Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [41]
“You took the supplies you were delivering to a storeroom, away from the main newsroom?”
“Correct. That’s where I was told to take the boxes.”
“How many boxes?”
“Two, I recall. Two small ones. Oh, I do remember that before I took them to the storeroom, someone, a reporter I assume, asked me to open a box. I did, and she removed one of whatever was in it and took it to her desk.”
“That wasn’t Jean Kaporis?” said Dungey.
“No, no, it wasn’t. I can assure you of that.”
“How long have you been working here?” Dungey asked.
“Four or five months.”
“You gave us your address the last time we spoke,” Vargas-Swayze said. “How long have you lived there?”
He frowned in thought. “Six months?” he said. “Give or take.”
“You’re not from here,” she said.
“No. I’m from the Midwest.”
“Where in the Midwest?”
“Illinois, mostly.”
“What brought you to the D.C. area?” Dungey asked.
LaRue’s smile disappeared. “A bad divorce,” he said. “My second. I’m a two-time loser, I’m afraid. I learned after my first divorce that the only smart thing is to give her everything and walk away, start over. That’s what I did. I packed up and headed east.”
“Why Washington?” Vargas-Swayze asked.
He shrugged. “I visited here a few times when I was married, you know, played tourist, saw the sights. I really liked it, so once the divorce—the second one—was final, I got in my car—she didn’t get that—and drove here. I’m glad I did. I like it a lot.”
He looked around the loading dock. “I really have to get back to work. It’s a good job and I’d hate to lose it. Can we talk again? I’ll be happy to come to your office any time you want.”
“We’ll get back to you if we have more questions,” Dungey said, snapping closed his notebook. “Thanks for your time.”
“Sure. I read there might be a serial killer in Washington. I sure hope that’s not true.”
“So do we,” Vargas-Swayze said. “Have a good day.”
Back in their car, Vargas-Swayze said, “So, are you still uneasy about him? He computes for me.”
“Yeah, only let’s run a check on him. He was there the night she got it. Can’t hurt.”
“Right.”
He said as they drove back into midtown, “You were telling me about getting together with your husband last night.”
“That’s right, I was.”
• • •
The Westin Fairfax Hotel, on Massachusetts Avenue NW, had gone through various name changes and ownership over the years, but had never lost its opulence. Former Vice President Al Gore had lived there in the 1950s when his father was a United States senator. Having the tony Jockey Club within its walls only added to its élan.
Peter Swayze had arrived before Edith and secured one of the cozy booths in the bar. He stood when Edith entered the room and attempted to give her a welcoming hug, but she avoided his arms and quickly slid into the booth. He sat next to her.
“Drink?” he asked. “The usual?”
“What is the usual, Peter?” she asked.
His laugh was strained. “You don’t think I’d forget something as important as that, do you?” he said. “A margarita with a splash of Alizé, no salt.”
She looked up at the waiter who’d suddenly and silently appeared and said, “Beer. Corona, if you have it, a Bud if you don’t. In a bottle.”
“Sir?” the waiter asked Swayze.
“I, ah… gin and tonic, please.”
“So Peter,” she said, “here we are.”
“When did you start drinking beer?”
“The day we split. Why are we here?”
“Do you have to be nasty?” he asked.
“I’m not being nasty,” she said. “I just don’t want to spend any more time here than I have to. I go to work early.”
She took him in as he sat back in the booth. He looked haggard, somewhat unkempt, which was surprising, almost shocking. Her soon-to-be former husband had always been a clotheshorse and was scrupulous about his grooming. And he was hypochondriacal, further accentuating his fastidiousness. But tonight there was stubble on his pale face, and his hair wasn’t carefully arranged as it usually was. He wore a wrinkled blue denim sport jacket, white button-down shirt with one collar point unbuttoned, and baggy chino pants.
She squinted in the dim light and took a closer look.