Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [94]
This story was different. This story flowed from him. He’d created it. It was like writing fiction, a novel, a creative act with him as the centerpiece. He was free to vent his feelings, to pull from his inner core and express himself as he’d never been able to do before as a who-what-why-when-where journalist.
He took a break and called Jimmy Breslin in New York, who was gracious in sharing his feelings about being on the receiving end of letters from New York’s infamous Son of Sam. He wove those comments into the piece, rewrote the lead, plugged in a comment by an MPD spokesperson who pledged an all-out campaign to bring the serial killer to justice, polished the ending, and dispatched it to Paul Morehouse.
The editor came to the cubicle ten minutes later. “Great piece, Joe,” he said. “Beautiful, especially the way you handled the turning over of the letter to the cops. Makes us sound like public citizen number one.”
“Thanks,” Wilcox said. “I think I’ll pack it in, make it an early night.”
“Everything going smoothly with the media requests?”
“I’ll check in with public affairs before I leave. I got a note from them that The National Enquirer wants to interview me.”
“Well… Do it, Joe. Clear everything first.”
“I got a call from a book publisher in New York.”
Morehouse’s eyebrows went up, and he whistled. “That could be big stuff, Joe. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Nothing concrete, just a feeler.”
“Say hello to Georgia and Robbie,” Morehouse said. “Make sure they know that I won’t let all of this go to your head.”
“They’ll appreciate that, I’m sure.”
Georgia called before he left work to thank him for the flowers, clearly touched.
“Glad you like them,” he said. “Let’s go out for dinner tonight. I’ll be home in an hour.”
“I’ve already started dinner,” she said.
“So, stop it. I’m really in the mood to go out. Pick a place and make a reservation, a steak house maybe, or lobster.”
“It sounds like we’re celebrating something,” she said.
“Maybe we are, Georgia,” he said. “Maybe at last we are.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Roberta was getting ready to run out to meet Tom for a fast lunch at a Chinese restaurant. But before heading out, and despite already being late, she placed a call she’d been considering all morning.
“Uncle Michael?”
Michael laughed loudly. “Ah, it must be Roberta,” he said. “I love it, being called Uncle Michael. How are you, my dear?”
“Fine. I just called to say that last evening was many things, shocking to be sure, and—how can I put it?—it was wonderful. It’s amazing to me that Mom and Dad were able to keep you a secret for so many years.”
“I’m sure they had their reasons,” he said, his tone more rueful.
“I’m dying to know more about you, Michael, about the novel you’re writing, your music career, your—”
“No, no, no, no, no,” he said. “There’s no musical career as such, Robbie. I’m strictly a closet guitar player, playing for my own amusement.”
“You never play in public?”
“Absolutely not, although an occasional friend has heard me strum away here at my apartment.”
“I would love to hear you play,” she said. “Would you consider allowing a family member to join that inner circle?”
“Of course. Your father has heard me.”
“He has?”
“Yes. The first time he visited me here.”
“That devil, not telling me.”
“What are you doing this evening?” he asked.
“The usual. I have a report on the six o’clock news, and back to do another at eleven. In between, I’m pretty much free, until nine anyway.”
“Splendid,” he said, “I don’t claim to be a gourmet chef, but I did spend quite a few years working in the hospital’s kitchen and learning my way around a stove. My fellow patients said they preferred my cooking above all others.”
“I’m sure whatever you come up with will be special. I’ll come at seven.”
“Good. I look forward to it.”
“There’s one condition, though, Michael.”
“And what is that?”
“That you play a tune or two for me.”