Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [51]
“I’m going to be on TV tomorrow night,” he said.
“You are? That’s wonderful. What show?”
He gave her the particulars, which she dutifully wrote down on a magnetic pad affixed to the refrigerator.
“Any calls?” he asked.
“Some,” she said. “There was—”
“Any for me?”
“No, I don’t think so. Are you expecting someone to call you here?”
“No, no one in particular. I’d better get back to work if I’m going to get out of here in time for dinner. Heard from Roberta?”
“No. She’s probably running around town taping her reports. Go on, Mr. TV Star, get your story written. And don’t be late!”
Kathleen Lansden and Rick Jillian had prepared a history of serial killers in the Washington area over the years and left it on Wilcox’s desk that morning in his absence. There hadn’t been many such criminals in D.C., at least not according to official police records, or accounts written in the press, the most recent exception the two snipers who’d gone on a killing rampage, choosing their victims at random. But the two young staffers had supplemented their research with stories from other cities, enough for Wilcox to more than flesh out his story.
As he wrote, he realized he needed something official from the police, or City Hall, to give the article more immediate substance. He called, and reached Edith Vargas-Swayze on her cell phone.
“Buenas tardes,” he said.
“Hello, Joe.”
“How goes it?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Ooh, doesn’t sound very good. Anything I can do?”
“Add my former husband to the list of the serial killer’s victims.”
“He doesn’t kill men.”
“Maybe he’d be willing to make an exception,” she said. Wilcox was pleased that she so easily referred to a serial killer. “What’s up?” she asked.
“I’m working on tomorrow’s piece. Anything new? Off the record, of course.”
“No.”
“You’re not alone.”
“Right.”
“Will you be alone in the next hour?”
“I, ah—probably. I’ll call you.”
“Fair enough.”
Wilcox ate lunch at his desk, worked on the story, and waited for her to call. Each time his phone rang, he jumped and hesitated picking up the receiver. None of the calls fulfilled his fear that it might be Michael, and as the afternoon wore on, his concerns lessened, faded like a bad dream that’s forgotten in the morning.
“Hi Joe, it’s Edith.”
“Hello. I just got a notice that you’re holding a press conference at four.”
“So I hear. We’re further debunking the serial killer angle.”
“Uh huh. Has anyone queried you about being my source?”
“No. What are you saying in tomorrow’s article?”
“Nothing new. I was hoping you could give me something. Will you be at the press conference?”
“I’ll be as far away as I can get. We talked to Jean Kaporis’s roommate again.”
“Mary Jane Pruit.”
“You were right, Joe. She works as a paid escort for the Starlight Escort Service.”
Wilcox wrote it down. “Did you come up with any connection to Kaporis?”
“That she worked as an escort, too? No. Pruit admits she tried to convince Kaporis to try her hand at it for the money, but Kaporis refused.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I’d hate to think that one of our staffers was involved in that kind of extracurricular activity. Are you still focusing on people who might have been a visitor here the night she died?”
“We’re reinterviewing everyone, but no progress. I’d tell you if there was.”
“I appreciate that. I owe you a dinner. The last one was a washout.”
“How about tonight? I’m free.”
“Love to, but Roberta’s coming for dinner with a new beau. If I don’t show, you’ll have my homicide to investigate. Tomorrow?”
“Looks good to me.”
“It’ll have to be after I do my TV thing.”
“What TV thing?”
“I’m going to be on D.C. Digest discussing the serial killer. One of your people will be on, too.”
“You may launch a whole new career, Joe. A serial success.”
“Never happen. I don’t have a good side. The show’s from six-thirty till seven. Meet you at seven-thirty?”
“You got it. I’ll check in tomorrow.”
He’d no sooner ended the call than Morehouse summoned him to his office.
“What’ve you got for tomorrow?” Morehouse asked.
“History, mostly.