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By Root 608 0

she wasn’t, he walked into the den, opened one of three closets, got down on his knees and rummaged through a series of square boxes until finding the one he wanted. He withdrew it, took it to a game table covered with green felt, switched on a lamp hanging over the table, pulled up a chair, and removed the box’s cover. Layers of white tissue paper were neatly layered on top. He removed the paper and dug down deeper, his fingers coming to rest on a manila envelope whose flap was secured with a strand of red string wrapped around a plastic button. He laid the envelope on the table, undid the string, folded back the flap, withdrew the envelope’s contents, and placed them in the harsh, direct light from above. There were yellowed newspaper clippings in which photos were embedded, and a half dozen faded snapshots of Michael as a teenager. Wilcox went to his desk, took a magnifying glass from a drawer, returned to the table, and closely examined what was in the envelope, spending more time on the pictures than the clippings. Finished, he sat back, closed his eyes, and exhaled a sustained, loud breath. He was drained; it was the first time that night he felt sleep would come easily. He cocked his head. Georgia was stirring upstairs. He reversed his procedure, returning the box to the closet, and went into the kitchen to turn on the coffee that had been set up the previous night.

“Good morning,” Georgia said through a yawn.

“Good morning, hon. Sleep well?”

“Yes. You?”

“Afraid not.”

“I’ve never known you to be an insomniac,” she said pleasantly, pulling a package of English muffins from the refrigerator.

“Yeah, it is new for me. Too much on my mind, I guess,” he said, sitting at the table.

“Want to talk about it?”

“About it? What’s it?”

“What’s keeping you awake these nights.”

“Nothing specific, Georgia. Just a lot of pressure at work and—”

“Joe,” she said, joining him at the table, “you’ve been under pressure at work hundreds of times and you never lost a minute’s sleep. I don’t want to probe into your personal life, but if there’s something you want to get off your chest, I’d love to hear it.”

He forced lightness into his voice: “My personal life? Like what, confessing I’ve been having an affair?”

“I sometimes think that,” she said. “I wondered whether the hang ups last night were from a girlfriend.”

“Oh, come on, Georgia, that’s—”

“Just a fleeting fancy,” she said, taking one of his hands in hers. “I know you don’t have a girlfriend on the side, Joe. I told Mimi that.”

“Told her what?”

“That I’d be shocked if you had an affair.”

“Thanks for the testimonial.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Do you think Paul cheats on her?”

“No. I mean, how would I know? Maybe he does. Maybe he’s got a harem stashed away in Georgetown. This is not a subject I really feel like getting into this morning.”

“Case closed,” she said. “But I do know that something is bothering you. I care, that’s all. I love you.”

It struck Joe that this was a good time to tell her about Michael, and he might have had she not gotten up from the table and exited the house to retrieve the morning paper. He went upstairs to their bedroom, dressed for the day, and returned to the kitchen.

“Muffin?” she asked.

“Thanks, no. I’ll grab something downtown.” He kissed her.

“You look nice,” she said, accompanying him to the door. “All ready for your TV show.”

“Thanks,” he said, having forgotten about the show. Had he remembered, he might have dressed differently. He hadn’t bothered to look at the paper before leaving, but heard his article mentioned on his car radio. The news reader was in the middle of the story when Wilcox’s cell phone sounded.

“Wilcox.”

“Joe, it’s Edith.”

“Hi,” he said. “I’m in the car on my way downtown. What’s up?”

“I need to talk to you, Joe. Off the record, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Can we meet?”

“When?”

“This morning?”

“Give me an hour? Where?”

“The Bread Line on Pennsylvania?”

“You’ve got it.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Michael LaRue had gone to dinner the previous night with another tenant of the