Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [27]
He became tense, physically angry, as such thoughts came and went: He’d forgotten more about reporting than they’d ever know.
• • •
The ringing of his cell phone startled him.
“Hello?”
“Dad, it’s Roberta.”
“Oh, hi. I—”
“Where are you?”
“I just came from—I’m in the car.”
“I’d thought I’d check in with my best source.”
Wilcox forced a laugh. “That’s a switch,” he said. “I always figure you’ve got the ins these days.”
“I wish. What do you have on the Franklin Park murder, the McNamara woman?”
“You got her name.”
“Next of kin has been notified. I’m doing a piece on the six o’clock news tonight.”
The immediacy of TV, he thought. She’d have the name out before his article would run. But she didn’t have the serial killer slant.
“What’ve you gotten from MPD besides her name?”
“Hey, I was the one looking for leads.”
“Wish I could be more helpful, sweetheart. I, ah—I interviewed the victim’s fiancé.”
“Damn!” she said. “I called the house but he stiffed me. How did you get him to sit?”
“It wasn’t easy. He didn’t have much to offer. Nice kid. Broken up, of course.”
“Connor. Philip Connor.”
“Right. That’s his name.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“You wouldn’t hold out on me, would you? You wouldn’t stonewall your own hardworking daughter?”
“Of course not. Why would you even ask such a question?”
“Because I get a feeling you’re onto something with this homicide. Is it linked in some way to the murder at the Trib?”
He didn’t reply.
“Dad?”
“You can’t prove it by me,” he said. “They were in the same business, sort of: media. Which reminds me, young lady, you work in it, too. You be careful. There might be some nut out there carrying a hatred of media types.”
“Don’t worry about me. I talked to mom. How about getting together for dinner at the house? I told her I needed an injection of her fried chicken. Besides, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
“A fellow I’ve been seeing. You’ll like him. He’s a lot like you.”
“Really? Is that good?”
“You know it is. I’ll let you guys know a good night for me.”
“Looking forward to it, Robbie. Got to run.” He pursed his lips and sent her a kiss, ending the call.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MPD detectives Edith Vargas-Swayze and Wade Dungey spent most of the day conducting follow-up interviews with people personally involved with Jean Kaporis. Like others questioned for a second time, Mary Jane Pruit offered nothing beyond her original answers. But because Wilcox had raised the possibility at dinner with Vargas-Swayze that Pruit might be involved in prostitution, the detective did what she hadn’t done the first time around, probed into how the dead girl made a living.
“I’m a freelancer,” May Jane replied to the question of how she made a living.
“A freelance what?” Dungey asked.
“I don’t think I have to answer questions like that,” Mary Jane said, lighting a cigarette. “What does that have to do with Jean’s murder?”
“You mind not smoking?” Dungey said, waving his hand in front of his face.
“It’s my apartment,” Pruit said.
“That’s true,” Dungey said, “but I’m allergic to smoke.” He stared at her until she snuffed out the cigarette.
“Maybe what you do for a living has nothing to do with Jean’s murder,” Vargas-Swayze said, “but we’ll be the judge of that. Now, what kind of freelance work do you do, Ms. Pruit?”
A huffy sigh preceded, “I work for an escort service.”
“Which one?”
“It’s not what you think. It doesn’t involve sex. There are wealthy men who come in from out of town and like to have an attractive, intelligent woman on their arm.”
“Yeah, yeah, we know how it works,” Dungey said. “What’s the name of the service you work for?” In contrast to his partner, who sat ramrod