Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [63]
It just came out. “There’s a young reporter named Hawthorne.”
“I remember him. Nice looking young guy, personable.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. All I know is that rumor has it that he might have been having some sort of a personal relationship with Kaporis.”
“Anything to substantiate that rumor?”
“I asked him point blank about it.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. He admitted he’d had coffee with her and drinks after work.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “Anybody else?”
“No. When I spoke with Kaporis’s father and stepmother, they said Kaporis had been having an affair with a married guy here in D.C.”
“Someone from the Trib?”
“They didn’t know what he did for a living. Name is Paul, they seem to remember her saying.”
“Could have been somebody at the Trib,” she said. “Right?”
“I suppose. My boss’s name is Paul. Paul Morehouse.”
“The murdering type?”
“No. There are a few Pauls in News. But hell, the Trib’s got twenty-five hundred employees, Edith. Could have been anybody, and not necessarily someone from the News division. There’s advertising, production, business, circulation—everyone has the same employee ID. Those other types are in and out of the newsroom all the time. What about visitors to the newsroom that night? Outsiders?”
“We’re still following up on them,” she said.
He paid the bill and they left the bustling restaurant.
“We still on for dinner tonight?” she asked.
“Yeah. Seven-thirty. Where?”
“Feel like slumming? Come on up to my neighborhood.”
“I’d hardly call Adams Morgan slumming these days,” he said.
“Then make it Felix, on Eighteenth, between Belmont and Columbia Roads. They serve comfort food—and I need some comfort.” She smiled. “Have a good TV show tonight. I’ll watch you.”
He’d managed to suppress an urge to tell her about his brother’s sudden and unwelcome arrival in Washington, and his dread of going to meet him at four that afternoon. Maybe he should have seen a shrink and talked out his feelings. He felt terribly alone at that moment, like someone about to undergo cancer surgery without anyone who cared at his side. He tried to adopt a more positive attitude as he drove to his office at the Tribune. Perhaps he was overreacting and was being unfair to Michael. After all, he was his only sibling, a blood brother who’d gone through hard times and now looked to him, his brother, Joe, to help forge a new life in a new place. By the time he’d parked his car and was heading through the Tribune Building’s lobby, he’d given himself a lecture: Be positive and upbeat when you go to Michael’s apartment. Give him the benefit of the doubt. Welcome him into your life, and hear what he has to say about his ambitions and plans. Be supportive. Open your heart. Reach out. Express pleasure at seeing him after so many years.
But when he was about to leave his office at 3:45, that positive spirit had dissolved like sugar in hot water, and he left the building with a tight jaw and knotted stomach.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wilcox had trouble finding parking on the street and circled the block a few times until a space opened up across from the address Michael had given him. It was a few minutes after four when he completed his parallel parking and shut off the engine. He sat quietly and stared at the building for a few minutes before slowly leaving the car and crossing the street. He paused at the door, drew a breath, entered the foyer, and read the names on the tenant panel on the wall. Listed next to the apartment number was the name MICHAEL LARUE. Strange, he thought as he pushed the button opposite the apartment number.
“Joseph?” the voice came through a tiny speaker.
The tinny sound startled Wilcox. “Hello?” he said, leaning closer to the panel.
A buzzer and the metallic sound of the door lock disengaging filled the confined space. “Joseph, come in.”
Wilcox pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway that ran from the front to the back of the building. A door opened at the far end and Michael stepped into the hall. “Down here, Joseph,” he said.
Wilcox approached this man, his brother, who was silhouetted in