Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [92]
“Nice catch, Joe,” Gene Hawthorne said.
Wilcox swung around in his chair. “Thanks.”
“If there’s anything I can do, I’m—”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll let you know,” Wilcox said, showing his back to the young reporter again.
He let his voice mail take his calls for the rest of the morning, choosing the few he wished to return. But he picked up a call that came a few minutes before noon.
“Joseph? It’s Michael.”
“Oh, hello.”
“Joe, about last night, I realize how impetuous it was of me to simply show up at your home like that, especially after you’d asked that we go slow in melding me into your family’s life.”
“I was surprised, that was all,” Joe said. “No apology necessary.”
“You forgive me?”
“Look, Michael, I’m up to my neck here today.”
“I imagine you are, Joseph. That was a powerful piece in today’s paper. Georgia seemed unhappy that the killer has chosen you as his conduit.”
“She’ll be fine. It’s natural that she’d be uneasy about it.”
“Of course. What a wonderful family, Joseph. Exemplary. I owe you a dinner. I owe everyone a dinner. Can we make a date?”
“Not at the moment, but I’ll get back to you. What’s your schedule the next few days?”
“Busy actually. Two job interviews tomorrow, morning and afternoon.”
“Nonprofits?”
“One is. The other isn’t what I aspire to—it’s more like the job I just left. But one has to be realistic, doesn’t one? The money mother left me won’t last forever.”
Joe had forgotten about that money; Michael’s mention of it stabbed him in the stomach. He understood why their mother had taken steps to provide for Michael should he ever come out of the mental hospital. But the funds had sat there earning interest for almost forty years. His early years with Georgia and a baby had been lean ones. Having a nest egg would have helped, would have taken the strain off them. In a word, he resented what his mother had done, no matter how he might rationalize it. A victory for his brother, a slap in his face.
“Let’s talk in a few days,” Joe said. “Good luck with your interviews.”
“Thank you, Joseph. I’ll let you know how they go. Love to Georgia and Robbie.”
He got to Morehouse before leaving for lunch.
“I can’t handle all the media calls, Paul, and write tomorrow’s piece.”
“Let public affairs handle the media stuff, Joe. But make yourself as available as you can. What’ve you got for tomorrow?”
“A think piece,” he replied. “How it feels to be in contact with a serial killer.”
“You can’t mention the phone taps, or the surveillance on the post office.”
“I know. I thought I’d call Jimmy Breslin in New York. The Son of Sam kept writing to Breslin. I’ve met Jimmy a few times. He’s not doing his regular column any more, but he’s still active. I can probably get some good quotes from him.”
“Good move. When do you think the killer will contact you again?”
“I don’t know if he will.”
“Of course he will, Joe. He can’t read your piece today and not write another letter, maybe call. By the way, your cop buddy is a knockout.”
“Edith? Yeah, she’s an okay lady.”
“You, uh—?”
“No. I’m heading out for lunch. I’ll get on tomorrow’s piece when I get back.”
“You’re tearin’ ’em up, Joe. Hey. Human Resources called. How come you haven’t talked to them about the buyout package?”
“Because I’m not interested in any buyout, at least not until this thing is over. I’ll check back in later.”
A new call on his voice mail intrigued him enough to return it. The caller was an editor at a large book publisher in New York.
“Thanks so much, Mr. Wilcox, for getting back to me so soon,” she said “Do you have a book agent?”
“Book agent? No, I don’t.”
“Good. I’d rather deal directly with you anyway. We might be interested in signing up a book by you about this serial killer series you’re doing. He wrote you, I read this morning.”
“That’s right.”
“True-crime books can be bestsellers. May I call you Joe?”
“Sure.”
“Good. I’m Melanie. Can you come up to New York?”
“When?”
“As soon