Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [39]
Hawthorne shook his head. “Not completely, Joe. I skip red meat, but chicken’s okay.”
“Then chicken it’ll be,” Wilcox said, leading them into the dining room where they were seated by a window. Hawthorne had a Diet Coke, Wilcox a Virgin Mary.
“Know what they call Virgin Marys in England?” Wilcox asked.
“No.”
“Bloody Shames. Catholic waiters took offense at having to ask bartenders for Virgin Marys, so they changed the name.”
“Oh yeah? Interesting?” Hawthorne said, not looking up from the menu.
Wilcox said, “So, Paul thinks you can help me with the serial murder articles. Go ahead. Shoot. I’m all ears.”
“What are you having?” Hawthorne asked, nodding at the waiter who’d suddenly appeared at tableside, order pad and pencil at the ready.
“A hamburger, rare,” Wilcox said.
“I’ll have the chicken salad,” said Hawthorne, “and easy on the mayonnaise.” He looked at Wilcox. “You were saying, Joe?”
“The help you can give me. I’m looking forward to what you can offer.”
Hawthorne shrugged. “I have a few contacts that might be useful, that’s all,” he said. “I’m pretty well wired in at City Hall.”
“City Hall? Sounds good. Think you can get me a statement from the mayor about serial killers running loose in his city?”
“I don’t know about the mayor. Maybe one of his aides.”
“I know aides over there, too,” Wilcox said. “If you can’t get the mayor, I—”
“I’ll see what I can do for you,” Hawthorne said. “About the mayor.”
“Good. What other sources do you have, Gene? Are you wired in, as you put it, with MPD?”
“I know some people there, but you’re the cops reporter.”
“That’s right, I am.”
Hawthorne looked around the room before leaning closer to the table and saying, “Look, Joe, I know you don’t like me, and I understand. I—”
The arrival of their lunches broke the tension, and they focused on eating. Hawthorne was the first to break their silence.
“Let’s be honest with each other, Joe,” he said. “I know what you think of me. I’ve heard the comments from others, ones you’ve badmouthed me to. Like I said, I can understand it. Guys like you, older guys at the end of their careers, resent young guys like me coming in and taking over. That’s natural, I guess, sort of built into the scheme of things.” He gave a boyish grin. “But that shouldn’t be a reason to dislike me. I mean, I like you, Joe.”
“That’s nice to hear,” Wilcox said, popping a final French fry into his mouth.
“No, I mean it, Joe. You’ve paid your dues and deserve a nice retirement, time to play golf or work in the garden or things like that. Some day I’ll enjoy the same things.”
“I’m not close to retiring,” Wilcox said, his jaw working against rising anger. He felt a little woozy, and the burger sat heavily in his stomach.
“I know,” Hawthorne said. “I didn’t mean you were.”
Wilcox wiped his mouth with his napkin, shifted in his chair, drew some breaths, and asked, “How well did you know Jean Kaporis?”
“Huh?”
“Jean Kaporis? How well did you know her?”
Hawthorne, too, shifted in his seat and appeared to be processing what Wilcox had asked. Wilcox waited.
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious, Gene. Rumors are that you might have had a close relationship with her.”
Hawthorne guffawed and found another posture. “A close relationship? That’s ridiculous.”
“But you knew her.”
“Of course I did. So did you. So did anybody working there. What are you doing, Joe, trying to manufacture some sort of story about us so you can point to me as the guy who killed her?”
“I just asked, Gene. I’m not trying to do anything.”
The young reporter appeared to have been shaken during the exchange. Now, he adopted a confidence bordering on arrogance. “You should be working for some tabloid, Joe,” he said. “You have a tabloid mentality.”
His comment further angered Wilcox, who had to fight an urge to strike out physically across the table. Hawthorne, sensing he’d struck a nerve, continued. “Tell you what, Joe,” he said, “I’ll feed your need for gossip journalism. Yes, Jean Kaporis and I got it on. Coffee together, drinks after work.”