Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [89]
“I don’t like it, Joe,” she said.
“Don’t like what?”
“That the killer is corresponding with you. I don’t like it at all that a madman who kills young women knows who you are and is writing to you.”
“I’m not worried about it,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. “They’ll catch him and it’ll be over.”
“If he knows you, he knows who Robbie is, too.”
“Of course he knows who she is. She’s on TV every night.”
“This is different.”
“I suppose it is, hon, but there’s not a lot I can do about it.”
“You could stop writing about him.”
“I don’t think Paul would appreciate that. Besides, I’ve finally latched on to a story that I can call my own. Look, let’s talk about this another time.” He lowered his voice. “I’m trying to do what you wanted, play the gracious host to Michael.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze and returned to the dining room where Roberta was preparing to leave.
“I have to run,” she said. “Something’s come up at the station and—”
“Whoa,” Joe said. “You aren’t going to try and scoop me, are you?”
“Not if you have anything to say about it,” she replied tartly. “I can’t believe you didn’t share this with me before tonight.”
“I told you, Robbie, I was busy all afternoon writing the story and trying to free myself up to be here tonight.”
Michael and Roberta faced each other. She extended her hand and said, “I have to admit, Uncle Michael, that meeting you has been one of the biggest shocks of my life. I never even knew you existed. But now that I do, I hope we see lots of you, and I mean lots.” She planted a kiss on Michael’s cheek, gave her father a cursory peck on his, was more demonstrative with her mother in the kitchen, and was gone.
“I suppose I should be on my way, too,” Michael said.
“You drove?” Joe asked.
“I don’t have a car. I took a cab. It cost a fortune from downtown.”
“I’ll drive you,” Joe said.
“I don’t want to put you out, Joseph.”
“You won’t be. Give me a few minutes.”
“I’m driving Michael home,” he told Georgia, who came from the kitchen and extended her hand to Michael.
He kissed it and said, “To a wonderful chef, hostess, and sister-in-law. I am in your debt.”
She couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Come back soon,” she told Michael. “I mean that.”
“Oh, I shall,” he said. “Wild horses won’t be able to keep me away.”
Michael prattled on during the ride back into the District, and Joe silently wished he would shut up, say nothing, not remind him that he was even in the car. When they pulled up in front of the apartment building, Michael said, “I know you’re angry with me, Joseph, for showing up at the house as I did, but I felt compelled to do it.”
“You act on everything you feel compelled to do?” Joe asked, not attempting to disguise his anger.
“Your meaning isn’t lost on me, Joseph. No, I learned to control my urges during my years in the hospital. Tell me the truth, Joe. Do you view me as a potential threat to your wife and daughter?”
Joe guffawed. “Threat? Why would I think that?”
“Because of who I am, a sex-crazed murderer who was judged to have been insane.”
“Are you, Michael? Are you a threat to anyone?”
“Am I a serial killer, you mean? Did I write you, my brother, the journalist, in that capacity?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I try not to be, Joseph. I’m sorry my unannounced presence caused you such grief. I’ll call ahead in the future. Thank you for the evening, the dinner, the conversation, and for the ride home. Please stay in touch. Don’t let your preconceived notions about me ruin what can be a joyous reunion between blood brothers. We are that, you know, whether you like it or not. Good night, Joseph. Thank you again.”
Joe watched his brother enter the building and shut the door behind him. He pulled away from the curb with uncharacteristic abandon, and drove too fast back to Rockville, desperately trying to sort out his feelings. It wasn’t until he’d pulled into the driveway that the unpleasant, hurtful truth struck him with the force of an exploding airbag.
Michael Wilcox, aka Michael LaRue, had come farther