Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [121]
He punched the top of his thigh so hard that it bruised him.
Do as I say, not as I do.
“Good God,” he said within the confines of the car. “What have I done?” He was tempted to pray as he’d done after Michael’s arrest, to ask for forgiveness and to pledge anything if the past weeks could be reversed. But the hypocrisy of that was too distasteful. He hadn’t prayed, nor had he stepped into a church, for decades.
He placed his hands on the steering wheel and pushed himself back into his seat as hard as he could, forcing himself into an erect posture, and by extension stiffening his resolve. He started the car, pulled away and drove faster this time. A marked police cruiser sat in front of the house, part of the security detail Vargas-Swayze had arranged for. Wilcox waved at the officer, who returned a sloppy salute.
“Anybody home?” Wilcox called as he came through the front door. When there was no response, he said louder, “Georgia? Are you here?”
He walked into the den where she sat with her back to him. A single lamp cast the only light in the room. He came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Hey,” he said, “I’m home.”
As she turned, light from the lamp caught the glistening on her cheeks. He came around the chair, fell to one knee, grabbed her hands, and asked, forgetting his own problem, “What’s wrong, sweetheart? What’s happened?”
“Mimi was here. She left a few minutes ago.”
“Mimi Morehouse?”
“Yes.”
She walked to the kitchen, her husband following. “Why was she here?” he asked. “What did she say that’s got you so upset?” Mimi and Georgia had forged a friendship during Joe’s tenure at the Trib, and it wasn’t unusual for them to visit each other at their homes. But he’d never seen this sort of aftermath following a visit.
“They’re getting a divorce,” Georgia said, busying herself at the sink.
“That’s news. Why?”
She turned, leaned back against the sink, and said, “He’s been cheating on her for years.”
The announcement didn’t surprise Wilcox, although he had little specific knowledge of his editor’s private life. Morehouse was always quick to comment when a pretty woman passed: “How would you like a weekend with that?” Or, “A romp in the sack with that would do wonders for my psyche.” Lots of bravado talk but never a boast about a sexual conquest, which Wilcox admired. If Morehouse had enjoyed affairs outside his marriage, he’d always maintained a discreet silence.
“Mimi is seeking the divorce?” Joe asked.
Georgia nodded.
“Well, I’m sorry it’s happening, but I have something to tell you.”
“Joe,” she said, as though not hearing him, “according to Mimi, Paul has had affairs with many women.”
“I never had a hint of that,” he said, realizing he was glad that having to deliver his sad message had been postponed by Morehouse’s infidelities. “Look,” he said, “I—”
“Joe,” she said, urgency in her voice. “He was seeing the girl who was murdered at the paper.”
“Jean?”
“Yes. Mimi found an e-mail address on his computer she didn’t know he had. There were messages from that girl threatening to expose their affair if he didn’t do certain things for her.”
“What things?”
“Something to do with a job, a promotion.”
He thought back to his breakfast with Jean Kaporis’s father and stepmother. According to them, Jean had been seeing a man named Paul who, she’d told them, turned out to be married. Her father claimed she was devastated when she learned of his marital status, which didn’t make sense. Surely she knew that Morehouse had a wife. Then