Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [97]
“You could ask for a warrant,” Dungey said. “We don’t have one. Looks like you’re getting ready for a dinner party.”
“I am having a guest for dinner,” Michael said. “A young lady, as a matter of fact.”
“That’s nice,” Dungey said. “What’s on the menu?”
Vargas-Swayze stood in the living room. She was uneasy at her partner’s approach. This Michael LaRue wasn’t a suspect, simply one name on a long list of people who happened to be at the Tribune the night Jean Kaporis was killed, or who had had some sort of relationship with her. This constituted harassment in her mind, and she decided to end the visit.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. LaRue,” she announced. “We appreciate being allowed to come in without notice.”
Michael emerged from the kitchen, followed by Dungey. “I am willing and happy to help in any way I can,” he said. “Just as long as you don’t view me as a suspect. I’ve never killed a thing in my life, in or out of the woods. I capture spiders and other insects with a paper cup and sheet of paper and release them outside. Every living thing deserves respect.”
“Ants and wasps, too?” Dungey asked.
Michael laughed heartily. “No, you’re right, detective. There are exceptions.”
They left the apartment, and Michael watched through a window as they went to their car and drove away. He’d begun to perspire and hoped they hadn’t noticed. He closed the blinds, fell to the floor, and did push-ups until a rap on his door stopped him. “Who’s there?” he yelled.
“Rudy.”
“Go away. I’m busy.”
“Who were they?”
“Who?”
“The guy and woman who were just here. They look like cops to me.”
“They’re old friends, Rudy. Now go away.”
“Everything okay with you?”
“Yes, everything is fine. Good-bye, Rudy.”
The sound of Rudy’s cane hitting the floor faded as he walked away. Michael returned to the kitchen and finished the prep work for dinner, carefully wrapping prosciutto and cheese in lightly breaded chicken breasts, and adding delicate flavoring to white rice. Showered and dressed in gray slacks, a flowing white shirt worn loose, and sandals, he sat at his desk, removed the first ten pages of the novel he’d started writing a few days ago, and placed them on the bare surface so that they would be clearly noticed by Roberta. He was about to get up and practice the guitar when his eyes noticed the edge of an unfamiliar file folder beneath papers on the side table. He pulled it out, opened it, and saw that it contained his brother’s articles along with other written materials about serial killings. How did this get here? he wondered. Joe must have left it by mistake. He browsed the papers in the file, closed it, and returned it to where he’d found it. He checked his watch; still hours before Roberta’s arrival. After placing a bottle of chardonnay in the refrigerator, he turned on his guitar and amplifier and ran through songs contained in a thick fake book of a thousand popular tunes, the sweet sounds blanketing the small room and relieving the tension he’d felt earlier. Music does, indeed, soothe a savage breast, he thought as every other aspect of his life, every hurtful, cruel, unfair, and degrading element of it was lost in the rich chords created by his fingers on the strings.
• • •
The last of their wine was poured, and dessert menus were placed in front of them.
“The steak was wonderful,” Wilcox said. “How was your stuffed shrimp?”
“Excellent,” Georgia said. She shook her head, a smile on her face.
“So, what’s that about?” he asked.
“You, Joe. Here you are receiving letters from a serial killer and you’re in the best mood I’ve seen you in months. Maybe years.”
“One letter,” he said. “But why is that strange? I’ve been looking for a major story for years, something I can get my teeth in and call my own. I’ve got that with this one, Georgia, and I’m happy about it.”
“I’m seeing a new side of my husband, and I thought I knew every one of them. You’re obviously enjoying the notoriety, and