Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [114]
“Maybe he’ll give you a plug in his book.”
“Then I’ll be famous, too. But I’ll never forget my roots.”
They both laughed and went back to reading magazines while waiting for the next call.
• • •
“Joseph, it’s Michael.”
Wilcox glanced around to make sure no one was within listening distance.
“Hello, Michael. How are you?”
“I’m fine, but you must be exhausted. I read the article in the paper this morning. Good lord, the maniac actually had the gall to personally deliver a letter to your home?”
“Yeah. Everyone’s pretty uptight.”
“I would certainly imagine you would be. Is there anything I can do, any way I can help relieve the tension?”
“No, but thanks for the offer.”
“It’s the least a brother can do for a brother, Joseph. How is Georgia faring?”
“She’s fine. Look, I’m due at a meeting. I’ll call later.”
“Of course. I’ll be here all day.”
“No word on a job?”
“Not yet, but I’m not discouraged. Take care.”
• • •
An hour later, Detective Edith Vargas-Swayze returned to the communications center to check on calls made by, or to, Wilcox.
“Nothing interesting,” the officer said. “He’s gonna become a millionaire. He’s got book companies and agents chasing him.”
“Really?”
“He got a call from his daughter at the TV station. He’s gonna be on some show over there.”
“He talked to his brother, too,” the second officer on duty said.
“I didn’t know he had a brother. Play them for me.”
“All of them?”
“Uh huh.”
After they’d played the recordings of Wilcox’s phone conversations that morning, Vargas-Swayze said, “Play the brother’s call again.”
“Thanks,” she said after she’d heard it for the second time. “Give me who the brother’s phone number is listed under.”
It took only a few minutes to trace the phone number that had automatically been displayed during the call. “Michael LaRue,” the officer said, and gave her the address.
“Something wrong?” the second officer asked, taking note of her grave expression.
“What? No, nothing wrong. Thanks guys.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Michael had prepared a lunch of sautéed chicken breasts accompanied by a platter of raw carrots, string beans, and radishes, and French bread. Roberta nibbled on a carrot or two, but was less interested in food than she was in setting up the shoot. Her crew grabbed bites as they went about their chores.
“Let’s start with some shots of him playing guitar,” Roberta said. After much fussing with the equipment, particularly the lights, the taping started. Michael sat on a chair with a blank white wall behind him and played “Our Love Is Here to Stay,” his body hunched over the guitar as though it were part of him, head moving in time with the tempo he’d established, an occasional grunt of satisfaction accompanying a difficult run. They taped the entire song. When he’d struck his final chord, Roberta and the crew applauded.
“Thank you, thank you,” Michael said, bowing.
“How about some shots in the kitchen?” Roberta suggested.
“I’m afraid all the cooking is done,” Michael said.
“We can fake it,” Roberta said.
And so they did, Carlos maneuvering with the camera propped on his shoulder, cinema verite style, and Margo positioning the microphone on a boom just out of camera range as Michael pretended to apply his culinary skills.
“That’s enough,” Roberta directed. “Let’s go back to the living room and do an interview.”
She settled Michael in a chair, and pulled one up for herself so that she faced him. “Now, Uncle Michael,” she said, “if I start asking anything that makes you uncomfortable, just let me know and we’ll turn off the tape.”
Carlos and Margo looked at each other. Uncle Michael? He’s her uncle?
“What kind of things will you be asking me?”
“I’d like to talk about your childhood—including that unfortunate incident with your neighbor.”
“Marjorie,” he said flatly.
“Was that her name?” Roberta asked, aware that the camera was already running.
She and Carlos had worked together on many occasions and knew what each was thinking without words