Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [108]
“Was home all night—”
“Practicing his guitar,” Warwick added. “I don’t trust guys his age with ponytails who also play the guitar. Nothing sadder than an old rock-star wannabe.”
“A neighbor confirms he was there,” Millius said. “An older woman who says Mr. LaRue and his guitar sometimes keep her awake at night. Says she heard him playing until midnight.”
Vargas-Swayze nodded.
“What’s your interest in him?”
“Just curious. Wade and I spoke with him a couple of times earlier about the Kaporis murder. He delivered office supplies to the paper the night she got it.”
“Any breaks?” Millius asked.
“Nada,” she said. “Mañana.”
• • •
Joe and Georgia Wilcox watched their daughter on the eleven o’clock news. The phone rang minutes after she’d gone off the air. Joe answered.
“Hi sweetheart,” he said. “Mom and I watched. Nice job.”
“Thanks. Everybody good there?”
“I think so. How about you? Got anything earth-shattering on my favorite story?”
“As a matter of fact, there are some things brewing, Dad.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“I can’t get into it,” she said. “You understand. I’m working a source, a good one. Once I break it, I’ll lay it all out for you.”
“That’ll be a little late, won’t it?” he said, the edge to his voice not lost on her.
“Can’t help it, Dad. Anything new on your end?”
He considered telling her about the letter.
“Not a thing, sweetheart. I’ll put Mom on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Let’s get out of here,” he shouted at the young woman next to him at the bar. “I can’t hear myself think.”
“One more dance?”
“Hell, no. Come on. The music’s rattling my teeth.”
She was an inch taller than he was. She had very white skin, very red hair, very large, round, powder-blue eyes, and a figure that confirmed that she was one of the two major sexes. She wore a white and brown scoopneck peasant blouse that exposed freckled cleavage, and a tight pair of tan slacks. Her name was Kelly. Last name, Ames.
Morehouse paid cash at the bar and propelled her toward the door, aware as he’d been all evening that he was the oldest human being in the dance club. He’d felt acutely uncomfortable during the one time he’d ventured onto the dance floor with her, attempting to appear at home but knowing he looked like an elephant plopped into the middle of a ballet.
They left Club Heaven and Hell on Eighteenth Street in Adams Morgan and stood on the sidewalk where he mopped his brow with a handkerchief and sucked in fresh air.
“The night is young,” she said happily.
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a bitch of a day tomorrow. Where’s your roommate?”
“Home visiting her folks in West Virginia. What are you suggesting, sir?”
She knew precisely what he was suggesting because he’d suggested it two or three times before since they’d started seeing each other. Her answer was always to lead him back to her apartment in Crystal City, on the Virginia side of the Potomac. She and her roommate had an understanding. If either of them were about to bring a man to the apartment, the other would vacate unless the notice was too short, or there was a compelling reason for the homebound roommate to stay put. No problem this night.
• • •
They’d met at Georgetown University when he’d given a lecture to graduate journalism students on the changing role of local news coverage. She’d asked a couple of intelligent questions following his talk, and approached him at the lectern as he gathered up his notes. He realized she was being flirtatious, and happily played the game.
“I had another question to ask,” she said, “but it would have been awkward in front of everyone.”
“What is it?” he asked.
She looked around before saying, “Can I buy you a drink or a cup of coffee, Mr. Morehouse? It would be my pleasure.”
He checked his watch. “Sure,” he said, not sure where this was leading but willing to find out. She wasn’t the first young and attractive aspiring female journalist who’d made such an approach over the years. He didn’t have any illusions as to why they did. He was on the wrong side of fifty; it wasn’t his body they coveted. It was his