Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [31]
“Thanks—for nothing.”
“Edith?”
“Yes?”
“Muchas gracias.”
“De nada, amigo. Buenos noche.”
Her cordless phone went dead. She went to the kitchen, poured a glass of orange juice, and returned to the chair. Her thoughts wandered to the night she’d made love with Wilcox. Had she compromised her professional relationship with him when she stripped off her clothing in a fit of passion and sexually indulged herself? It wasn’t the first time she’d wondered that, although it had never impacted how they dealt with each other on the job as cop and reporter. Was that about to change? She hoped not.
She flipped through channels and settled on a Spanish-language movie on the local Hispanic outlet. She lasted a half hour, her head drooping to her chest during commercial breaks. The set was snapped off and she headed for the bedroom. The ringing phone stopped her.
“Hello?”
“Edith. It’s Peter. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Hello, Peter,” she said to her estranged husband. “No, but I was on my way to bed.”
“Good. I’m glad I didn’t wake you. How are things?”
“Great, but they’d be better if your damn lawyer would send my damn lawyer the papers.”
“Can we get together and talk?”
“About what? You’re not about to renege on what we decided, are you?”
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said.
“The hell you wouldn’t. When it comes to a buck, Peter, you’d kill to save one.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“What do you want to talk about, Peter?”
“Us.”
“Forget it.”
“Please, Edith. All I want is the chance to tell you what’s on my mind—and in my heart.”
She plopped in a chair and pulled her bare feet beneath her. “Peter,” she said softly, “there is nothing to talk about. Our marriage is over.”
She didn’t want to believe what she now heard on the other end of the line. Was he weeping?
“Jesus,” she mumbled to herself. “Peter, stop it,” she said into the phone.
“I’ll kill myself, Edith.”
She kicked her feet out from under her and sat up straight. “Stop talking nonsense!”
“I will, Edith. I swear I will. All I’m asking for is a few minutes with you. Please. I’m begging you.”
She tried to sort out her thoughts. She didn’t believe his threat. It was a call for attention, that’s all, a pathetic, stupid attention getter.
On the other hand…
“All right,” she said with a sigh. “When?”
“I can come there right now.”
“To my apartment? Absolutely not. A public place, somewhere quiet. Can you pull yourself together and behave?”
“Oh, yes, Edith. I promise. The Fairfax Bar, in the Westin Fairfax?”
“Oh, God,” she said. “How romantic.” They’d spent their wedding night at that hotel.
“It has those private little alcoves in the bar. Remember? A half hour?”
“Yes, I remember, Peter. But keep one thing in mind. I’m a cop. I have a gun. And if you try to play games with our financial settlement, try to weasel out of it, I’m liable to use it.”
CHAPTER NINE
PARK MURDER RAISES MPD CONCERN
Newspaper and Park Murders Linked?
That was the headline and subhead on the lead story of the Trib’s Metro section front page the following morning. Accompanying the story were side-by-side headshots of Jean Kaporis and Colleen McNamara. The interview a reporter from the LA bureau had done with Kaporis’s former boyfriend ran as a sidebar: “Jean was a really nice girl. I’m real upset about what happened to her.” He said they’d dated for only a few months shortly after she’d arrived in Washington, but decided to sever the relationship soon after: “It was an amicable breakup. We had different ambitions,” he said. “I’m an actor now, a movie actor.”
Joe and Georgia Wilcox sat at the kitchen table in their Rockville home, the paper open to his bylined article.
“Gives me the creeps,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
“Seems like the boyfriend in L.A. is more interested in plugging his acting career than grieving for his former girlfriend.”
“Oh. I wasn’t thinking of that,” Joe said.
“I hope they don’t just accept what he’s said. Boyfriends are the first suspects in every murder. Aren’t they?”
“What? Sure, that’s right.”
“Do they really think there might