Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [104]
“You listed in the phone book?” Dungey asked.
“No,” Wilcox replied. “We’ve been unlisted for years. Too many nuts out there read something you write and decide to challenge you up close and personal. But it’s not tough to find out where anybody lives. I’ve done it plenty of times chasing down stories.”
“Can we have police protection?” Georgia asked.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Vargas-Swayze said. “Did you notice any strangers in the neighborhood today, Georgia?”
“No. I’ve been in the house all day. Those hedges out front block the view of the street. I can’t even see the mailbox from here.”
“I wonder why he didn’t mail it,” Dungey mused, “like the last one.”
“He’s delivering a message beyond what he wrote, Joe,” Vargas-Swayze said. “He’s making a point that he knows where you live.”
“What I find interesting,” Wilcox said, “is that the first letter didn’t attack me personally. This one does. He’s angry that my articles paint what he calls a ‘warped picture’ of him. Warped picture! What other view can you have?”
“But he isn’t cutting off contact with you. He says he’ll be in touch again, maybe by phone. This line here: ‘We should discuss my feelings, Joe. Perhaps I’ll call and we can have a long chat about that and other things.’ ”
“He called me Mr. Wilcox in the first letter,” Wilcox said. “Now it’s Joe.”
“Looks like the same typewriter,” Dungey said, holding the letter by its corner and slipping it into a plastic sleeve he’d carried from the car.
“How about some coffee, hon,” Wilcox suggested to Georgia.
“Not for us,” Vargas-Swayze said. “We have to get back.”
Wilcox walked them to their car.
“Did you talk to Georgia about a tap on your home phone?” Vargas-Swayze asked.
“No, but go ahead and do it. Do you think you can arrange for some sort of security here at the house?” he asked.
“At least for a few days.”
“A suggestion?”
“What?”
“Keep the fact that my phones are tapped and that there’ll be security here under wraps. I don’t want to scare him away. Keeping a channel open between him and me might lull him into making a dumb move.”
“Makes for a good story, huh?” Dungey said as he opened the driver’s door.
Wilcox frowned at him. “Meaning?” he said.
“Nothing.”
Wilcox turned to Vargas-Swayze. “Thanks for coming personally. Georgia’s really upset over this. Knowing some of your people are around will make all the difference.”
“Mind a suggestion from me?” she asked.
“Of course not.”
“Don’t take this guy lightly, Joe. His tone in the letter is angry.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. Thanks again.”
He watched them pull away and thought of Dungey’s comment about it making for a good story. Had the detective sensed something? Did he know something? Impossible. Edith had said a few times before that her partner was a downbeat, cynical sort of person. Typical cop, Wilcox thought as he returned to the house, wondering whether he should tell Georgia about the murder of Michael’s neighbor. He decided not to. He’d follow up on that tomorrow and see how things fell.
“I’d better call Paul and tell him there’s something new to report,” Wilcox told his wife.
His editor wasn’t at home, but he reached him on his cell phone. Blaring rock and roll music in the background made it difficult for Wilcox to hear, and he wasn’t sure Morehouse would hear, either, but he spoke loudly and filled him in.
“Can you put something together for tomorrow?” Morehouse shouted.
“I’d rather wait a day,” Wilcox responded. “Georgia is upset over the letter. I’d just like to spend the rest of the evening with her.”
“Come on, Joe, give me something. She’ll go to sleep at some point, right?”
Wilcox hesitated, then: “I’ll come up with something.”
“Good man.”
“What’s that music? Where are you, Paul?”
“See you in the A.M.,” Morehouse said, and signed off.
Joe and Georgia ordered Chinese food that evening. The deliveryman’s ringing of the doorbell caused Georgia to shudder; she uttered an involuntary moan. After dinner, they settled in the den and aimlessly watched television, including one of that season’s stupid reality shows.
“I feel like we