Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [117]
He watched them drive away before turning and walking slowly back to the building.
Edith Vargas-Swayze had watched the scene, too, from an unmarked car parked across the broad avenue. What was Roberta Wilcox doing there with a camera crew? she wondered as she pulled away and headed for the precinct.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Here’s to our star!”
Others at the National Press Club’s Reliable Source bar raised their glasses in a tribute to Joe Wilcox.
“I’ll drink to that,” he said, holding up a glass of sparkling water garnished with a lime wedge.
“You drinking water, Joe?” someone asked.
“I’ve got a TV and a radio interview later on,” Wilcox said, defending his choice of drink. “Wouldn’t do to pass out on the set.”
“This N.Y. editor is coming to D.C.?” he was asked.
“This afternoon. I’m meeting her here at the club.”
“Introduce me to her,” said a colleague. “I’ll write a book about any damn thing she wants as long as the money’s right.”
They retreated to a table where the drinks kept coming along with their lunches.
“What’s this break in the serial killer case your daughter hinted at on the news?” was the question.
“I don’t know,” Wilcox replied. “She’s playing it close to the vest.”
“Even with her old man?”
Wilcox laughed and finished his sandwich. “Afraid so. I taught her right. Never reveal a source.”
“And these days go to jail,” said one of the other women at the table.
This led to a semiserious discussion of recent court rulings in which reporters found themselves in legal hot water for not revealing their sources in criminal cases. Wilcox half listened to the conversation as he mentally ran down his commitments that afternoon.
“Keep the movie rights,” someone said.
“And get a real drink, Joe. Water’ll just corrode your pipes.”
As Wilcox pulled out his wallet, his cell phone sounded.
“Wilcox.”
“Joe, it’s Edith Vargas-Swayze.”
“Hello. How goes it?”
“Where are you?”
“The Press Club. About to leave.”
“I have to speak with you.”
“Great. I’m jammed up all afternoon and into the early evening, but—”
“Joe, I have to talk to you right away. It’s important.”
He left the table and went to an unoccupied corner, the phone to his ear, his hand covering the mouthpiece. He’d received many calls from Edith over the years asking to speak with him. This time, her tone was different. His stomach tightened.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you when we meet.”
“Where?”
“The Press Club. I’m five minutes from there. I’ll pick you up in front.”
“Edith, can’t you tell me what this is about?”
“I’ll be there in five,” she said.
As he clicked the phone shut, he had a fleeting notion to leave the building and not wait for her, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He returned to the table. “Got to run,” he said.
“Another call from the coast, Joe?”
“Yeah.” He tossed money on the table. “They want me to star in the movie. See ya.”
He rode the elevator down to street level and went to the street where Vargas-Swayze sat behind the wheel of a bilious-green unmarked police car with a dented fender. He got in. She slipped the gearshift into drive and pulled into traffic.
“Where are we going?” he asked, checking his watch. “I’ve got some TV things and a meeting with—”
“Later, Joe,” she said, her eyes straight ahead.
As she turned onto Connecticut Avenue NW and he realized that she was driving in the direction of Michael’s apartment building, bile came up and stung his throat. He reached in his pocket for a Tums that wasn’t there.
“Edith, will you please tell me what this is all about?”
She pulled to the curb in front of a fire hydrant, directly across the street from where Michael lived, turned off the ignition, drew a breath, and faced him. “Want to tell me about it, Joe?”
“Tell you about what?” The quaver in his voice said much.
She pointed at the apartment building. “There,” she said. “Where your brother lives.”
“Michael?”
“Michael LaRue. Michael Wilcox. Whatever he chooses to call himself. Is that where you wrote the letters?”
He became