Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [122]
“Joe,” Georgia said, clasping and unclasping her hands, “do you think that he—?”
“Might have killed her? That’s a hell of a thing to contemplate. Does Mimi intend to do anything with the information, aside from filing for divorce? Go to the police with it?”
“I don’t know, Joe.” She raised her eyes as though having been struck with a profound, horrible thought. “Oh, my God,” she said, “if he did kill that poor girl, he could be the serial killer.”
Wilcox went to her, wrapped his arms around her, and said, “Let’s go in the den. I have something important to talk to you about.”
“About Paul?”
“No. About me.”
Her furrowed brow and tight lips mirrored her concern as they left the kitchen and sat side by side on the couch.
“I don’t know where to begin,” he said.
“Is something wrong?” she asked. “Are you all right. Is it about Roberta?”
“It’s about me, Georgia, and something I’ve done.”
She stared at him. Her face said, Are you about to confess to having an affair, too?
He spoke softly, surprised at how easily the words came, how cathartic it was to share his secret with the person closest to him in this world. She listened impassively, only the movement of her eyes reflecting her reaction. When he was done reciting the facts, he said, “This will end my career at the Trib, Georgia. It’ll end my career in general.”
“I love you,” she said suddenly, touching his cheek.
It was the last thing he expected to hear from her, and it tore at him in a way that nothing else she might have said would have, no matter how angry or scornful. Tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks, tears of relief and regret, inadequacy and gratitude.
“There’s more to it,” he said after wiping his face with a handkerchief. “There’s a legal problem, too.”
He explained how having written the letters constituted a criminal act, possibly more than one.
“Edith wouldn’t pursue that, would she?” Georgia asked.
“As a friend? No. But she’s a cop, Georgia. Besides, it’s not her decision. Once her superiors at MPD know the facts, it’ll be out of her hands.”
“We’ll fight it, Joe. We’ll get the best lawyers.”
“Yeah. That’s what we’ll do. I’d better call Roberta and tell her before it gets out.”
He headed for the phone and it rang in his hand.
“Dad? It’s Roberta.”
“Hi sweetheart. I was just about to call you.”
“What’s going on with Edith?”
“You’ve spoken with her?”
“Yes. She called. She said she knows about Michael, his past, everything. Why did you tell her?”
“It’s a long story, honey, but I’ll try to make it brief.”
He gave her a condensed version of what he’d told Georgia.
“You wrote those letters?” she said.
“Afraid so.”
“I thought—”
“You thought what?”
“Nothing. Dad, I’m going to have to—”
“Run with the story? Of course. I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”
“Please understand that—”
“Don’t Robbie. Don’t apologize. You’re a journalist, a better one than I’ve turned out to be.” He choked up. “I have to go. We’ll get together and really hash this out. In the meantime, do what you must.”
He heard, “I love—” as he hung up.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Michael?”
“Ah, Robbie, my dear. How are you?”
“Fine. I—”
“How did I look on your tape?”
“Ah, fine. Just fine. Michael, will you be available in a couple of hours?”
“For my favorite and only niece? I’d cancel receiving my Academy Award for you.”
“I need to see you, Michael.”
“And so you shall. What time? Shall I make dinner?”
“No, that’s not necessary.”
“But you are free for dinner. I’ve come across a splendid bistro I just know you’d love.”
“I have a few things to clean up here but I can be there in an hour. Say four?”
“I’ll be awaiting your arrival, Robbie.”
She went back to screening the tape. The cameraman, Carlos, poked his head into the screening room and asked, “How’s it look?”
“Looks great,” Roberta replied. “The kitchen stuff is a little rough, but we can cut around it.”
He sat.