Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [14]
Dungey had been promoted to detective in the Violent Crimes Branch a year earlier after six years in uniform. Tall—six feet, four inches—and painfully thin—155 pounds—he was a D.C. native who’d spent three years in the army before applying to the MPD. Everything about him was long: his neck with a prominent Adam’s apple, fingers, nose, and arms. His nickname, of course, was “Slim.”
“The Kaporis murder isn’t the only one we’re working,” said Dungey, uncrossing his legs because one had fallen asleep.
“It is now,” Evans said. “I’ll give you all the backup I can spare. Look, I don’t decide which cases are high profile. The public decides that.”
“The media decides it,” Dungey offered, his disdain of the press worn on his sleeve like the elbow patches of his sport jacket.
“Whoever,” Evans said, not about to get into a debate. “The point is that the Kaporis case isn’t about to go away unless we make it go away.” Dungey started to say something but Evans held up his hand and sighed wearily. “Beautiful blonde working for one of the nation’s most important newspapers is killed right there, on the premises. Chances are good—no, they’re better than good—that another member of that Fourth Estate institution did the deed. Unless another murder occurs that involves somebody more interesting than Ms. Kaporis, like a senator or congressman, or cabinet member, she’s number one.” He pushed the clippings and transcripts around on the tabletop. “This is why the brass wants us to pick up the pace. The brass—our brass—tends to get testy when the press asks why we’re not doing our jobs. So starting right now and until the case moves from cold to solved, you two think about nothing else. Any questions?”
“We’re it, huh?” Vargas-Swayze said with a laugh. “The task force.”
Evans joined her laughter. “What a task. What a force. The mighty duo, Dungey and Vargas-Swayze. Put on your capes and save Gotham.” His expression shifted to serious. Okay,” he said, “lay out for me everything we’ve done so far and what we intend to do.” He turned to his female detective: “You’re well-sourced at the Trib, Edith. Somebody inside there must know something about who was cozy with the victim, some reporter she’d been making eyes at and seeing after hours, somebody who got mad enough to squeeze the life out of her.”
“I’ll talk to them again,” she said.
“Good.”
“But give me something to offer.”
“What do you mean?”
“My sources at the Trib are looking for news from us. If I can dribble out some new stuff, it’ll go a long way to getting somebody over there to do the same.”
“Just don’t give away the store.” To Dungey: “While Edith works the Trib, go back into Kaporis’s personal life, friends, roommates, family, anybody and everybody who knew her since she came to D.C.”
“I’ve already interviewed them,” Dungey said.
“Wrong, Wade. We’re starting from square one. It’s a brand-new case. We start today looking outside the box. Toss out everything anyone has said and push harder this time.” Evans stood and started to leave. He stopped, returned to the table, picked up his half-eaten hoagie, and disappeared through the door.
Meanwhile, the daily two o’clock editorial meeting at the Trib was under way. The assistant managing editor of each section of the paper—National and International; Metro, including the Government Diary and obituaries; the Panache section with its gossipy columns and features, comics,