Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [132]
“Maybe not,” she said. “At least he could claim youthful indiscretion.”
“You mustn’t be hard on him, Robbie.”
“Another confession,” she said. “I keep worrying what impact it will have on me and my reputation.”
Espressos arrived at the table along with a slice of key lime pie to share. He raised his small porcelain cup. “To an evening of confessions,” he said.
She touched his cup with hers.
“May I make a suggestion?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“I suggest you use your cell phone now and place a call to your TV station.”
“Why?”
“To capture on videotape what I am about to say.”
Her stare was blank. “I don’t understand.”
“Just do what I say, Robbie. Call your station and arrange for one of your crews to come here, just as you did at my apartment.”
Instead of asking more questions, she pulled her phone from her purse and pressed the number coinciding with the station’s programmed number. An intern answered. Roberta asked to be put through to her boss, who came on the line.
“What’s up, Robbie?” he asked. “It’s your night off.”
“I need a crew,” she said.
“What for? What have you got?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, “but I have a feeling it’s important.”
“Where are you?”
She placed her hand over the mouthpiece and asked Michael, who sat calmly across from her, a small smile on his lips, for the address. He answered by pushing a pack of matches to her on which the restaurant’s address was printed. She read it into the phone.
“I hope this is worth it,” her boss said. “We’re stretched thin tonight.”
“Just send somebody,” she said, and ended the conversation.
She said to Michael, “I wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”
“In due time, when your friends arrive. In the meantime, let us enjoy the evening. I believe an after-dinner drink is in order.” He motioned for the waiter and ordered two of their best cognacs. As the waiter walked away, Michael stopped him with, “And please ask Tony to join us.”
“Excuse me,” he said to Roberta as he left the table and disappeared inside the restaurant. He returned to the terrace a minute later carrying his guitar case and amplifier, which had been in the car’s small trunk.
Roberta’s heart sunk. Had he asked for a camera crew to record him playing? If so, she would have a very angry boss.
He read her concern. “Not to fear, Robbie,” he said. “I assure you there’s more to having your colleagues here with camera and microphone than music. However—”
The restaurant’s owner appeared.
“Ah, Tony, thank you.”
“I thought you said you weren’t playing,” Tony said.
“Only a song or two for my lovely niece, and for the cameras.”
“Cameras?”
“A crew from Ms. Wilcox’s television station will be arriving shortly. The publicity for you and your fine establishment will be welcome, I’m sure.” He looked about. “Ah, an outlet. Perfect.” He plugged in the amplifier, used a patch cord to connect the guitar to the amp, adjusted the controls, and strummed a few chords.
Tony looked quizzically at Roberta, whose slight shrug of her shoulders indicated she knew as little as he did. The owner walked away, leaving Michael and Roberta alone. Their drinks were served.
“I know you’re confused, dear,” Michael said, cupping the snifter in his hands to impart warmth to the drink, “but soon you’ll know why I asked for this moment to be recorded for posterity. Did you enjoy the ride in my flashy little car?”
“I’m not sure enjoy is a word I’d use,” she said, pleasantly, her mind trying to make sense of everything that had occurred. “You drove too fast for me to have enjoyed it.”
“My apologies,” he said. “There were many things I yearned for during my forty years of captivity. One of them was to be behind the wheel of such a car.” He laughed. “Of course, I envisioned myself racing along a winding road through some bucolic countryside, the top down, the wind stinging