Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [44]
Wilcox nodded as he read the rest of the quotes. “Good job,” he said.
“I struck out,” Kathleen said. “Every escort service I talked to refused to give the names of the women who work there. Can’t blame them, I guess.”
“Did you specifically ask about Mary Jane Pruit?” Wilcox asked.
“Sure. One guy who works at the Starlight agency—he ended up asking whether I’d be interested in working for him—he seemed surprised when I mentioned her name. It’s in my notes.”
Wilcox was pleased that Kathleen had been unable to ascertain whether Kaporis’s roommate worked as a paid escort. It was an avenue he wasn’t interested in following, and he hoped Morehouse would drop it. It was more than just his discomfort with the scenario. His boss seemed unreasonably anxious to pursue avenues other than those involving Trib employees. As hardnosed as Morehouse could be about generating news stories that resonated with the public, he seemed to be leaning even more these days toward tabloid journalism.
Wilcox spent the next three hours writing his follow-up article for the next day’s paper, ending it with the quote from Colleen McNamara’s mother: “I hope he (the serial killer) rots in hell!” Morehouse had cleared front-page space, and Wilcox wrote to fill the length that had been set aside. He worked uninterrupted until nine, when he sent the finished piece to Morehouse over the internal computer network, and ten minutes later went to his boss’s office.
“Nice,” Morehouse said. “But where’s the history slant I suggested?”
“I didn’t have time, Paul. I have Rick and Kathleen working on it for the next piece.”
“Okay. It’s good to see you back among the living. I was getting worried about you.”
“I never left it,” Wilcox said. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Oh, by the way, Joe. Hawthorne came in this afternoon. He said you had lunch together at the press club.”
“Right.”
“He says you’ve got a bug up your rear end about him.”
“Me? Why would he say that?”
“Ask him. If he’s right, get rid of it. I don’t need discord.”
“Sure, Paul.”
“Good work, Joe. I see why I hired you twenty years ago.”
“Twenty-three,” Wilcox corrected.
He’d packed up things to bring home with him and had taken a few steps in the direction of the elevators when his ringing phone stopped him. It might be Georgia or Roberta, he reasoned, and picked up.
“Joe Wilcox here,” he said.
“Hello, Joe,” the male caller said.
“Can I help you?”
“I don’t think so, but I would love to get together—for old time’s sake.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Michael, Joe.”
“Michael?”
“Your brother, Michael. I don’t blame you for being shocked, Joe. It’s been a very long time.”
“Where are you calling from, Michael?”
“My apartment here in Washington.”
“Washington? You’re here?”
“Yes. I thought we might have a drink together. My treat.”
“Now? I can’t. I—”
“Tomorrow?”
“I, ah—I’ll call you. Let me have your number.”
“I hope you won’t disappoint me, Joe, after all these years,” Michael said after giving Wilcox his phone number. “I won’t be here during the day, but I expect to be home by five.”
“I have dinner plans tomorrow night,” Wilcox said.
“I understand, Joe, I truly do. But let’s not allow too much time to pass. After all, we are family.”
“I’ll call,” Wilcox said.
“I know you will, Joe. You always were responsible, a man of his word. I look forward to hearing from you. Good night, Joe. Best to your lovely wife and daughter.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Michael LaRue did as he often did at the end of a workday. He drove to the apartment house in which he lived on Connecticut Avenue NW, found a parking space on the street, and walked two blocks to a small, Italian storefront pizzeria and restaurant on a side street, where he’d become a regular since moving to the neighborhood five months earlier. The mom of the mom-and-pop operation greeted him as he came through the door. Her husband, a bulky man wearing whites, and sporting a long, drooping handlebar moustache, tossed a greeting from behind the counter where he slathered a piecrust with tomato sauce, and sprinkled mozzarella cheese