“I’m not sure I understand,” she said.
“Somebody at MPD is floating the serial killer theory. Your father’s article confirms that.”
“I don’t know who he spoke with.”
“Can you ask?”
“I did. He’s not about to divulge his sources.” She smiled and answered his next question before he asked it. “Even to his daughter.”
He slid a sheet of paper across the desk. On it was a long list of typed names. She scanned it and gave him a quizzical look.
“People who’ve called in asking about the serial killer. They’re concerned, of course.”
“We don’t know if there is a serial killer,” she said. “I can’t get anyone at MPD to even proffer the possibility. The official line is that the two murders were committed by two different people.”
“ ‘Official line,’ ” he repeated, scornfully. “Since when do we adhere to the official line? Look, Roberta, the Trib, thanks to your father, is ahead of us on this. If it ends up that there isn’t a nut running around killing people, so be it. But we can’t ignore the possibility.” She started to say something, but a wave of his hand silenced her. “Let’s at least cover the story on the basis that there could be a serial killer in D.C.”
“All right,” she said. “Any suggestions on how to go about that?”
“Sure,” he said. “Start by interviewing single women in the District. You’re a single woman, Roberta. You’ll be able to empathize with them and get them to empathize with you. Also, dig into the history of serial killings in the area, do a profile on serial killers from the past. I’ll clear airtime for you tonight and in the future. We’ll run it as an investigative series, a five- or six-parter, and buy print ads supporting it. Questions?”
“I can’t do the interviews and do the research at the same time.”
“Use freelancers for the research. Pull out all the stops.” He pointed to the list of callers on his desk. “This is going to mushroom. I want it to mushroom and I want to stay ahead of it.” He sat back in his chair, hands behind his head, and smiled. “Should make you feel good, getting the jump on your father, huh?” he said.
Gene Hawthorne was reading National Press Club literature in the club’s lobby when Wilcox arrived.
“Drink?” Wilcox asked.
“I don’t drink,” the younger man said.
“I’ll bet you’re a vegetarian, too,” Wilcox said, without an edge.
Hawthorne shook his head. “Not completely, Joe. I skip red meat, but chicken’s okay.”
“Then chicken it’ll be,” Wilcox said, leading them into the dining room where they were seated by a window. Hawthorne had a Diet Coke, Wilcox a Virgin Mary.
“Know what they call Virgin Marys in England?” Wilcox asked.
“No.”
“Bloody Shames. Catholic waiters took offense at having to ask bartenders for Virgin Marys, so they changed the name.”
“Oh yeah? Interesting?” Hawthorne said, not looking up from the menu.
Wilcox said, “So, Paul thinks you can help me with the serial murder articles. Go ahead. Shoot. I’m all ears.”
“What are you having?” Hawthorne asked, nodding at the waiter who’d suddenly appeared at tableside, order pad and pencil at the ready.
“A hamburger, rare,” Wilcox said.
“I’ll have the chicken salad,” said Hawthorne, “and easy on the mayonnaise.” He looked at Wilcox. “You were saying, Joe?”
“The help you can give me. I’m looking forward to what you can offer.”
Hawthorne shrugged. “I have a few contacts that might be useful, that’s all,” he said. “I’m pretty well wired in at City Hall.”
“City Hall? Sounds good. Think you can get me a statement from the mayor about serial killers running loose in his city?”
“I don’t know about the mayor. Maybe one of his aides.”
“I know aides over there, too,” Wilcox said. “If you can’t get the mayor, I—”
“I’ll see what I can do for you,” Hawthorne said. “About the mayor.”
“Good. What other sources do you have, Gene? Are you wired in, as you put it, with MPD?”
“I know some people there, but you’re the cops reporter.”
“That’s right, I am.”
Hawthorne looked around the room before leaning closer to the table and saying, “Look, Joe, I know you don’t like me, and I understand. I—”
The arrival of their lunches broke the tension, and they focused on eating. Hawthorne was the first to break their silence.
“Let’s be honest with each other, Joe,” he said. “I know what you think of me. I’ve heard the comments from others, ones you’ve badmouthed me to. Like I said, I can understand it. Guys like you, older guys at the end of their careers, resent young guys like me coming in and taking over. That’s natural, I guess, sort of built into the scheme of things.” He gave a boyish grin. “But that shouldn’t be a reason to dislike me. I mean, I like you, Joe.”
“That’s nice to hear,” Wilcox said, popping a final French fry into his mouth.
“No, I mean it, Joe. You’ve paid your dues and deserve a nice retirement, time to play golf or work in the garden or things like that. Some day I’ll enjoy the same things.”
“I’m not close to retiring,” Wilcox said, his jaw working against rising anger. He felt a little woozy, and the burger sat heavily in his stomach.
“I know,” Hawthorne said. “I didn’t mean you were.”
Wilcox wiped his mouth with his napkin, shifted in his chair, drew some breaths, and asked, “How well did you know Jean Kaporis?”
“Huh?”
“Jean Kaporis? How well did you know her?”
Hawthorne, too, shifted in his seat and appeared to be processing what Wilcox had asked. Wilcox waited.
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious, Gene. Rumors are that you might have had a close relationship with her.”
Hawthorne guffawed and found another posture. “A close relationship? That’s ridiculous.”
“But you knew her.”
“Of course I did. So did you. So did anybody working there. What are you doing, Joe, trying to manufacture some sort of story about us so you can point to me as the guy who killed her?”
“I just asked, Gene. I’m not trying to do anything.”
The young reporter appeared to have been shaken during the exchange. Now, he adopted a confidence bordering on arrogance. “You should be working for some tabloid, Joe,” he said. “You have a tabloid mentality.”
His comment further angered Wilcox, who had to fight an urge to strike out physically across the table. Hawthorne, sensing he’d struck a nerve, continued. “Tell you what, Joe,” he said, “I’ll feed your need for gossip journalism. Yes, Jean Kaporis and I got it on. Coffee together, drinks after work.” His smile was cruel. “I bet you want to know what it was like in the sack with her, huh, Joe? Guys your age forget what it’s like. Am I right, Joe?”
Wilcox stood abruptly and walked to the bar. He ordered a Scotch, neat, signaled for the waiter to bring him the check there, and watched Hawthorne strut from the room.
“Damn!” he muttered to himself as the drink was placed in front of him, dismayed at how he’d handled the encounter. He’d intended to calmly put this annoying bugbear in his place, to show him up not by confrontation, but by encouraging him to self-destruct. It hadn’t happened. He’d allowed his emotional dislike to trump his intellect, even to the extent that he’d invited Hawthorne’s mocking claim of having slept with Jean Kaporis.
“Everything okay, Mr. Wilcox?” the barman asked.
“What? Yeah, everything’s okay.”
“Fill ’er up again?”
“No, no, thank you. I have to get back to work.”
The bartender must have noticed that he’d become unraveled. Embarrassed, Wilcox signed the checks, returned greetings from others at the bar, and left the club, intending to go back to t
he office to further prepare for his four o’clock interview with Colleen McNamara’s mother and sister. Instead, he walked without purpose, stopping in at a bookstore. Maybe I should retire and write a book, he thought, but realized that he had nothing to write about. He sat at an outdoor table in front of a luncheonette and sipped a coffee and watched the world pass by. There was a moment when he considered skipping the interview with the McNamaras, going home and going to bed. What had the TV talk show star Jack Paar once said? “They can’t hurt you under the covers.”
But that spasm of defeatism passed. He decided to not bother getting his car. Instead he took a taxi to the apartment shared by Colleen McNamara and her fiancé, Philip Connor. By the time he arrived, his depression had lifted, replaced by a renewed burst of enthusiasm. You’re damn good, he told himself. Get in there and prove it!
ELEVEN
While Joe Wilcox suffered the aftermath of an acidic lunch with young master Hawthorne, detectives Vargas-Swayze and Dungey stood on the loading dock of an office supply company warehouse in an industrial area of Southwest. With them was Michael LaRue, one of the company’s many deliverymen. He was a tall, trim man with a coppery tan, and black hair pulled into a small ponytail.
“And you delivered the supplies that night and left the building?” Vargas-Swayze said.
“That’s right,” LaRue said through an engaging smile. “The Tribune is part of my regular route. I’ve been there often since I came to work here.” His voice was deep and well modulated; Dungey quietly observed that LaRue spoke well, like a teacher or some other educated person. Detective Dungey also decided that he dyed his hair.
“And you took the supplies up to the newsroom? Why didn’t you leave them downstairs in the receiving area?”
His laugh was meant to reassure. “When I have a large delivery to make, that’s where I take it, to receiving. But that night, as I remember, we’d gotten an emergency call for some supply or other—I don’t know what it was exactly—and I was dispatched to run it over there. You can check inside. They’ll have a record of what I delivered.”
“But why were you allowed by the security guards to bring it upstairs?” Dungey asked.
“You’ll have to ask them,” LaRue replied, meaning the Trib’s private security force. “It’s not the first time they’ve waved me through. I think the people up in the newsroom leave word with the guards when they know that something they really need is on its way. I don’t know that for a fact, but I believe that’s the way it works.”
Dungey pulled out a photograph of Jean Kaporis and showed it to LaRue.
“That’s the same photo you showed me the last time,” LaRue said. “What a tragedy. She looks like such a lovely young woman.”
“Do you remember seeing her when you made your delivery that night?”
Another cheery, gentle laugh. “I’m sure I didn’t, Detective. I think I would have remembered such a beautiful woman. No, I didn’t see her.”
“You took the supplies you were delivering to a storeroom, away from the main newsroom?”
“Correct. That’s where I was told to take the boxes.”
“How many boxes?”
“Two, I recall. Two small ones. Oh, I do remember that before I took them to the storeroom, someone, a reporter I assume, asked me to open a box. I did, and she removed one of whatever was in it and took it to her desk.”
“That wasn’t Jean Kaporis?” said Dungey.
“No, no, it wasn’t. I can assure you of that.”
“How long have you been working here?” Dungey asked.
“Four or five months.”
“You gave us your address the last time we spoke,” Vargas-Swayze said. “How long have you lived there?”
He frowned in thought. “Six months?” he said. “Give or take.”
“You’re not from here,” she said.
“No. I’m from the Midwest.”
“Where in the Midwest?”
“Illinois, mostly.”
“What brought you to the D.C. area?” Dungey asked.
LaRue’s smile disappeared. “A bad divorce,” he said. “My second. I’m a two-time loser, I’m afraid. I learned after my first divorce that the only smart thing is to give her everything and walk away, start over. That’s what I did. I packed up and headed east.”
“Why Washington?” Vargas-Swayze asked.
He shrugged. “I visited here a few times when I was married, you know, played tourist, saw the sights. I really liked it, so once the divorce—the second one—was final, I got in my car—she didn’t get that—and drove here. I’m glad I did. I like it a lot.”
He looked around the loading dock. “I really have to get back to work. It’s a good job and I’d hate to lose it. Can we talk again? I’ll be happy to come to your office any time you want.”
“We’ll get back to you if we have more questions,” Dungey said, snapping closed his notebook. “Thanks for your time.”
“Sure. I read there might be a serial killer in Washington. I sure hope that’s not true.”
“So do we,” Vargas-Swayze said. “Have a good day.”
Back in their car, Vargas-Swayze said, “So, are you still uneasy about him? He computes for me.”
“Yeah, only let’s run a check on him. He was there the night she got it. Can’t hurt.”
“Right.”
He said as they drove back into midtown, “You were telling me about getting together with your husband last night.”
“That’s right, I was.”
The Westin Fairfax Hotel, on Massachusetts Avenue NW, had gone through various name changes and ownership over the years, but had never lost its opulence. Former Vice President Al Gore had lived there in the 1950s when his father was a United States senator. Having the tony Jockey Club within its walls only added to its élan.
Peter Swayze had arrived before Edith and secured one of the cozy booths in the bar. He stood when Edith entered the room and attempted to give her a welcoming hug, but she avoided his arms and quickly slid into the booth. He sat next to her.
“Drink?” he asked. “The usual?”
“What is the usual, Peter?” she asked.
His laugh was strained. “You don’t think I’d forget something as important as that, do you?” he said. “A margarita with a splash of Alizé, no salt.”
She looked up at the waiter who’d suddenly and silently appeared and said, “Beer. Corona, if you have it, a Bud if you don’t. In a bottle.”
“Sir?” the waiter asked Swayze.
“I, ah . . . gin and tonic, please.”
“So Peter,” she said, “here we are.”
“When did you start drinking beer?”
“The day we split. Why are we here?”
“Do you have to be nasty?” he asked.
“I’m not being nasty,” she said. “I just don’t want to spend any more time here than I have to. I go to work early.”
She took him in as he sat back in the booth. He looked haggard, somewhat unkempt, which was surprising, almost shocking. Her soon-to-be former husband had always been a clotheshorse and was scrupulous about his grooming. And he was hypochondriacal, further accentuating his fastidiousness. But tonight there was stubble on his pale face, and his hair wasn’t carefully arranged as it usually was. He wore a wrinkled blue denim sport jacket, white button-down shirt with one collar point unbuttoned, and baggy chino pants.
She squinted in the dim light and took a closer look. “What’s with the new look, Peter?” she asked.
He glanced down at his shirtfront, back up at her and said, “I lost my job, Edith.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. A downsizing?”
“Something like that. They brought in a new management team, including a guy who ended up my new boss. An idiot. We didn’t see eye-to-eye from day one.”
A series of thoughts ran through her mind as their drinks were served. Peter made a lot of money working for the bank, and had received substantial bonuses d
uring the time they were married. He had a 401K plan into which he invested the maximum amount allowed, and it was matched dollar for dollar by the bank. He was also tightfisted, she knew, someone who agonized over how much to tip in a restaurant, and who would go far out of his way to save a few cents on an item, often spending more in transportation to a bargain than what he saved. He wasn’t about to miss any meals.
“Enough about me,” he said. “I worry about you.”
“Why?”
“The way you spend your days and nights. There’s a killer out there preying on beautiful young women like you.”
“I don’t think I have anything to worry about Peter. In the first place, I’m not a beautiful young woman. In the second place, anybody tries to mess with me and he’s past tense. And third, there is no serial killer.”
“I read the paper,” he said.
“And you know you shouldn’t believe everything you read.”
He raised his glass. “It’s great seeing you again, Edith, here in this place that’s special for us. Remember?”
She picked up her bottle of beer, ignored the glass the waiter had brought with it, and took a swig. As she placed the bottle back on the table, he placed a hand over one of hers. “I really miss you, Edith.”
She pulled it back. “Peter,” she said, “are you actually suggesting that we drop the divorce and get back together?”
“I think so,” he said.
It crossed her mind that now that he was out of work, he might be looking for her to support him until he found another job. But she didn’t express that callous thought. Instead, she said, “That’s out of the question. It didn’t work, Peter. We both know that. We’re better off not being with each other.”
He didn’t reply.
“I thought you were serious about the woman you were seeing,” she said.
“There wasn’t anything there,” he said. “It was purely physical.”
On whose part? she wondered.
“Are you seeing anyone?” he asked. “Anyone you’re serious about?”
Murder at The Washington Tribune Page 10
