Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [113]
“As you wish. Noon it is. I’ll have lunch for you and your colleagues.”
“That would be wonderful. One favor, Uncle Michael.”
“You need only to name it, Robbie.”
“Please don’t tell my dad what we’re doing. I want it to be a surprise.”
“My lips are sealed.”
As she lowered the phone into its cradle, a thought assailed her. Why would he be so cooperative about being filmed for a documentary about himself if he was a serial killer? Was that part of his innocence—or craziness?
She dragged out the article written by her father in which he’d quoted the shrink who’d said that such people enjoy the notoriety. That’s why they collect everything written about them and their crimes, and write taunting letters to the press and to the police.
She went to her producer’s office. “I need a camera crew for a noon shoot,” she said.
“What noon shoot?”
“I can’t tell you now, but believe me, it’s part of one hell of a big story.”
“What big story?”
“The serial killer.”
He stood behind his desk. “What have you got, Robbie, something about your father’s letter?”
“No. Well, yes. Maybe. Trust me. This could be a bombshell. I want Carlos and Margo. They can keep their mouths shut.”
“Okay, okay. But you will let me in on the secret at some point.”
“Of course. Thanks.”
Back in her office, she called her father’s number at the Trib.
“Dad, it’s Robbie.”
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Dad, why did you lie to me last night? I have to read in the newspaper about the second letter being delivered to the house? Mom must be terrified.”
“She’s okay. I’ve been insanely busy as you can imagine,” he said.
“But why didn’t you tell me about the letter?” she insisted.
“I didn’t want to concern you,” he lied, and she knew he was lying. He didn’t want to be scooped by her.
Until that moment, she’d considered sharing with him her conclusion about Michael and the letters. It wasn’t that she thought he’d be upset to know his own brother might have written them that kept her from doing it. It wasn’t because she thought he might be upset at the steps she’d taken, and the conclusions to which she’d come. She said nothing because, to be perfectly honest, it could jeopardize the exclusive she had on this emerging story, and she wasn’t about to give that up. Not for anyone. No one. Two could play the same game.
“We’re doing fine,” he said. “Edith Vargas-Swayze has arranged for police protection at the house. Nothing to worry about. I’ve got some media interviews this afternoon, including your own Cityscape at five.”
“Good,” she said. “I’ll pop in if I’m around.”
“Great. Mom wonders when you’re coming by again for dinner.”
“Soon.”
“How’s your Mr. Curtis?”
“Tom? He’s okay. Haven’t seen much of him lately. Too busy. Have to run.”
“Love you, Robbie.”
But not enough to be honest with me, she thought, choosing to ignore her own dishonesty.
• • •
Wilcox stared at the phone for what seemed a long time after his conversation with Roberta. Should he be ashamed at withholding information from her in an attempt to protect his exclusivity? The second letter would, after all, be of concern to her, if only out of fear for her mother. He decided he couldn’t worry about it. There would be time later for introspection. His day was filling up fast, thanks to the article that morning. The book editor in New York had called and asked if she could come to Washington that day and meet with him, and he’d readily agreed. The news of a second letter from the serial killer had made the news there in the Big Apple, which also prompted a call from a New York literary agent, as well as from one headquartered in Washington. When informed about the editor, the New York agent told Wilcox, “Don’t sign anything with her without representation. She’ll try and lowball you. You’re sitting on something big. Don’t give it away.” Wilcox promised he’d think about it.
• • •
“Looks like he’s about to make a score,” the officer monitoring the tap on Wilcox’s phone at the newspaper said to his colleague.
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
“You know him?”
“Met him