Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [54]
“Big mosquitoes in the summer,” he said. “They carry tourists away.”
“Well, hope you get to take your cruise,” Wilcox said. “Got to be going. Roberta is bringing her latest boy toy to the house for dinner tonight.”
“I watch her all the time,” Mimi said. “You must be a very proud poppa.”
“I certainly am,” Wilcox said. “Have a good evening.”
“You, too. Now to collect Paul.”
The phone on his desk rang as he was about to leave. Pick it up? He did. It was Georgia, calling to remind him about their plans that evening.
“On my way out the door,” he said.
He’d no sooner set the receiver down, relieved, when the phone sounded again.
“Joe? It’s Michael.”
“Oh, hello, Michael. You caught me on my way out the door.”
“A nice evening at home with the family?”
“That’s right, I—look, Michael, I told you I’d call when I got a chance. I will, but right now I—”
“Family is so important, Joseph, more important than anything in life. You’re my family. You, and your wonderful wife and beautiful daughter, too, of course.”
Joe couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice. “I told you I’d call, Michael. Let’s leave it at that.”
Michael’s voice was smooth and even, deep and without any overt hint of emotion. “When will you call, Joseph?”
“Tomorrow. I have to leave.”
“I’m off tomorrow,” Michael said.
He’s off, Joe thought. He has a job in Washington, which means he intends to stay.
“I’d like to see you tomorrow. Can we arrange that?”
“I don’t think so. I have a busy day, and—”
“Maybe I should set up something through Georgia. You know how women are, more social than men. Perhaps we could get together at your house and—”
“I’ll try to free up some time tomorrow, Michael.”
“Four o’clock? At my apartment? I’ll put out some goodies and—”
“Yeah, fine. Four o’clock at your apartment. Where is it?”
He wrote down the address Michael gave him.
“I’m looking forward so to seeing you, Joseph,” Michael said. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to reestablish ties with my family. You go on, Joseph, and enjoy your evening. Good night now.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tom Curtis was first to arrive at the Wilcox home. Roberta had called to say she was running late, and that Tom would drive himself. Joe Wilcox called from the highway. There had been an accident involving a tractor trailer and a minivan that had blocked traffic for miles. Altogether an average night on roads leading in and out of D.C.
Curtis was in his thirties. He worked as a bartender and had an ambition, he told Georgia, to one day open his own restaurant and bar. He was tall, good-looking, and personable, cast in the bartender role. He offered to help Georgia in the kitchen, but she told him he was a guest, not hired to work the party, but invited him to make the drinks: “I’m sure you can make a better drink than I can.”
“What’s your pleasure?” he asked.
“Nothing for me—yet. Take care of yourself.”
He poured two fingers of Scotch over ice and wandered out on to the patio. It was a pristine early fall night. The recent inclement weather had blown to the east, leaving clear skies and a cool breeze from the northwest.
Joe arrived next.
“Sorry I’m late,” he told Georgia, kissing her on the cheek and looking through the window at where Curtis stood at the edge of the garden. “That’s him?”
“Yes. His name is Tom. He’s a bartender.”
“Great.”
“And very nice.”
“That’s good to hear. Back in a minute.”
He ran upstairs and changed into more casual clothing, returned to the kitchen, poured himself a drink, and joined Curtis on the patio.
“Joe Wilcox, Tom, happy you could make it tonight.”
“I’m glad I could, too, Mr. Wilcox,” he said, his handshake firm.
“Please, it’s Joe. I understand you tend bar. Night off?”
“Yeah. I don’t get many.”
“Where do you work?” Wilcox asked.
“McCormick and Schmick’s, on K Street.”
“Nice place. Great fish. I go there often.”
“Great happy hour, too. Tip time.”
“Yes. Sorry Robbie is running late. You never can tell in the TV news business.”
“So I’ve learned,” he said pleasantly. “Yours, too. I’ve been reading your