Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [110]
“I’m almost done,” she said, running a bare foot up and down his leg. “Besides, I’d quit school if there were a good job at The Washington Tribune. That’s all she said?”
“Hey, that’s a foot in the door. Don’t knock it.”
“I just thought that with your clout, you’d be able to set something up for me, get me a job instead of just an interview.”
“I never promised you anything, Kelly,” he said, uncomfortable with this turn in the conversation. “I’d better be going.”
“You said you were going to stay the night,” she said. “You said your wife was away and—”
“That’s right, she is, but I’ve got some things to do at home.” He went to the bedroom and started dressing.
She stood in the doorway, a hand on her hip. “Sometimes I have a fantasy,” she said, “about knocking on your door some day and introducing myself to your wife as your mistress. Not that I’d ever do it, but sometimes I—”
He faced her and extended a finger. “Don’t even kid about such a thing,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Don’t… ever.”
“You don’t have to get in a huff about it,” she said. “I was just kidding around.”
He finished dressing and went to the living room where he’d left his briefcase. She followed.
“Maybe you’d better go,” she said. “I don’t like it when you get this way.”
“I’ll be tied up for the next few weeks,” he said. “Trips out of town and—”
“Translation: You won’t be calling me.”
“Not for a while.”
“But you will set up the interview with the editor at Panache.”
“I gave her your name and number. She’ll probably call you.”
“Sure. Have a nice life, Mr. Paul Morehouse.”
He thought of a number of responses but said nothing; he simply left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Edith Vargas-Swayze was in good spirits as she walked into the detectives’ room at the First Precinct. She’d come from the meeting with her lawyer at which she learned that her estranged husband, Peter, had landed a new job at an even higher salary than he’d been paid at his previous one. As a result, he was dropping his insistence that he cease making alimony payments, and that she pay him since he was out of work.
• • •
“What a guy,” she’d said, to which her sober-sided attorney replied, “Your husband’s lawyer is as big a jerk as he is. One request, though.”
“Yes?”
“Stop going around saying you want to shoot him. I know you’re kidding, but it doesn’t sound good coming from a cop.”
“Okay,” she said. “I promise I won’t—unless—”
“Get out of here,” he said. “And next time pick a better guy to get involved with.”
• • •
“Is Wade in?” she asked Bernie Evans, her boss, as he passed through the room where detectives milled about, some just arriving after having conducted investigations, others about to launch theirs.
“He called in. His leg. You’ll have to work solo today. We’re shorthanded. Or short-legged.”
“Not a problem,” she said, going to her desk and picking up a file folder from the forensic lab that had been dropped there minutes earlier. The FBI central fingerprint registry had compared prints on the first letter with known prints in its massive file. Although the few prints on the page were smeared and smudged, two partials matched samples in the database. They belonged to Washington Tribune employees Joe Wilcox and Paul Morehouse. No surprise. Wilcox had opened the envelope and removed the letter, and he’d handed it to Morehouse. They’d acknowledged as much when she was there.
What did grab her interest was the note on the bottom of the report. The print belonging to Joseph Wilcox appeared to have been placed on the paper prior to any words having been typed.
She sat back and contemplated what she’d read. The forensic lab had told her that its preliminary analysis indicated that one of the prints could have preceded the typing. If true, they’d agreed, it could mean that the person making that print might be the letter writer.
Joe Wilcox?
Could it be? Was it possible that he’d written a phony letter to create grist for a sensational story, and