Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [74]
“That’s nice to hear,” Wilcox said.
“He’s looking into the young reporter you mentioned, Gene Hawthorne.”
“Probably nothing there, but it was worth mentioning.”
“Of course it was.”
“You were going back to question people who were at the paper the night Jean Kaporis was killed. Anything worthwhile there?”
“No. Still, Dungey has latched on to a few,” Edith said.
“Based on what?”
“His gut. Nothing more than that. He’s like that, Joe. He trusts his instincts more than most cops I’ve worked with. We all think our instincts are the best, but they usually don’t pan out.”
“You can’t convict anyone on instincts,” Wilcox said.
“How true,” she said. “The only thing I’ve learned from questioning those who were in the building the night of the murder is that you guys at the Trib eat a hell of a lot of pizza.”
He laughed.
“And use a lot of office supplies.”
He frowned. “I wasn’t aware of that,” he said.
This time she laughed. “We spoke with a couple of deliverymen for office supply companies who made deliveries that night.”
He thought of Michael, who’d said he was delivering supplies for an office supply company, and had made a delivery to the newspaper.
“Any names?” he asked.
“Pizza deliverymen?”
“Yeah, and office supply guys.”
She shook her head. “There’s nothing worth pursuing with them,” she said. “Dungey latched on to one guy, didn’t feel comfortable with him, but he’s not pursuing it, at least for the moment.”
“Who was the guy?” Wilcox asked, sounding as casual as he possibly could.
She scrunched up her face. “French name. LaGlue. LaBrew. I think Dungey is uncomfortable with anybody with a foreign sounding name. He’s a real Smith and Jones kind of guy. Good basketball player by the way. He’s… Joe?”
“What? Or. Sorry. My mind wandered there for a minute. Happening more and more these days. Come on, let’s go. It’s past your bedtime and—”
“My bedtime?” she said, punching his arm.
“All right,” he said, “my bedtime.” He kissed her on the cheek and hailed a passing empty cab. Another kiss on the cheek and he was gone, his thoughts as murky as the dark backseat of the cab.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
What’ve you got on the murders?” Paul Morehouse asked when his senior reporter arrived the next morning.
Wilcox had been asking himself that same question. Because Morehouse wanted more from him, he was determined to oblige. At least this time they would be based upon truth.
“MPD’s close to announcing that they’ve set up a special task force to hunt down the serial killer.”
“Where’d you get that, Joe?”
“A source.”
“How close are they to making the announcement?”
“A day, maybe two.”
“They’ve been debunking the serial killer angle from the beginning,” Morehouse said. “What changed their mind?”
Wilcox shrugged.
“Can you get it on the record?”
“No,” Wilcox said with a shake of the head. “Not until they go public with it. A few days at the most.”
“Go with it tomorrow,” Morehouse said. “Anonymous MPD source.”
“Okay.”
“What else?”
“At the moment? Not much. I’m working some leads today. Hopefully, they’ll pan out.”
Wilcox was almost out Morehouse’s door when his boss stopped him. “Hey, Joe, don’t miss this.”
Wilcox returned to the desk and accepted the memo Morehouse handed him. He read it, scowled, and said, “A little premature, isn’t it?”
“Hey,” Morehouse said, extending his hands palms out in a defensive posture. “I don’t make policy around here. I just follow it. Be sure to go, huh? They’re serious about it upstairs.”
Wilcox retreated to his cubicle. Gene Hawthorne walked by and glanced in at Wilcox, who muttered to himself and read the memo again.
It was addressed to Wilcox, and had come from the Tribune’s vice president of human resources. In it, the veep pointed out that because Wilcox was within two years of retirement, he was eligible for the buyout program that had been initiated a year earlier. He was instructed to report to a conference room on the executive floor at three that afternoon for a briefing on his options.
He tossed the memo