Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [43]
“You don’t have to make a scene,” he said. “And don’t say bad things about my mother.”
She had a fleeting, satisfying vision of pulling out her Glock and shooting him in the head. She glanced at the check and said, “The total is sixteen dollars and forty-five cents, Peter. Twenty percent is three-twenty-five. Don’t stiff the guy. Unlike you, he makes an honest living.”
It took her a few hours to unwind at home, aided by a glass of dark Jamaican rum and Tito Puente on the stereo. Her anger eventually dissipated enough so that she was able to get into bed and to fall asleep. One of her final thoughts before drifting off was that if there had ever been any doubts about ending the marriage to Peter Swayze, tonight put them to their final rest. The last thing she remembered before blacking out was chuckling.
• • •
“He sounds like a real jerk,” Dungey said.
“He’s a type, that’s all. I almost shot him in the bar.”
“Nah.”
“Well, it did cross my mind. Did you win your game last night?”
“We lost, but not by much.”
“Where to next?”
“Lunch. I’m hungry. How about a slice?”
“Sounds good to me.”
• • •
Wilcox’s interview with Colleen McNamara’s mother and sister didn’t produce much in the way of material for the next article, although he did lead the sister into saying that Colleen had expressed fears of walking alone at night in downtown D.C.
“Did she ever discuss the murder that happened at the Tribune, my paper?” he asked.
“Yes, she did,” replied the sister. “She said she’d been at the newspaper a few times and thought security wasn’t good. In fact, she told her boss at the station that they should make their security better.”
“Interesting,” Wilcox said. “What about men she was seeing? Did she talk about them with you?”
“There was only Philip. They met right after she came here. There was no one else in her life.”
The mother, who’d been mostly silent, chimed in. “She never should have been out walking alone with killers loose on the streets.”
Wilcox noted the comment in his pad.
“And why didn’t Philip walk her home?” the mother added in a low voice. “I never have trusted him.”
“Mom, please,” the sister said. To Wilcox: “Anything else?”
“No. You’ve been generous with your time at what must be a very painful moment. I appreciate it.”
“I hope he rots in hell.”
“Who?” Wilcox asked.
“The serial killer.”
“I’m sure he will,” Wilcox said.
Colleen’s fiancé was arriving at the apartment as Wilcox went down the steps to the sidewalk.
“Sorry I couldn’t be here,” Connor said.
“That’s okay,” Wilcox said. “They’re nice ladies.”
Philip nodded. Wilcox thanked him for his cooperation, and said he’d be back in touch if anything new developed.
Rick Jillian and Kathleen Lansden were waiting for him in the newsroom when he returned to the Trib.
“How did you do getting quotes from single women?” he asked Jillian.
“Great,” he replied, laying a computer printout in front of Wilcox. “I got seven good quotes, names, et cetera. One of ’em gave me her phone number.”
Kathleen laughed. “You must not look like the serial killer type.”
“I guess not,” Jillian said. “Hey, check out this one.” He pointed to one of the quotes. “She’s a stripper in that club, Archibald’s, on K Street. I figured a serial killer might hang out in a place like that, so I popped in and talked to one of the girls.”
“For research purposes only,” Kathleen said, rolling her eyes.
“That’s right,” Jillian said. “Read what this stripper—her name is Coco—said.”
Wilcox read the quote: “ ‘Most of the men who come in here are nice guys, businessmen, tourists, decent guys. But sometimes there’s a creep, you know, a weirdo who looks like a serial killer.’ ”
“Serial killers don’t usually look like creeps,” Wilcox said.
“I know,” Jillian said, “but I thought it