Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [131]
“Yeah?” Morehouse said, his mind elsewhere.
“A good source,” Hawthorne said. He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Joe Wilcox is there.”
“So?”
“He’s there, Paul because—” It was almost a whisper now. “Because he wrote those letters.”
“What letters?”
Hawthorne stepped back, a smug smile on his face.
“Those letters?” Morehouse said. “The serial killer letters?”
“That’s right. Joe wrote the letters. He’s a phony.”
“Why the hell would he do that?” the gruff veteran editor asked aloud.
“The police are searching for his brother, too,” said Hawthorne.
“What brother? Joe doesn’t have a brother.”
“He sure as hell does, Paul. They’re looking for him in connection with the knifing in Franklin Park. Rudolph Grau, the brother’s neighbor.”
“Are you sure?” Morehouse asked. “About the letters?”
“It’s a good source, Paul. Want me to follow up on it?”
“Yeah. No. I’ll have to run this by upstairs. Jesus. You’re positive?”
“Like I said—”
“Keep it to yourself, huh?” Morehouse said, getting up and taking his suit jacket from an antique clothes tree that had been a gift from Mimi. Again to Hawthorne: “You tell nobody about this until I say so. Hear me?”
“Absolutely.”
Hawthorne left, and Morehouse placed a call to the executive suite where he told a secretary that it was urgent that he see the publisher immediately. She checked, came back on the line, and said, “He’s in a meeting, but should be free in fifteen minutes.”
“Good. Thanks.”
Of the many things Morehouse admired about himself, it was his ability to remain calm and collected under fire that he treasured most. He silently reminded himself of this as he realized he was about to come unraveled. “Steady goes it,” he said aloud. “Easy, easy.”
A clock on the wall said it was nearly time to go upstairs. He rose from behind his desk and took steps toward the door, but the ringing of his private line stopped him. Was it Mimi again? If so, he wouldn’t answer. Unsure of what to do, he again reminded himself to calm down and to think things through.
He picked up the receiver.
“Paul Morehouse?” the woman asked.
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Detective Vargas-Swayze, MPD.”
His voice wasn’t as convincing as he’d hoped. “What can I do for you, detective?”
“We’d like to speak with you.”
“About what?”
“If you’d rather not have us come to your office, we can agree to meet someplace else,” she said.
“What’s it all about?” he repeated.
“We’ll get into that when we meet. Your office? Ten minutes?”
“Ten minutes? I won’t be here. I’m on my way to a meeting.” Vargas-Swayze, he thought. Joe Wilcox’s friend. “Is this about Joe Wilcox?”
“No, sir, it’s about you. We can bring you in for questioning, or we can do it at the newspaper. Your choice, but you’ll have to make a choice—now.”
“Look,” he said, “I have this meeting. It’s important. I don’t have any reason to play your game, detective. If you want to speak with me, call my attorney.” He rattled off the name and number.
“Okay,” Vargas-Swayze said from where she stood on the sidewalk in front of the Tribune Building. With her were two other detectives and three uniformed officers. She cut the connection and instructed the uniformed men to cover any exits from the building other than the main one. To the detectives: “Let’s go.”
They entered the building and flashed their IDs at the private security guard at the desk. “What floor is Paul Morehouse on?” she asked.
He told her, adding, “I’ll call his extension and let him know you’re here.”
“No you won’t,” she said, and asked one of the officers to remain at the desk. “We like surprises.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“…and what do you think will happen to your father?” Michael asked Roberta. They were the only customers on the restaurant’s terrace. Darkness had begun to set in; a flickering candle on the table cast flattering light on her face.
“I don’t know,” she said. “If it’s true—and my God, I wish it weren’t—he’ll be disgraced as a journalist.”
He saw wetness form in her eyes and placed his hand on hers. “There, there,” he said.