Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [105]
He forced a laugh and found a silly sitcom where the laughs were also forced—on a recorded track. Georgia’s patience ran out after a few minutes and she again tried to reach Roberta, first her apartment, then her mobile phone.
“She must have turned off her cell,” she said. “No answer on either phone. I left messages.”
“She’s probably doing some recording. She’ll call back. We’ll catch her on the news at eleven. Sit and relax. I’ll turn off the TV and we’ll put on some music.”
Georgia fell asleep in her chair. After a while, Joe gently woke her and urged her to go to bed.
“Are you coming?” she asked sleepily.
“I’ll be up in a bit.” He kissed her. “Sleep tight. This will all be over soon.”
He went to bed three hours later after writing a story about the second killer letter, and e-mailing it to the paper.
• • •
“I can’t tell you how upset I am.”
Michael and Roberta Wilcox sat side by side in his apartment.
“It wasn’t as though I really liked the man. He was abrasive, especially when he drank, which was most of the time. You experienced his drunkenness yourself. But there was something I respected about him. I believe I might have been his only friend.”
“It must have been a shock,” Roberta said, “to hear that someone you knew well had been stabbed. How did you find out?”
“When I came home from job interviews I had today, there was a card on my door from the police. I called them immediately, of course, not having a clue as to why they wanted to speak with me. I’d already been interviewed twice about the murder of the young woman at the Tribune.”
“They interviewed you?” she said. She held a glass of wine that she hadn’t touched. “Why?”
“I’d made a delivery to the newspaper the night she was killed. I was working for an office supply company at the time. Someone in the newsroom needed what I had right away, so I was sent directly to the paper. The police, I’m sure, interviewed everyone who’d been there that night. At least I hope they did. They wouldn’t be doing their job if they didn’t. I expected the same detectives I’d spoken with earlier to show up this evening, but a different team arrived, very nice, very polite. I told them what I knew about Rudy, that I hadn’t seen him all night, and was here practicing my guitar. They took my statement and left.” He rolled his eyes and drank. “I’m evidently the poster boy for being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I didn’t know you’d been at the Tribune the night Jean Kaporis was killed,” she said.
He sighed deeply. “I believe I’ll have a second glass of wine. It’s been that sort of day, one surprise after another, including your call and being here. You haven’t touched yours, my dear. The vintage not to your liking?”
“Oh, no, it’s fine,” she said, sipping as he went to the kitchen.
When he returned to the couch, he offered his glass in a toast, and said, “Here’s to better days ahead.”
She followed the ritual of touching rims but didn’t drink. “Michael,” she said, “I feel terrible for what you’ve gone through, not only here in Washington, but early in your life. Frankly, that’s why I called and asked to see you tonight.”
“Oh?”
She started to continue but he cut her off. “I sense a modicum of pity in your voice, Robbie. I don’t deserve pity, nor do I want it.”
“It’s not pity I’m feeling, Michael, it’s admiration.”
“For me? There’s nothing to admire in me, Robbie. I’m a murderer who spent forty years in a hospital for the criminally insane. Admiration? That should be reserved for astronauts and missionaries.”
“I disagree,” she said. She tasted her wine, placed the glass on the coffee table, turned, and spoke with animation. “I’ve always felt that anyone who overcomes great adversity is to be admired. I have tremendous respect for alcoholics who get sober and drug addicts who get straight. There are people born into poverty who rise above it through sheer will and determination