Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [17]
“Up for a drink after work?” Wilcox asked.
“After work?” She laughed. “When is that?”
“Whenever you say, Edith. And don’t make it sound like you’re the only one in town working twenty-four hours a day.”
“Oh, I forgot, Joe. You media types work long hours, too. Sure. I’ve been meaning to catch up with you anyway.”
“Something new in the Kaporis case?”
“Maybe. What do you have for me?”
“We have a task force, too, now. I’m in charge,” he said.
This time it was more of a giggle. “Where and when?”
“Let’s make it dinner. Eight good for you?”
“Sure, as long as it’s dark and out of the way. Can’t risk my reputation being seen with a reporter.” She said it lightly, but he knew there was substance behind the remark.
“Martin’s Tavern. As Yogi said, it’s so popular nobody goes there any more.”
“Are you going to propose to me, Joe?”
“Huh?”
“Propose. Like in marriage proposal. That’s where JFK proposed to Jackie.”
“I didn’t know that. Besides, I’m a married man.” The minute he said it, he wished he hadn’t.
“And I’m still a married woman, at least legally. Get a corner booth.”
Their thoughts were similar, and they didn’t involve pink elephants.
• • •
“What was that all about?” Dungey asked as Vargas-Swayze pulled up in front of a commercial building.
“My source at the Trib, Joe Wilcox.”
“Sounded like you’re in love.”
“Just goofing with him. He’s a good guy, a straight-shooter.”
“Can’t be if he’s a media whore.”
She ignored him and led the way into the building.
• • •
“What did the roommate have to say?” Morehouse asked Wilcox.
“She confirmed to me that Kaporis had told her she’d been seeing someone from here.”
“A reporter?”
“She didn’t elaborate. She’s a tough cookie. I think she might be a hooker of some sort.”
Morehouse’s thick eyebrows went up. “A hooker?”
“She calls herself a freelancer. When I pressed, she cut me off.”
“Do you think there’s an angle in this?”
Wilcox shrugged and lifted his hands, palms up. “Like what?”
Morehouse massaged his nose. “Do you think—and I’m only playing what if, Joe—what if Jean was in some way moonlighting? What if she was turning tricks on the side and got one of her Johns mad enough to kill her?”
“Oh, come on, Paul, that’s—”
“That’s thinking outside the box, Joe.”
“Maybe it is, but it does nothing for me.”
“Follow up on it.”
“How, asking the roommate whether she’s a whore?”
“That’s not a bad start.”
Wilcox knew it was futile to argue the point at that moment and changed the subject. “I’m meeting tonight with a good contact at MPD. She sounded as though she might have something for me.”
“Who, the spic cop, Vargas-Swayze?”
Wilcox’s frown was one of disapproval.
“All right, the Spanish cop.”
“She’s the lead detective on the Kaporis case,” Wilcox said. “By the way, L.A. police interviewed a former boyfriend of Jean’s. He’s clean, was nowhere near D.C. the night she got it.”
“Where’d you pick that up?”
“A friend at lunch.”
“Get somebody out in L.A. to interview him, get a better handle on what she was like out of the office. Or out of her clothes.”
Wilcox nodded. “I’m meeting with Rick Jillian and the rest of our group at six. Want to join us?”
“No. I’m tied up tonight.”
As Wilcox started to leave the office, Morehouse said, “Why don’t you pick Hawthorne’s brain. He’s really wired in around the District.”
“Sure.” Wilcox said. “I’ll talk to Gene.”
He had no intention of asking his least favorite young reporter for anything.
He called Georgia at home to say he’d be late that night.
“You reporters,” she said lightly. “Roberta was going to stop by for dinner tonight, but she was given a last-minute assignment.”
“A couple more years and I’ll be home for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
“I’d like that.”
“No you wouldn’t, Georgia. I don’t play golf or make pretty wooden furniture. No hobbies. I’ll drive you mad.”
“Try me,” she said. “Take care. Don’t be too late.”
The six o’clock meeting was no more productive than most meetings,