Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [28]
“I think I want a lawyer,” Mary Jane said.
“Why?” Vargas-Swayze said. “If your escort duties don’t involve sex, there’s nothing you’ve done that’s illegal. Which agency?”
“Starlight,” she said in a barely audible voice.
Vargas-Swayze noted it in her pad. She asked without looking up, “Did Ms. Kaporis know what you do for a living?”
“Sure she did.”
“Did she approve?”
Mary Jane guffawed and lit up, caught Dungey’s harsh look, and put it out. “Why should she approve or disapprove? Like I said, it doesn’t involve sex or anything else illegal.”
“Did Jean ever express an interest in working for the Starlight agency, maybe part time?”
“No, but she would have made more money than at the newspaper.”
Or as a cop, Dungey thought.
“Did you suggest she make some extra money by working as an escort?” Vargas-Swayze asked.
“We talked about it.”
“You tried to recruit her?” Dungey asked.
“No,” she said emphatically. “I don’t recruit people. I told her that she could make good money, that’s all. She said she wasn’t interested.”
“Never even gave it a try?” Dungey said, his tone incredulous.
“Never.”
“We’ll check with the agency,” Dungey said.
Vargas-Swayze picked up the questioning again, asking about boyfriends about whom Kaporis might have confided in her roommate. And again, Mary Jane’s reply did no more than hint at a mention of someone at the Trib having had some sort of fling with Kaporis. They asked a few more questions before announcing they were leaving. When they reached the door, Dungey turned. “You go to college?”
The expression on her face indicated surprise. “Yes,” she said.
“You graduate?” Dungey asked.
“Yes, I did.”
“What kind of degree?”
“What is this?” she asked.
“Just curious,” he said.
“If it’s any of your business, I have a degree in education.”
“That’s nice,” Dungey said. “You should get yourself a teaching job and get out of the escort biz. The next time we see you, it’s liable to be on a slab down at the morgue, either because one of your fat-cat johns didn’t like the service you gave him, or because of those coffin nails you suck on.”
When they were in their car, Vargas-Swayze asked Dungey, “Why did you get into her education?”
“Because broads like that bug me. Here she is a teacher and all, and she ends up selling her bod to a bunch of sleazy rich guys, probably Arab potentates and fat politicians, all for a buck. She’s a great-looking chick, but she’s dumb. I hate dumb women.”
“I didn’t realize that,” Vargas-Swayze said, smiling.
“Well, now you do.”
She didn’t intrude on his unexpected mood all the way back to headquarters where they were scheduled to meet with other detectives and their boss, Bernie Evans. Dungey was not usually forthcoming about his personal thoughts and feelings, as though to reveal such things might render him vulnerable. She knew little about how he spent his off-duty hours except that he was a bachelor who, as far as she knew, dated occasionally when he wasn’t playing basketball in amateur leagues around the city. Basketball seemed his consuming passion, and she’d been told he was a good player. But even that aspect of his life was mentioned to her only in passing, usually when asked by a male detective how a game had turned out the night before. Okay, she thought, he doesn’t like dumb women. She didn’t like dumb anybody, male or female. There was obviously more to learn about her spindly partner.
• • •
Roberta Wilcox sat in an editing room with the producer of the six o’clock news and the male anchor. They were editing a piece about the recent increase in murders in the District, leading with the most recent killing of Colleen McNamara in Franklin Park.
“It’s weak,” the anchor said as the partially edited report played on a large computer screen. “Murder isn’t news in D.C.”
“I agree,” Roberta said, leaning closer to the screen to better see a piece of video tape.
“Roberta says it might be a serial killer,” said the producer.
“No I didn