Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [30]
Evans looked to Vargas-Swayze for a response. She said, “Until proved otherwise, I’m still working on the assumption that Kaporis was killed by somebody at the Tribune. Nothing else makes sense to me.”
“But what if that killer at the Trib decided to go outside the paper and take another victim?” Evans asked.
Vargas-Swayze shrugged. “That’s always a possibility,” she said. To the detectives working the McNamara case: “That play for you?”
“Who knows?” one of them replied. “The McNamara hit only happened last night. But we’ll keep it in mind.”
After other unsolved cases were discussed, Evans implored everyone to not make public statements about any of them, especially the Kaporis murder. “And let’s put the McNamara case in that same category,” he added, “in case some linkage does emerge. Talk to your dog or cat if you have to talk to anybody.”
Vargas-Swayze and Dungey spent a half hour after the meeting going over plans for the next day.
“Feel like a quick dinner?” she asked.
“Thanks, no. I’ve got a game tonight. Another time. But I’ll give you a lift home. It’s on my way.”
He said little during the drive to Adams Morgan. As she was about to get out of his green Ford Escort, he said, “You know what’s bothering me?”
“That Mary Jane Pruit is dumb?”
“Besides that. You know that delivery man we interviewed, the one who was hauling office supplies to the Trib the night Kaporis got it?”
“Yeah. Michael—what’s his last name?—Michael La Rue.”
“Right. La Rue.”
“What bothers you about him?”
“I don’t know. Something is sending a signal up my spine.”
“Maybe you wrenched your back,” she said, lightly.
“Very funny. Let’s talk to him again tomorrow.”
“Sure. Whatever you say. Hope you win tonight.”
“Thanks. I hope so, too. Good night, Edith.”
She put on the lights in her apartment, changed into white running shorts, an aquamarine Celia Cruz T-shirt, and sneakers, her standard-issue Glock nestled in a custom-made pouch in the front of the shorts, and went for a two-mile jog. Back in the apartment, showered and dressed in shorty pajamas and a robe, she heated leftover takeout in the microwave and ate without enthusiasm in front of the TV. She watched the ten o’clock news, on which Roberta Wilcox’s six o’clock report was repeated, and thought of Joe Wilcox. How proud he must be to see his only child achieve success in his chosen profession. She was in the midst of that thought when the phone rang.
“Hello, Edith. It’s Joe Wilcox.”
“I was just thinking of you,” she said.
“Positively, I hope.”
“Definitely positive. I was watching your kid on TV. She’s good, to say nothing of lovely.”
She didn’t say that she found the report to be lacking substance. Murders were not big news in D.C. those days. The only new thing Roberta had to report that night was that the latest victim was Colleen McNamara, who worked for a competing station.
“Yeah,” Joe said. “She’s a winner. Look, Edith, I’m putting a story to bed about the Franklin Park thing, and thought I’d touch base with you one more time before I wrap it up.”
“Sorry, Joe, but there’s nothing new on the case. Even if there were, I still couldn’t talk about it. Bernie Evans came down hard on us today about leaks. The gag over the mouth is tight and secure.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said. “But I keep hearing stirrings about the possibility that Kaporis’s and McNamara’s murderers might be the same person.”
“Nothing to that, Joe. Hot air. Empty rumors, plain and simple. No evidence.”
“So, you’ve heard them, too?”
“What would a police force be without rumors, Joe? Evans said the IO received calls about a possible serial killer connection.”
“From the press?”
“Who else? Drop it, Joe. That’s my advice.”
“I can’t,” he said. “We’re going with that slant tomorrow.”
She sighed and shifted in the recliner. “I wish you wouldn’t,” she said. “Bernie Evans knows you and I are close. He’ll accuse me of feeding you the rumor.”
“And I’ll deny you did.”
“Because I didn’t.”
“Exactly. I’m just giving