Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [73]
He shrugged. “Went okay, I guess. Your MPD spokesman was smooth in debunking the serial killer theory.”
“Yeah, he was good. He always is. The commish puts him out in front of the cameras whenever he wants a point to be made. You held your ground.”
“All I did was say that it’s possible that a serial killer is prowling the streets.”
“And you said someone from MPD told you we were considering it.”
“That’s right,” he said, shifting position in his chair. “Hell, Edith, how can you not consider it?”
“Considering it is one thing, Joe. Telling the public is another.”
“The public has a right to know.”
“Not if it panics them and causes them to change their daily lives.”
“That’s not the point, Edith. You have to understand that—”
He was glad their drinks and calamari arrived to interrupt the conversation. He didn’t want to get into an argument with her. He and Edith had been friends for a long time; she’d been at his house for dinner and celebrations a number of times, including a surprise birthday party Georgia had thrown for him a month earlier. And, of course, there was that sweaty night in a tangle of sheets that threatened to redefine their otherwise platonic relationship.
He lifted his glass. “Here’s to your conversion to Judaism,” he said. “L’chaim!”
“Salud!” she said, touching the rim of her glass to his and laughing.
They slipped into a conversation about her current woes with her estranged husband. The more she discussed it, the angrier she became until, at one point, Wilcox thought she might tip over the table. “Hey,” he said, “you’ll get through this. You married a jerk, that’s all. No judge is going to buy his story about being out of work and broke and needing financial support from you.”
“You sound like some naÏve kid, Joe. There are plenty of judges who are jerks, too, black robes and alleged wisdom or not. Believe me, I’ve seen plenty of them.”
“I was trying to make you feel better,” he said.
“I know, I know. Maybe I can make you feel good.”
“Oh? I can’t wait.”
She thought he’d taken her comment as sexual innuendo. “Let’s not go there, Joe.”
“What?”
“Let’s order.”
She waited until they were on dessert to make him feel good. She leaned across the table as far as she could and said, “The pen truly is more powerful than the sword, Joe. You’ve proved that.”
“How?”
“Based upon your articles about a serial killer, my guys are about to go public and acknowledge the possibility and announce the formation of a special task force.”
“Why?” Wilcox asked.
“Heat from the city pols. Because of your articles, lots of pretty young women are calling to say they’re scared, and asking what the police are doing to catch the guy.” Wilcox started to say something but she continued. “Now, Joe, I’m telling you this off the record. Right?”
“Right. When are they going public?”
“Not sure, A day or two. I still don’t buy it, Joe. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not doubting that you got somebody at MPD to give you the serial killer scenario, and I understand how the similarities between the two murders—good-looking young women working in the media, both strangled—adds some support.” She shook her head. “The tail really can wag the dog, huh?”
“I suppose so.”
The news that MPD would now give credence to his reports did not please him. It was all based upon a lie, albeit a small one, that was now growing in importance. The tail wagging the dog, indeed!
But he didn’t dwell on that, any more than he was able to focus on much of the conversation at the table that night.
Michael!
It was always Michael invading his thoughts.
“This was nice,” Vargas-Swayze said over coffee.
“Yes, it was,” Wilcox said. “Aside from MPD deciding to sign on to the serial killer possibility, what else is new in the investigations?”
“Unfortunately, not much. Everybody’s got a theory. One killer or two? Thanks to you, Joe. Crimes of passion or premeditation? Targets of opportunity or carefully planned? Somebody who works at the Trib? Some homeless guy? My partner, Dungey, who’s no fan