Mr. Grau, from One-E. Do you live here?”
“No, ma’am.”
“He had a drinking problem, you know, but one can’t be harsh in judging him, with his war injuries protecting us and the country. Poor man. He was in such pain and—”
“Excuse me,” Wilcox said, using the grass to circumvent her and walk quickly to his car to drive off.
Not long after he left, Edith and Dungey arrived to go through the motions of questioning others in the building about the deceased’s habits, known enemies, close friends, and whether anyone heard or knew anything about the killing. Knocks on Michael LaRue’s door went unanswered. Talks with residents revealed that Rudy Grau was a hard drinker, a difficult man at times, but considering the wounds he incurred defending the country—and that he always walked with a cane—“Why didn’t he use it to ward off his attacker?”—and that he always helped the other tenants of the building with heavy grocery bags and the like—and that he sometimes went out to dinner with Mr. LaRue, the nice gentleman