Murder at The Washington Tribune (32 page)

TWENTY-NINE

“Here's to our star!”

Others at the National Press Club's Reliable Source bar raised their glasses in a tribute to Joe Wilcox.

“I'll drink to that,” he said, holding up a glass of sparkling water garnished with a lime wedge.

“You drinking water, Joe?” someone asked.

“I've got a TV and a radio interview later on,” Wilcox said, defending his choice of drink. “Wouldn't do to pass out on the set.”

“This N.Y. editor is coming to D.C.?” he was asked.

“This afternoon. I'm meeting her here at the club.”

“Introduce me to her,” said a colleague. “I'll write a book about any damn thing she wants as long as the money's right.”

They retreated to a table where the drinks kept coming along with their lunches.

“What's this break in the serial killer case your daughter hinted at on the news?” was the question.

“I don't know,” Wilcox replied. “She's playing it close to the vest.”

“Even with her old man?”

Wilcox laughed and finished his sandwich. “Afraid so. I taught her right. Never reveal a source.”

“And these days go to jail,” said one of the other women at the table.

This led to a semiserious discussion of recent court rulings in which reporters found themselves in legal hot water for not revealing their sources in criminal cases. Wilcox half listened to the conversation as he mentally ran down his commitments that afternoon.

“Keep the movie rights,” someone said.

“And get a real drink, Joe. Water'll just corrode your pipes.”

As Wilcox pulled out his wallet, his cell phone sounded.

“Wilcox.”

“Joe, it's Edith Vargas-Swayze.”

“Hello. How goes it?”

“Where are you?”

“The Press Club. About to leave.”

“I have to speak with you.”

“Great. I'm jammed up all afternoon and into the early evening, but—”

“Joe, I have to talk to you right away. It's important.”

He left the table and went to an unoccupied corner, the phone to his ear, his hand covering the mouthpiece. He'd received many calls from Edith over the years asking to speak with him. This time, her tone was different. His stomach tightened.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I'll tell you when we meet.”

“Where?”

“The Press Club. I'm five minutes from there. I'll pick you up in front.”

“Edith, can't you tell me what this is about?”

“I'll be there in five,” she said.

As he clicked the phone shut, he had a fleeting notion to leave the building and not wait for her, but he knew he couldn't do that. He returned to the table. “Got to run,” he said.

“Another call from the coast, Joe?”

“Yeah.” He tossed money on the table. “They want me to star in the movie. See ya.”

He rode the elevator down to street level and went to the street where Vargas-Swayze sat behind the wheel of a bilious-green unmarked police car with a dented fender. He got in. She slipped the gearshift into drive and pulled into traffic.

“Where are we going?” he asked, checking his watch. “I've got some TV things and a meeting with—”

“Later, Joe,” she said, her eyes straight ahead.

As she turned onto Connecticut Avenue NW and he realized that she was driving in the direction of Michael's apartment building, bile came up and stung his throat. He reached in his pocket for a Tums that wasn't there.

“Edith, will you please tell me what this is all about?”

She pulled to the curb in front of a fire hydrant, directly across the street from where Michael lived, turned off the ignition, drew a breath, and faced him. “Want to tell me about it, Joe?”

“Tell you about what?” The quaver in his voice said much.

She pointed at the apartment building. “There,” she said. “Where your brother lives.”

“Michael?”

“Michael LaRue. Michael Wilcox. Whatever he chooses to call himself. Is that where you wrote the letters?”

He became smaller in his seat, as though developing a slow leak. He couldn't face her, looked in every direction but hers. She placed a hand on his arm. “Joe, listen to me, please. I know you wrote those letters yourself. Your fingerprint is beneath the typed words. No one approached your mailbox the day the letter showed up except the mailman—and you.”

He said nothing for what seemed an eternity. Finally, he looked at her, his lips tightly compressed, his eyes squeezed almost shut. “How did you learn about Michael?”

“The tap on your phone. The conversation you had with him this morning.”

He'd forgotten about the tap despite knowing from years of interacting with MPD that most people soon forget their phones are tapped, the way interview subjects forget a tape recorder is running even though it's right in front of them.

“What's this all about, Joe?”

“You already seem to have all the answers, Edith.”

She shook her head. “I want to hear them from you.”

He sat sullenly, although it didn't represent what he was feeling. He didn't know what to say, so said nothing. But he would have to say something, attempt to explain his actions, rationalize what he'd done. He forced himself to think more clearly. All she knew was that Michael was his brother. He couldn't refute that. As for having written the letters, that was hardly her concern. It wasn't a police matter—maybe. It was between him, his conscience, and whoever he might have to answer to at the
Tribune.

“What if I did write those letters?” he asked, not combative, a sincere question. “Why should that concern you?”

“Did you? Are you saying you did?”

“I'm not admitting anything. But if I did write those letters, it's hardly a police matter. Who's hurt?”

The words exploded from her. “Who's hurt?” she said. “Come on, you know better. Who's hurt? Let's start with you and your reputation. What about the integrity of the newspaper? What about all the young women in the city looking over their shoulders, adding locks to their doors, their worried parents, husbands, and boyfriends?
Caramba,
Joe, you can't dismiss it as nothing more than a prank that doesn't seriously impact others.”

She was right, of course, and he didn't have a comeback. Had she stopped there, she'd have accomplished a lot, shaming him, making him feel like a naughty kid.But she didn't stop.

“All that's bad enough, Joe,” she said, her hand now back on his arm. “But it goes beyond those things. What you did was criminal, a criminal act. Hindering an investigation. Producing false evidence. Withholding evidence. Lying to authorities. Need I go on? A prosecutor could add a dozen other charges, anything that tickles their fancy.”

When he didn't respond, she squeezed his arm as hard as she could. “Joe,” she said, “it's me, Edith, your friend. I'm not out to hurt you. I want to help.”

“I know.”

“I have to ask you a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Did you write those letters in order to generate a sensational story for yourself, or—?”

“Or what?”

“Or did you write them in order to throw suspicion on someone else?”

“Why would I do that?”

“You'd do it if you were involved in the Jean Kaporis murder.”

“Oh, God, Edith. That's absurd. Of course I didn't have anything to do with that. I may have made a mistake with the letters, but I'm no murderer.”

“Why was Roberta at your brother's apartment today with a camera crew?”

He was jolted into an upright position. “Roberta here with a camera crew? I have no idea.”

She placed her hands on the steering wheel and drummed her fingertips against it.

“Anything else?” Wilcox asked.

“A lot more, Joe. Tell me about your brother. My partner, Wade, failed to run a background check on Michael LaRue, but I initiated one today. He's been on the list of possible suspects in the Kaporis case, same with the stabbing of his neighbor in Franklin Park. That's where Colleen was killed, too.”

“Michael is—”

“Michael is
what
?”

“You don't need to run a background on him, Edith. I'll give you one.”

He told her about Michael's past, the murder of the neighbor girl, being judged insane, and his forty years in a mental hospital. He didn't look at her as he related these things in a flat, emotionless voice despite tears forming. When he was finished, he asked, “What do you intend to do, Edith?”

“I don't know,” she replied honestly. “I have to do something. I can try to keep it within channels and away from the
Trib.
But you know as well as I do that it'll be leaked. Want my suggestion?”

“Go ahead.”

“Level with Morehouse before he finds out from someone else. Maybe you can get him to run something about new evidence being uncovered pointing to different individuals having committed the murders. I don't know whether Morehouse and the
Trib
would be willing to publish something that vague, without naming you and citing the letters, but you can try.”

“Yeah. I can try.”

“The paper might be happy to cover it up to save face,” she offered.

“Maybe.”

“I have to admit, Joe, that I questioned the serial killer angle from the beginning. Two murders don't add up to serial killing. If you hadn't written the letters and just continued speculating, it wouldn't have mattered so much.”

He managed a smile. “I think I'd better cancel the TV and radio appearances, Edith, and my meeting with the New York publisher.”

She said nothing.

“And I want to talk with Roberta about what she was doing here today with Michael.”

“Sure.” She started the engine. “I'll drive you back to the
Trib,
but we'll have to talk again, more formal next time.”

“I understand,” he said. “No, I'm not going back to work. I think I'll head straight home. I want Georgia to hear it from me. Just drop me at my car.”

“Of course. I'm sorry, Joe.”

“Not nearly as sorry as I am, Edith. Thanks for breaking it to me this way, private, just the two of us. I appreciate it.”

“Joe,” she said as they neared the parking garage. “What about your brother? Do you think he might have had something to do with the murders?”

“I don't know.”

“Did you write the letters at his place?” she asked.

His sigh was unmistakably affirmative.

To frame him?
she wondered.

He was out of the car before she could ask.

THIRTY

Roberta Wilcox was at the studio screening the tape they'd recorded at Michael's apartment when Vargas-Swayze's call came in.

“Hi, Edith. What's the occasion?”

“Does there have to be an occasion for me to call?”

Roberta laughed. “No, of course not. Just surprised, that's all. We haven't spoken in a while. What's up?”

“I'm calling to ask you the same question.”

Vargas-Swayze waited for Roberta's silence to end. “Just insanely busy,” Roberta finally said.

“What's with your dad's brother, Michael?”

This time, the silence was broken by Roberta's audible, deep breath.

“I know you were at his place today with a camera crew,” Vargas-Swayze said. “Does he have an interesting story to tell?”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Edith.”

“Please, Roberta, don't insult me. If you're sitting on evidence in a murder case—make that plural—you're treading on thin ice.” Roberta started to respond but Vargas-Swayze said, “And don't give me the shield law speech. I'm not impressed by it.”

“Dad told you about Michael?” Roberta asked.

“In a sense. I know about your uncle's history, the murder of the young girl, the years in confinement, all of it. So let's not do this dance. What do you know about the letters?”

“What letters?”

“The ones allegedly written by the killer.”

“What do I know? I know my dad received two of them, one at the office, one at home.”

“Any idea who wrote them?”

Roberta guffawed, gathering courage. “Of course I don't know who wrote them,” she said. “If I did, MPD would know, too. You don't think I'd hold back something like that—do you?”

“You're a reporter,” Vargas-Swayze said.

“And a citizen,” Roberta retorted. “And, I might add, a single young woman who happens to work in a media job. I'm not into being a victim.”

Vargas-Swayze gave it a beat: “What sort of story are you doing with your uncle?”

“A—a human interest piece.”

“Is he that interesting, aside from having killed someone and spending most of his adult life in a mental institution?”

“I really don't think that's any of your—”

“That depends,” the detective said. “Look, Roberta, you have your job and I have mine. They don't have to be mutually exclusive. Helping us solve a couple of murders would give you a juicy inside scoop. So if there's anything you want to share with me, do it now. Once I hang up, all bets are off. We can be collaborators—or, we can butt heads. Your choice.”

She could almost hear Roberta's mind working.

“I have to go, Roberta,” Vargas-Swayze said.

“What?” she heard Roberta say to someone.

“Edith? I have to go, too. Can I get back to you?”

“Sure. But don't let much time pass, Roberta.”

Vargas-Swayze recited her cell number and hung up.

Joe Wilcox didn't go directly home. He drove deliberately slowly, taking a long, meandering route, his mind racing, hurtling past major thoughts so fast that he couldn't linger long enough to process them. He pulled into a small parking area in Rock Creek Park and held his head in his hands, massaging his temples as though to knead clarity.

The conversation with Edith was a blur. It had happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that he'd been unable to formulate rational responses to her accusations. He'd acquiesced almost immediately, had admitted he'd written the letters without putting up a defense. He could have denied it, of course. He could have held firm and dismissed her charge, hung tough, challenged her to prove it, told her to put up or shut up. Bring it on!

But he hadn't. Her knowing about Michael had shocked him into inaction. She was right about the letters, although her assumption that he'd written them at Michael's apartment was nothing more than speculation. But what did it matter where he'd written them? His fingerprint was beneath the typed words, she'd said. Was that true, or was she lying? Cops lie all the time to get people to confess to something. He rubbed his temples harder. Think, damn it! It had to have been the fingerprint. Why else would she even imagine that he'd written the letters to himself? A stakeout at the house? Who was to say that the cops assigned to it hadn't fallen asleep, hadn't been distracted enough to miss someone other than the mailman and him going to the mailbox?

He'd reacted the way Michael had the morning Marjorie Jones was found dead in the berry patch. His brother hadn't denied what he'd done, aside from hiding in the closet and yelling, “I didn't do nothing!” But by the time he'd been dragged from the house, he was blubbering and saying he didn't mean to kill her and that it was a mistake and that he was very sorry and—

He envisioned facing Paul Morehouse, dreading that more than facing his wife. Georgia would be stunned by what he'd done but would stand by him, get over her shock and comfort him as she always had when things went poorly, when he was despondent and low. Morehouse wouldn't. Oh, he might feign concern and portray himself as a friend. But there would be no real comforting from his editor and boss. The growling would get louder: “I don't have any choice but to take it upstairs, Joe,” he would say, and he would—take it upstairs—where he, Joseph Carlton Wilcox, would join the ranks of other wayward journalists who'd created stories out of whole cloth, been disgraced, cited in J-schools across the country as a miscreant.

His thoughts went to the Press Club and his colleagues, whose friendship he treasured. They'd be nice to him initially, would slap him on the back, make a few jokes out of it, and then gradually and subtly avoid him as if his disgraced side might rub off on them. It didn't really matter, he knew, because he wouldn't step foot in the club again once word got out that he was a fraud, a media whore who'd sold out for self-gratification and fame—and yes, ultimately money. Maybe the esteemed club's by-laws would call for his expulsion despite being a member of long-standing. The shame . . .

Roberta!

What would he tell her?
How
would he tell her?

From the day she decided to pursue a career in journalism, he'd preached fidelity to the profession, citing examples of journalists who'd taken the high road. “You have only one thing as a journalist, Robbie,” he'd said many times, “and that's your integrity and reputation. No story is worth compromising your ideals. You'll feel pressure from management, especially those on the advertising side, but you must resist it. If you're ever put in a position where you have to decide between honesty as a reporter and job security, go with honesty every time. You may suffer in the short term, but you'll be able to hold your head high, and even better opportunities will come your way.”

He punched the top of his thigh so hard that it bruised him.

Do as I say, not as I do.

“Good God,” he said within the confines of the car. “What have I done?” He was tempted to pray as he'd done after Michael's arrest, to ask for forgiveness and to pledge anything if the past weeks could be reversed. But the hypocrisy of that was too distasteful. He hadn't prayed, nor had he stepped into a church, for decades.

He placed his hands on the steering wheel and pushed himself back into his seat as hard as he could, forcing himself into an erect posture, and by extension stiffening his resolve. He started the car, pulled away and drove faster this time. A marked police cruiser sat in front of the house, part of the security detail Vargas-Swayze had arranged for. Wilcox waved at the officer, who returned a sloppy salute.

“Anybody home?” Wilcox called as he came through the front door. When there was no response, he said louder, “Georgia? Are you here?”

He walked into the den where she sat with her back to him. A single lamp cast the only light in the room. He came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Hey,” he said, “I'm home.”

As she turned, light from the lamp caught the glistening on her cheeks. He came around the chair, fell to one knee, grabbed her hands, and asked, forgetting his own problem, “What's wrong, sweetheart? What's happened?”

“Mimi was here. She left a few minutes ago.”

“Mimi Morehouse?”

“Yes.”

She walked to the kitchen, her husband following. “Why was she here?” he asked. “What did she say that's got you so upset?” Mimi and Georgia had forged a friendship during Joe's tenure at the
Trib,
and it wasn't unusual for them to visit each other at their homes. But he'd never seen this sort of aftermath following a visit.

“They're getting a divorce,” Georgia said, busying herself at the sink.

“That's news. Why?”

She turned, leaned back against the sink, and said, “He's been cheating on her for years.”

The announcement didn't surprise Wilcox, although he had little specific knowledge of his editor's private life. Morehouse was always quick to comment when a pretty woman passed: “How would you like a weekend with that?” Or, “A romp in the sack with that would do wonders for my psyche.” Lots of bravado talk but never a boast about a sexual conquest, which Wilcox admired. If Morehouse had enjoyed affairs outside his marriage, he'd always maintained a discreet silence.

“Mimi is seeking the divorce?” Joe asked.

Georgia nodded.

“Well, I'm sorry it's happening, but I have something to tell you.”

“Joe,” she said, as though not hearing him, “according to Mimi, Paul has had affairs with many women.”

“I never had a hint of that,” he said, realizing he was glad that having to deliver his sad message had been postponed by Morehouse's infidelities. “Look,” he said, “I—”

“Joe,” she said, urgency in her voice. “He was seeing the girl who was murdered at the paper.”

“Jean?”

“Yes. Mimi found an e-mail address on his computer she didn't know he had. There were messages from that girl threatening to expose their affair if he didn't do certain things for her.”

“What things?”

“Something to do with a job, a promotion.”

He thought back to his breakfast with Jean Kaporis's father and stepmother. According to them, Jean had been seeing a man named Paul who, she'd told them, turned out to be married. Her father claimed she was devastated when she learned of his marital status, which didn't make sense. Surely she knew that Morehouse had a wife. Then again, it wasn't surprising that she would claim to her parents that she'd been duped; admitting to having knowingly slept with a married man wouldn't present an especially positive image to them.

“Joe,” Georgia said, clasping and unclasping her hands, “do you think that he—?”

“Might have killed her? That's a hell of a thing to contemplate. Does Mimi intend to do anything with the information, aside from filing for divorce? Go to the police with it?”

“I don't know, Joe.” She raised her eyes as though having been struck with a profound, horrible thought. “Oh, my God,” she said, “if he did kill that poor girl, he could be the serial killer.”

Wilcox went to her, wrapped his arms around her, and said, “Let's go in the den. I have something important to talk to you about.”

“About Paul?”

“No. About me.”

Her furrowed brow and tight lips mirrored her concern as they left the kitchen and sat side by side on the couch.

“I don't know where to begin,” he said.

“Is something wrong?” she asked. “Are you all right. Is it about Roberta?”

“It's about me, Georgia, and something I've done.”

She stared at him. Her face said,
Are you about to confess to having an affair, too?

He spoke softly, surprised at how easily the words came, how cathartic it was to share his secret with the person closest to him in this world. She listened impassively, only the movement of her eyes reflecting her reaction. When he was done reciting the facts, he said, “This will end my career at the
Trib,
Georgia. It'll end my career in general.”

“I love you,” she said suddenly, touching his cheek.

It was the last thing he expected to hear from her, and it tore at him in a way that nothing else she might have said would have, no matter how angry or scornful. Tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks, tears of relief and regret, inadequacy and gratitude.

“There's more to it,” he said after wiping his face with a handkerchief. “There's a legal problem, too.”

He explained how having written the letters constituted a criminal act, possibly more than one.

“Edith wouldn't pursue that, would she?” Georgia asked.

“As a friend? No. But she's a cop, Georgia. Besides, it's not her decision. Once her superiors at MPD know the facts, it'll be out of her hands.”