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By Root 635 0

horoscope and crossword puzzles; Sports; and Business—gathered in an eighth-floor conference room to pitch stories they intended to include in the next day’s edition. The run-up to the meeting had produced a discernible increase in activity throughout the newsroom. The leisurely pace of the morning had been replaced by a growing sense of urgency, matched in other departments throughout the building. The advertising department coordinated closely with editorial to determine the number of pages that would comprise the paper the following morning. The more ads, the more editorial material would be needed. Simultaneously, a separate editorial staff responsible for the special section that would be inserted the next morning—Health, Food, Home, Weekend, or Real Estate, depending upon the day of the week—put the finishing touches on their product.

“What’s new on Kaporis?” Paul Morehouse was asked after he’d gone over the list of stories he intended to include in his Metro section.

“Not enough to lead with. MPD announced a task force this morning, whatever the hell that means.”

“What does it mean?” asked the deputy managing editor chairing the meeting.

“We’re working on it,” Morehouse replied. “Mary’s greenlighted money for our own task force.” Mary Lou Castle, the Trib’s comptroller, was the voice of money. “I’ve got Joe Wilcox heading it.”

The deputy managing editor’s face went sour. “Is he making any headway?”

“Not yet, but we’re ratcheting things up. Joe’s been—how do I say it? He’s been distracted lately, but that’s over. He’s well sourced at MPD.”

“Well, he’d better get his sources to start saying something. Mail is heavy, asking why we’re covering up. You know, protecting one of our own.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“You want to answer the mail, Paul?”

Morehouse didn’t reply.

“Jeanette’s going to do something on it in her Ombudsman column day after tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“In the meantime, get something we can run front page this week, some break in the case.”

“We’re on it,” said Morehouse to the man who outranked him in the Trib’s hierarchy.

Which sufficed for the moment.

They would meet again at six when final decisions would be made, including which stories would appear on the coveted front page of each section. For reporters writing the stories, being on Page One was like hitting a game-winning home run, grabbing the brass ring, and winning the Medal of Honor, an Oscar and the America’s Cup all at once. They wore their front-page placements like notches on a belt or gunstock. How effectively their bosses lobbied for them at the two and six o’clock meetings went a long way toward determining how many notches they’d end up with—or how many flesh wounds.

Wilcox was on his way out of the newsroom when Morehouse came from the meeting.

“Got a minute?” Morehouse asked.

“No,” Wilcox said. “I’m on my way to see Jean’s roommate again. Running late.”

“Check in when you get back.”

You forgot the please, Wilcox thought, and nodded.

• • •

Mary Jane Pruit lived in a twelve-story apartment building across the Potomac, in Crystal City, Virginia. The doorman buzzed her and Wilcox was directed to apartment number 8-C on the eighth floor where she stood in the open doorway.

“I appreciate you taking time to see me,” Wilcox said.

“It’s okay,” she said.

Wilcox had been surprised at the apartment’s size during his first visit. The living room was larger than his at home, and sliding glass doors opened on to a balcony from which D.C., as well as arriving and departing flights from nearby Reagan National Airport, could be seen. A dining area and kitchen were at one end. A hallway led to what he assumed were the bedrooms, probably a couple of them considering that two single people had lived there.

Mary Jane was a tall, slender young woman with an elongated face framed by blond hair with a bleached coarseness, worn long and straight. She was dressed that day in white shorts, a sleeveless navy blue tank top, and flip-flops. He judged her to be somewhat older than Kaporis, maybe by three or four years. Kaporis had been twenty-two.