Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [66]
“With the help of the good men and women at the hospital, I eventually shed my anger and was able to see that not only was I okay, but that my fellow men were, too. And women, of course.” Michael laughed. “Women! I envy you, Joseph, having a beautiful, loving wife and splendid daughter.”
“You don’t know Georgia,” Joe said.
“True. Oh, well, I might as well admit it. I’ve taken the liberty of enjoying an advance peek at your Georgia, too, and Roberta. Of course, I see Roberta all the time on TV. But—”
“How dare you?” Joe said forcefully.
“How dare I what?”
“Sneak around spying on my wife and daughter. What did you do, stalk them?”
“That would be criminal,” Michael said with a modicum of indignation. “I wanted to feel that I at least knew what they looked like before actually meeting them. Is that so terrible?” He didn’t give Joe a chance to respond. “You’re forgetting, Joseph, that I’ve not been as fortunate as you in life. You went on to become a respectable journalist. You married the girl of your dreams and fathered a loving daughter. I’ve had none of that, but I intend to make up for lost time. Won’t you help me achieve that, Joseph? I’ve paid my debt to society, paid it in full. I came to Washington because my only living relative was here—my brother!”
Joe stood and went to where the cat was now sleeping on the sill. He ran his hand over its head and back, waking it and eliciting a rumble of a purr. He liked four-legged animals. He and Michael had had dogs and cats growing up, and he and Georgia had brought strays into the house and raised them with love. Their last pet, a mixed breed rescued from the local pound, had been put to sleep at the advanced age of sixteen. That was two years ago, and they’d never pursued having another animal in the house.
He leaned closer to Maggie to better hear her contented sounds, and wasn’t aware that Michael had come up behind him. When he realized it, he straightened with a start.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Michael said.
“You didn’t,” Joe said, moving toward the door. “I’d better be going.”
“Your TV appearance,” Michael said. “You’ll be talking about the serial killer?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be watching, Joseph.”
“Good.”
“Joseph.”
“Yeah?”
“This won’t be the last time we spend time together. Don’t tell me that it is. Don’t destroy me again.”
“What the hell are you saying, that I played a part in what you did and what happened to you?”
“No, no, no, no, no. I learned, among many things, that it’s important that I take full responsibility for that. What I am saying, Joseph, what I’m begging—and I hate to beg—is that you bring me into your life. I desperately need that, Joseph. I was told it’s vitally important for me to reestablish contact with family. Please.”
“Michael, I—” Joe managed a smile. “Welcome to the family, Michael. But let’s take it slow. Okay?”
“Absolutely.”
“Give me some time to adjust to this and to bring Georgia into it.”
“Take all the time you need, Joseph. But in the meantime, we can meet now and then, can’t we?”
“Sure. Now and then.”
There was an awkward moment when Joe was afraid Michael would hug him, embrace him physically. He stepped away to avoid it and said, “Take care, Michael.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wilcox had an hour and a half to kill before appearing on D.C. Digest. Had he not planned to have dinner with Edith Vargas-Swayze after the TV show, he would have grabbed a bite before it. He considered going back to his office at the Trib but decided against it. Because there was no breaking news upon which to base another article in the series, he was off the