Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [126]
“Here until eight or nine. I have an appointment, too, later. What’s up? You sound strange.”
“Must be an allergy. I’ll call you when I’m finished with my six o’clock and see if we can get together before your date.” Was it a date? he wondered. Did he have a young woman’s bed into which to climb later that night? A vision of Morehouse and the lovely Jean Kaporis making love came and went. It wasn’t a pretty picture.
At four thirty, Joe and Georgia left the house and got into one of their matching Toyota Camrys, one gray, one burgundy.
“No matter what happens,” she said, “we’ll get through it together.”
“Thank you,” he said, starting the engine and backing into the street. “Thank you very much.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The buzzer sounded in Michael’s apartment.
“Robbie?” he said into the intercom.
“Yes.”
He was waiting in the hall as she came through the front door. He extended his arms and she readily accepted his hug.
“Come in, come in,” he said, stepping aside.
Music from his stereo filled the apartment, a solo jazz guitarist playing a song in three-quarter time.
“Joe Pass?” she asked pleasantly, pleased that she now had a jazz name to offer.
“No. Martin Taylor. He’s Scottish. Brilliant.”
“He sounds just like you.”
“I can only wish. It is such a pleasure to have you visit, Robbie,” he said, turning down the volume of the CD, one of six in the multiple CD player. “You look as beautiful as ever.”
“Michael,” she said, ignoring the compliment, “I have something very important to tell you.”
He held up his hand. “I know you do, Robbie, and I am anxious to hear it. But not here.”
Her puzzled expression prompted him to continue.
“How much time do you have?” he asked.
“I have all evening. I’m off tonight. But—”
“Splendid. Come.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the door, opened it, and led her to the building’s foyer.
“What are you doing, Michael?” she asked, laughing.
His answer was to propel her down the walkway to a shiny black convertible sports car, the top down. He opened the passenger door. “Get in,” he said.
“Is this yours?” she asked, sliding onto the red leather seat.
“For the moment,” he replied, coming around and getting behind the wheel. “I ran out and rented it for this occasion.”
“What occasion?”
A woman’s voice called, “Michael?”
He turned to see Carla approaching.
“I’m just leaving,” he said to her, his tone not pleasant.
“I told you I was stopping by,” Carla said, looking at Robbie and the car. “Did you buy this?”
“No. Excuse me, Carla, but we must be going.”
Carla glared at Roberta. “A new friend?” she said to him.
“This is my niece,” he said.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Carla said.
He left her standing on the sidewalk as he turned the ignition key and the engine rumbled to life. He slipped the manual transmission into gear and drove away.
“A girlfriend?” Roberta asked, looking back at the bewildered woman.
“No.”
Was he angry at the question? He sounded it.
“Michael,” she insisted, “you must tell me why we’re doing this.”
He glanced at her, smiled, and said loudly, “I have found the most charming bistro not far out of the city. It has divine food, a lovely outdoor terrace, and is surprisingly moderate in price.”
“I didn’t come for dinner,” she said, her words slipping away in the wind and cacophony of traffic sounds, her auburn hair swirling about her face. “I wanted to tell you something—in person.”
“About the letters,” he shouted, his laugh loud.
“You—?”
He removed his right hand from the wheel and waved it in front of her. “Not now,” he said, his voice having lost its lightheartedness. “Not now!”
She fell silent as he wove through traffic, driving fast, downshifting, accelerating, changing lanes with sudden abandon, causing other drivers to honk at him, or worse.
“Michael, please slow down,” she said.
“Frightened?” he asked, sounding as though he enjoyed her discomfort.
“Slow down,” she said, more firmly this time.
He did, and she said nothing else until he’d crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge, skirted the town of Arlington, and drove down a