Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [125]
“No, of course not. Just routine, I’m sure. I’m going to call Frank.” Frank Moss had been their family attorney since handling the purchase of their house. “He’s not a criminal attorney, but he knows plenty of them. I’m also calling Michael.”
“Why?”
“They want to speak with him, too.”
“About the letters?
“About the murders.”
She grabbed his hand with surprising strength. “Joe, you don’t think that—”
“That he killed those women? No, I don’t. He’s gotten drawn into this because of me. The least I can do is be there for him.”
He left her and made his call to the attorney, giving him a thumbnail description of the dilemma in which he’d plopped himself. Moss said he’d meet him at First District headquarters. “Joe, say nothing. I’ll handle it.”
“I’m afraid I’ve already said too much, Frank.”
“Just don’t add to it.”
He didn’t mention that he would be bringing his brother with him. His own troubles had been difficult enough to get across in a short phone conversation.
Georgia joined him in the den as he was about to place his call to Michael.
“I’m coming with you,” she said.
“No, you stay here. It’ll be embarrassing enough without having my wife at my side.”
“I don’t care about embarrassment, Joe. I want to be there—at your side.”
“Suit yourself.”
Michael’s answering machine picked up before he could get to the phone, and they had to wait for the outgoing message to end before speaking.
“It’s Joe, Michael.”
“Hello,” Michael said.
“Michael, I won’t get into the specifics right now, but I’ve done something wrong, seriously wrong, and it involves you.”
“Oh, my, Joseph. You? Do something terribly wrong? I refuse to believe it.”
“Believe it, Michael. I’m going to MPD headquarters in a few hours. They want you to come with me.”
“Oh? About the serial killer?”
“In a sense. I wrote those letters myself.”
“What letters?”
“The serial killer letters. I wrote them to myself, on your typewriter.”
“Joseph!”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Maybe I can get off with an insanity plea, too.” The words tumbled out too fast to stop them. “Sorry. The point is that the police want to talk to both of us. I told them I’d bring you with me. That’s better than having them show up at your door.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Michael said. “Why did you do it? Were you trying to hurt me?”
“No, not at all. I was trying to become a big shot, an important person. That’s why I did it. You’ve got to believe me.”
“I don’t see that I have any choice.”
“Will you come with me? I told them six or six thirty. I’ll pick you up at five thirty.”
His voice broke. “I don’t want any trouble, Joseph. I’ve had too much trouble in my life.”
“There won’t be any trouble, Michael. My attorney is meeting us there. If you need legal help, I’ll pay for it. But I’m sure you won’t. You’ll come?”
“Yes, I’ll come. Goodbye, Joseph.”
Georgia returned from having changed clothes.
“You look great,” he said. “Perfect outfit for a felon’s wife.”
“Stop it, Joe.”
“I should dress up, too, in case the paparazzi are there.”
“You look fine. Michael is coming?”
“Uh-huh. We’re picking him up at five thirty.”
“What about Paul?” she asked.
“I dread that call more than anything else,” he replied, “but I’d better make it.”
“Will you mention Mimi and what she told me?”
“No. The fact that he was having an affair with Jean Kaporis doesn’t mean he killed her.” His words didn’t match what he was thinking. While it was unthinkable for him to cast Morehouse into the role of murderer, that possibility had been swirling in his brain ever since hearing about Mimi’s allegation. But that’s all it was, an allegation from a wounded wife.
He picked up the phone and dialed Morehouse’s direct line.
“Paul, it’s Joe.”
“Where are you?” Morehouse asked, gruffly.
“At home. We have to meet.”
“Yeah, that would be nice. Do you have something for the paper tomorrow? Anything new about the letters?”
Wilcox strained not to laugh. “As a matter of fact, there is something new on that front, Paul.”
“Like what?”
“That’s why we have to meet. I have an—ah—an appointment at six. Where will you be