“I need to see you, Michael.”
“And so you shall. What time? Shall I make dinner?”
“No, that’s not necessary.”
“But you are free for dinner. I’ve come across a splendid bistro I just know you’d love.”
“I have a few things to clean up here but I can be there in an hour. Say four?”
“I’ll be awaiting your arrival, Robbie.”
She went back to screening the tape. The cameraman, Carlos, poked his head into the screening room and asked, “How’s it look?”
“Looks great,” Roberta replied. “The kitchen stuff is a little rough, but we can cut around it.”
He sat. “So, what’s this all about?” he asked. “He’s your uncle?”
“Yes.”
“And he killed some girl?”
“Right again, Carlos. But I’m afraid I had the wrong slant on it. Look, I’ll fill you in later, okay? I have to finish looking at this, and I have an appointment across town. Great job, my friend, as usual.”
After speaking with her father, she’d had every intention of sharing with her boss the startling revelation that her own father, the Trib’s crack cops reporter, had forged the letters from the alleged serial killer and had sent them to himself. But as she considered that course of action, she decided to hold off, at least for a day. At best, the story wouldn’t surface for at least twenty-four hours, and she wasn’t anxious to be the one to break it. She knew the minute she’d hung up on that call that her posture as the hard-bitten investigative TV journalist would take a back seat to family. That her father had invited her to do her job, no matter how destructive it would be for him, hit her hard. Be a daughter, she told herself—at least for a day.
That same sense of humanity was behind her call to Michael.
She laughed out loud at how misguided her assumption had been. She was convinced that Michael had written the serial killer letters, which meant by extension that he was probably the killer. If that thesis had been correct, she was in the front row of a sensational story, not only the first reporter to be privy to the inside facts, but the person who’d solved the crime, heady stuff for a journalist her age. Awards galore. A book contract. A movie. A correspondent on 60 Minutes. Fame and fortune.
But she’d been wrong. Her father had obviously used Michael’s typewriter to write the letters—which raised a question not so easily answered. Why had he done it?
The obvious answer was that he wanted to enhance his career, be the center of attention. It had taken her a few introspective minutes to conjure the other possibilities. Had he done it because he had evidence that Michael was indeed the serial killer, and hoped to choreograph his apprehension on his own terms, control the investigation, benefit from his involvement?
Or was he attempting to frame his brother?
That second possibility raised issues worthy of a psychology textbook. Could her father’s hatred for Michael, based upon what he’d done more than forty years ago, been so pervasive that he would deliberately hand his only brother up on a sacrificial platter to society, punish him again for his youthful act? She couldn’t accept that, no matter how deeply seated its origins might be. That her father had kept Michael a secret from her for all these years spoke volumes of his sense of shame. And while that might have been the wrong approach, it was understandable. He was flawed in some ways—and who wasn’t?—but was not a man who would do such a thing. Impossible. No. He’d sought the sort of recognition that had eluded him over the course of his career, and had erred in how he’d pursued it. That had to be it. No other answer was possible.
She owed Michael an explanation, and an apology, and intended to deliver it to him that day.
THIRTY-TWO
Vargas-Swayze met with her boss, Bernie Evans, and laid out for him what she’d learned about the letters allegedly written by the so-called serial killer, and the background of Joe’s brother, Michael Wilcox, aka Michael LaRue.
“Wilcox—Joe Wilcox—acknowledges he wrote them?” he said.
“Yes.”
“What the hell was he looking for, his fifteen minutes of fame?”
She shrugged. “Either that or he was trying to frame his brother.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know—unless—”
He cocked his head.
“God, I have trouble even saying it—unless he was trying to shift focus from himself to someone else.”
“Meaning he might be a murderer?”
“He had nothing to do with the McNamara murder, that’s for sure. He was with me that night. But Jean Kaporis at the Trib? I just don’t know, Bernie.”
Evans rubbed his eyes and moved his mouth against the tightness in his jaw.
“Bernie,” Edith said, “Joe Wilcox might have really screwed up by writing the letters, but he’s no killer.”
“Bring him in,” Evans said.
“Is that really necessary? I mean, now?”
“Edith, you’re a damn good cop. You might have broken this whole serial killer thing wide open. I know Wilcox is a friend, but good cops don’t let that get in their way. If you’d prefer, I’ll send someone else.”
“No, no, I’ll do it. You’re right. I’m a good cop. Not to worry.”
“Good. Now, let’s talk about this brother with a past. Do you think he might have killed the two women?”
“He was at the Trib the night Kaporis was killed. He’s killed before. They decided he was criminally insane. He’s still a little odd, in a nice sort of way. There’s the knifing of his neighbor in Franklin Park. That’s where the McNamara girl got it, too. It’s not far from where he lives. Wade had bad vibes about him. Sure, he’s a suspect.”
“Bring him in, too.”
A crinkly smile crossed his face.
“What’s funny?” she asked.
“We’ve got a couple of brothers, one who murders the girl from next door, the other who writes letters claiming they’re from a serial killer. Maybe insanity runs in the family.”
Vargas-Swayze stood. “Anything else?”
“Speaking of mental stress, how’s your divorce coming?”
“Okay. Peter backed off with his stupid demands. With any luck, I’ll be able to drop Swayze from my name pretty soon.”
“It has a nice ring to it,” he said, coming around his desk. “ ‘Vargas-Swayze.’ Hyphenated names always sound, well, important. Nice necklace.”
“Thanks,” she said, fingering a large, copper pendant she’d recently bought at an Adams Morgan street fair.
She sat at her desk and ran through various approaches she might take with Wilcox.
Joe, how about coming with me to headquarters? Just a couple of questions about the letters. Nothing to worry about, but—
Joe, I hate to bother you with all that’s on your mind, but I was wondering if we could have a little chat down at headquarters and—
Joe, you’ll never believe this but—
She called the house. Wilcox answered on the first ring.
“Joe, it’s Edith. Hate to bother you but—”
“Actually, I enjoy being bothered, Edith. It’s better than talking to myself.”
“I understand. Joe, I just came from a meeting with Bernie Evans.”
“The Professor?”
“Yes, the Professor. He wants you to come in for questioning.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“I told him I’d arrange it with you. My suggestion is that you do it immediately.”
“That’s understandable.”
“He wants me to bring in your brother, too.”
“Michael? Why?”
“Obvious reasons. His history, proximity to the murders. We’re not targeting him, but he’s been on our suspect list for the Kaporis murder ever since we ran down everyone who was at the paper the night she was killed. Of course, we knew him as Michael LaRue. No idea he was your brother.”
“Does he know that you know, Edith?”
; “No.”
“I’d like to be the one to tell him.”
Her silence said she had a problem with that.
“As a favor?” he said.
“What about you, Joe? I assume you’ll come in voluntarily.”
He forced a laugh. “I’m not the type to go on the lam, Edith. Of course I’ll show up.”
“You should get a lawyer.”
“I will. I still haven’t told Paul Morehouse.”
“What time do you want to come in?”
“Give me a few hours. What is it now, three? Six? Six thirty?”
“I’ll wait for you here,” she said.
“I’ll ask Michael to come with me. Should be quite a show, a couple of foul-ball brothers showing up together at police headquarters.”
“Joe.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m putting myself on the line, letting you do it your way.”
“And I appreciate it. Don’t worry, we’ll be there. If I have a problem with Michael, I’ll let you know.”
“I’m sorry, Joe.”
“Hey, what’s that saying? Life is what happens while you’re making other plans? Sure as hell is true in my case. See you in a couple of hours. But no handcuffs or perp walk, huh?”
“No handcuffs or perp walk.”
He found Georgia, who’d gone to their bedroom to rest.
“That was Edith,” he said, sitting on the bed next to her. “I’m going to police headquarters to be questioned.”
She bolted upright, her back pressed against the headboard. “Are they arresting you?”
“No, of course not. Just routine, I’m sure. I’m going to call Frank.” Frank Moss had been their family attorney since handling the purchase of their house. “He’s not a criminal attorney, but he knows plenty of them. I’m also calling Michael.”
“Why?”
“They want to speak with him, too.”
“About the letters?
“About the murders.”
She grabbed his hand with surprising strength. “Joe, you don’t think that—”
“That he killed those women? No, I don’t. He’s gotten drawn into this because of me. The least I can do is be there for him.”
He left her and made his call to the attorney, giving him a thumbnail description of the dilemma in which he’d plopped himself. Moss said he’d meet him at First District headquarters. “Joe, say nothing. I’ll handle it.”
“I’m afraid I’ve already said too much, Frank.”
“Just don’t add to it.”
He didn’t mention that he would be bringing his brother with him. His own troubles had been difficult enough to get across in a short phone conversation.
Georgia joined him in the den as he was about to place his call to Michael.
“I’m coming with you,” she said.
“No, you stay here. It’ll be embarrassing enough without having my wife at my side.”
“I don’t care about embarrassment, Joe. I want to be there—at your side.”
“Suit yourself.”
Michael’s answering machine picked up before he could get to the phone, and they had to wait for the outgoing message to end before speaking.
“It’s Joe, Michael.”
“Hello,” Michael said.
“Michael, I won’t get into the specifics right now, but I’ve done something wrong, seriously wrong, and it involves you.”
“Oh, my, Joseph. You? Do something terribly wrong? I refuse to believe it.”
“Believe it, Michael. I’m going to MPD headquarters in a few hours. They want you to come with me.”
“Oh? About the serial killer?”
“In a sense. I wrote those letters myself.”
“What letters?”
“The serial killer letters. I wrote them to myself, on your typewriter.”
“Joseph!”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Maybe I can get off with an insanity plea, too.” The words tumbled out too fast to stop them. “Sorry. The point is that the police want to talk to both of us. I told them I’d bring you with me. That’s better than having them show up at your door.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Michael said. “Why did you do it? Were you trying to hurt me?”
“No, not at all. I was trying to become a big shot, an important person. That’s why I did it. You’ve got to believe me.”
“I don’t see that I have any choice.”
“Will you come with me? I told them six or six thirty. I’ll pick you up at five thirty.”
His voice broke. “I don’t want any trouble, Joseph. I’ve had too much trouble in my life.”
“There won’t be any trouble, Michael. My attorney is meeting us there. If you need legal help, I’ll pay for it. But I’m sure you won’t. You’ll come?”
“Yes, I’ll come. Goodbye, Joseph.”
Georgia returned from having changed clothes.
“You look great,” he said. “Perfect outfit for a felon’s wife.”
“Stop it, Joe.”
“I should dress up, too, in case the paparazzi are there.”
“You look fine. Michael is coming?”
“Uh-huh. We’re picking him up at five thirty.”
“What about Paul?” she asked.
“I dread that call more than anything else,” he replied, “but I’d better make it.”
“Will you mention Mimi and what she told me?”
“No. The fact that he was having an affair with Jean Kaporis doesn’t mean he killed her.” His words didn’t match what he was thinking. While it was unthinkable for him to cast Morehouse into the role of murderer, that possibility had been swirling in his brain ever since hearing about Mimi’s allegation. But that’s all it was, an allegation from a wounded wife.
He picked up the phone and dialed Morehouse’s direct line.
“Paul, it’s Joe.”
“Where are you?” Morehouse asked, gruffly.
“At home. We have to meet.”
“Yeah, that would be nice. Do you have something for the paper tomorrow? Anything new about the letters?”
Wilcox strained not to laugh. “As a matter of fact, there is something new on that front, Paul.”
“Like what?”
“That’s why we have to meet. I have an—ah—an appointment at six. Where will you be this evening?”
“Here until eight or nine. I have an appointment, too, later. What’s up? You sound strange.”
“Must be an allergy. I’ll call you when I’m finished with my six o’clock and see if we can get together before your date.” Was it a date? he wondered. Did he have a young woman’s bed into which to climb later that night? A vision of Morehouse and the lovely Jean Kaporis making love came and went. It wasn’t a pretty picture.
At four thirty, Joe and Georgia left the house and got into one of their matching Toyota Camrys, one gray, one burgundy.
“No matter what happens,” she said, “we’ll get through it together.”
“Thank you,” he said, starting the engine and backing into the street. “Thank you very much.”
THIRTY-THREE
The buzzer sounded in Michael’s apartment.
“Robbie?” he said into the intercom.
“Yes.”
He was waiting in the hall as she came through the front door. He extended his arms and she readily accepted his hug.
“Come in, come in,” he said, stepping aside.
Music from his stereo filled the apartment, a solo jazz guitarist playing a song in three-quarter time.
“Joe Pass?” she asked pleasantly, pleased that she now had a jazz name to offer.
“No. Martin Taylor. He’s Scottish. Brilliant.”
“He sounds just like you.”
“I can only wish. It is such a pleasure to have you visit, Robbie,” he said, turning down the volume of the CD, one of six in the multiple CD player. “You look as beautiful as ever.”
“Michael,” she said, ignoring the c
ompliment, “I have something very important to tell you.”
He held up his hand. “I know you do, Robbie, and I am anxious to hear it. But not here.”
Her puzzled expression prompted him to continue.
“How much time do you have?” he asked.
“I have all evening. I’m off tonight. But—”
“Splendid. Come.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the door, opened it, and led her to the building’s foyer.
“What are you doing, Michael?” she asked, laughing.
His answer was to propel her down the walkway to a shiny black convertible sports car, the top down. He opened the passenger door. “Get in,” he said.
“Is this yours?” she asked, sliding onto the red leather seat.
“For the moment,” he replied, coming around and getting behind the wheel. “I ran out and rented it for this occasion.”
“What occasion?”
A woman’s voice called, “Michael?”
He turned to see Carla approaching.
“I’m just leaving,” he said to her, his tone not pleasant.
“I told you I was stopping by,” Carla said, looking at Robbie and the car. “Did you buy this?”
“No. Excuse me, Carla, but we must be going.”
Carla glared at Roberta. “A new friend?” she said to him.
“This is my niece,” he said.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Carla said.
He left her standing on the sidewalk as he turned the ignition key and the engine rumbled to life. He slipped the manual transmission into gear and drove away.
“A girlfriend?” Roberta asked, looking back at the bewildered woman.
“No.”
Was he angry at the question? He sounded it.
“Michael,” she insisted, “you must tell me why we’re doing this.”
He glanced at her, smiled, and said loudly, “I have found the most charming bistro not far out of the city. It has divine food, a lovely outdoor terrace, and is surprisingly moderate in price.”
“I didn’t come for dinner,” she said, her words slipping away in the wind and cacophony of traffic sounds, her auburn hair swirling about her face. “I wanted to tell you something—in person.”
“About the letters,” he shouted, his laugh loud.
“You—?”
He removed his right hand from the wheel and waved it in front of her. “Not now,” he said, his voice having lost its lightheartedness. “Not now!”
Murder at The Washington Tribune Page 30
