Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [49]
“Hey, Joe,” she said, “don’t snarl at me. I just work here, like you.”
“Yeah, sorry. I’m a little edgy this morning.”
“Problem?”
He forced a laugh. “My daughter is bringing a new boyfriend for dinner tonight. That’s enough to make anyone uptight.”
She laughed along with him and ended the conversation.
He checked the clock. Almost 8:30. Morehouse buzzed him: “Need to see you, Joe.”
“I only have a few minutes,” Wilcox said as he entered Morehouse’s office. “I’m meeting with Jean’s mother and father.”
“Good. Look at this.” He handed Wilcox a message slip.
“What does someone at Fox TV want with me?”
“They want the famous Joseph Wilcox on one of their talk shows tomorrow night.”
“What talk show?”
“D.C. Digest. They’re doing a half hour on the serial killer. Give ’em a call.”
“I don’t want to go on a talk show, Paul.”
“Yes, you do, Joe. It’s good for the paper. You, too. I’ve cleared it with PR. Call ’em back and tell ’em you’ll be there.”
Wilcox shoved the message slip into his jacket pocket and left for his breakfast at Old Ebbitt Grill with Jean Kaporis’s parents. He entered the Washington landmark restaurant and bar and asked the young woman at the podium if anyone had come in looking for Joe Wilcox. She pointed to an older man with a cane, and a considerably younger woman.
“Mr. and Mrs. Kaporis,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Joe Wilcox.”
“A pleasure, sir,” replied the father. “I’m Marshall Kaporis. This is my wife, Victoria.”
“Thanks for making the trip,” Wilcox said, leading them to the podium where they were immediately assigned a table in the bustling restaurant.
“Is there any progress in the investigation?” Marshall Kaporis asked the moment they were seated. Although he was probably in his early to mid-seventies, there was a youthful glow to him. Maybe being married to a younger woman does that for you, Wilcox mused. On second and closer inspection, Victoria Kaporis was not as young as she’d appeared to be in the lobby, nor as he’d envisioned when interviewing her by phone. He pegged her as early fifties, with skin that had enjoyed, then suffered too many hours baking in the sun. She had strong facial features and surprisingly pale blue eyes, considering her coloring. He had noticed in the lobby that she had a hell of a figure for someone on the Social Security side of fifty. Marshall Kaporis had done okay for himself.
“I should let you know, Mr. Wilcox,” Victoria said, “that Jean was not my daughter. She was my stepdaughter.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Wilcox said.
“They had a wonderful relationship,” Marshall said, his eyes moistening.
Wilcox said, “Speaking of daughters, I understand you were interviewed by my daughter, Roberta.”
“Yes,” Marshall replied. “A lovely young woman. She was extremely courteous and sensitive to what we’d just been through.”
Wilcox grinned. “She’s a good reporter—better, a good person. You mentioned to Roberta that Jean had confided in you about some of the men she’d been seeing since coming to Washington.”
Marshall and Victoria looked at each other.
“I don’t remember us saying that,” Victoria said.
“Well,” Wilcox said, “maybe you weren’t that specific. But I did hear that you might have some information that could help in the investigation.”
Marshall’s cane slipped off the back of his chair and hit the floor with a loud crack. A waiter picked it up and rehooked it over the chair. “Sorry,” Marshall said.
“Bad back?” Wilcox asked.
“Knees. I’ve had two replaced.”
“At the same time,” Victoria clarified.
“Ouch,” Wilcox said. “Jean never mentioned who she was dating? She was a beautiful young woman. I’m sure there were plenty of men pursuing her.”
Marshall beamed. “Jean was always popular,” he said, not attempting to mitigate his pride. “Class president in her junior year, and won a few local beauty contests. I’ll bet your daughter did, too.”
“No, Roberta never pursued that. Breakfast?”
Marshall and Victoria Kaporis spent the next forty-five minutes talking about Jean with expected parental pride. Wilcox listened attentively and