Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [68]
“Sit down, Joe!”
Potamos slumped in a chair.
“I want you to listen to me, and listen hard. You are hanging on here by a thread, a goddamn thread. You are a disruptive force at the paper, and you’ve rubbed damn near everybody wrong, top to bottom. Lately, I’ve been spending more time than I want to saving your Greek ass, and I don’t like it. I’ve got better things to do. I’m all through warning you, Joe. Either straighten up and fly right, beginning with the school board story, or you’re not journalism, you’re history.”
“Okay. I’ll do the school story.”
Gardello’s tone softened. “I like you, Joe, I really do. You’ve got a lot of talent, lots of street smarts and good sense when somebody’s pulling your chain. But I can’t keep covering for you, damn it! What’s with this Canadian thing you’ve been chasing down?”
“What Canadian thing?”
“The guy who was murdered in the park. Wilcox. Jeremy Wilcox.”
“What about it?”
“You’ve been poking your nose into it even though I told you—what, a week ago?—to drop it.”
“Where do you hear that?”
“My boss, Joe, who got it from somebody she knows, only I don’t know who that somebody is and I don’t care. I do care that my boss cares, and wants the story to stay where it is, another unsolved DC murder.”
Potamos sat up straight and showed his first spark of interest since arriving. “Somebody’s putting the arm on this paper to drop it?”
Gardello swiveled in his chair and looked away.
Potamos chewed his cheek before saying, “Gil, if this is just another unsolved DC murder, why would someone care that I keep looking into it? On my own time, I might add.”
“I don’t care when you’re doing it, Joe, I’m telling you to stop.”
When Potamos didn’t respond, Gardello added, “I mean it.”
“Yeah, I know you do, and I appreciate everything you try to do for me. Okay, I’m off the case. Who cares that some Canuck trade rep gets whacked in a park? Not me. Anything else?”
“Somehow, I don’t get the feeling you’re totally sincere, Joe.”
“Sincere? My middle name. Thanks, Gil. I’ll keep you informed on the school board story. Ciao.”
Gardello watched through his glass door as Potamos left, made his way through the newsroom, stopped to exchange greetings with a few people, then disappeared in the direction of the elevators. The anger the editor had displayed during their brief meeting had been for show. What he’d really felt was sadness and frustration. The truth was, he liked Joe Potamos and wanted to save him from himself, keep him around, play some small role in resurrecting his career at the Post. It was a salvage job he wasn’t sure was possible, but he knew he’d keep at it until he succeeded, or Potamos went down in a flaming, self-induced crash.
Potamos stopped at his Rosslyn apartment to pick up some fresh clothes, then went to Roseann’s, where the answering machine was blinking; the digital readout indicated there were nine messages. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have bothered replaying them; virtually all would be for her. But he pushed PLAY and listened. The first seven calls were for Roseann. The eighth was a woman who asked for him.
“I’m calling Mr. Joseph Potamos. I would like very much to speak with you. I presume you know what this is about. I’ll try you again at another time.”
Potamos replayed the message. “Damn!” he muttered. Why didn’t she leave a number? She sounded Canadian, judging from her pronunciation of about, which became more nearly aboot. He called the number on Thomas’s business card again, received the same recorded message. He listened carefully to see if the woman’s voice on the embassy’s outgoing message was the same as on Roseann’s answering machine. He thought it was. He left a message. “This is Joe Potamos from the Post. I’m trying to reach Mr. Craig Thomas, or a woman who might have responded to my previous message. Please call me.”
Again he left both numbers.
He sat in front of the computer, pulled up a database he’d created of his Washington contacts, and scrolled to names from the District’s