Murder at The Washington Tribune by Margaret Truman

two-mile jog. Back in the apartment, showered and dressed in shorty pajamas and a robe, she heated leftover takeout in the microwave and ate without enthusiasm in front of the TV. She watched the ten o’clock news, on which Roberta Wilcox’s six o’clock report was repeated, and thought of Joe Wilcox. How proud he must be to see his only child achieve success in his chosen profession. She was in the midst of that thought when the phone rang.
    â€œHello, Edith. It’s Joe Wilcox.”
    â€œI was just thinking of you,” she said.
    â€œPositively, I hope.”
    â€œDefinitely positive. I was watching your kid on TV. She’s good, to say nothing of lovely.”
    She didn’t say that she found the report to be lacking substance. Murders were not big news in D.C. those days. The only new thing Roberta had to report that night was that the latest victim was Colleen McNamara, who worked for a competing station.
    â€œYeah,” Joe said. “She’s a winner. Look, Edith, I’m putting a story to bed about the Franklin Park thing, and thought I’d touch base with you one more time before I wrap it up.”
    â€œSorry, Joe, but there’s nothing new on the case. Even if there were, I still couldn’t talk about it. Bernie Evans came down hard on us today about leaks. The gag over the mouth is tight and secure.”
    â€œI’m sure it is,” he said. “But I keep hearing stirrings about the possibility that Kaporis’s and McNamara’s murderers might be the same person.”
    â€œNothing to that, Joe. Hot air. Empty rumors, plain and simple. No evidence.”
    â€œSo, you’ve heard them, too?”
    â€œWhat would a police force be without rumors, Joe? Evans said the IO received calls about a possible serial killer connection.”
    â€œFrom the press?”
    â€œWho else? Drop it, Joe. That’s my advice.”
    â€œI can’t,” he said. “We’re going with that slant tomorrow.”
    She sighed and shifted in the recliner. “I wish you wouldn’t,” she said. “Bernie Evans knows you and I are close. He’ll accuse me of feeding you the rumor.”
    â€œAnd I’ll deny you did.”
    â€œBecause I didn’t.”
    â€œExactly. I’m just giving you a heads-up.”
    â€œThanks—for nothing.”
    â€œEdith?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œMuchas gracias.”
    â€œDe nada, amigo. Buenos noche.”
    Her cordless phone went dead. She went to the kitchen, poured a glass of orange juice, and returned to the chair. Her thoughts wandered to the night she’d made love with Wilcox. Had she compromised her professional relationship with him when she stripped off her clothing in a fit of passion and sexually indulged herself? It wasn’t the first time she’d wondered that, although it had never impacted how they dealt with each other on the job as cop and reporter. Was that about to change? She hoped not.
    She flipped through channels and settled on a Spanish-language movie on the local Hispanic outlet. She lasted a half hour, her head drooping to her chest during commercial breaks. The set was snapped off and she headed for the bedroom. The ringing phone stopped her.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œEdith. It’s Peter. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
    â€œHello, Peter,” she said to her estranged husband. “No, but I was on my way to bed.”
    â€œGood. I’m glad I didn’t wake you. How are things?”
    â€œGreat, but they’d be better if your damn lawyer would send my damn lawyer the papers.”
    â€œCan we get together and talk?”
    â€œAbout what? You’re not about to renege on what we decided, are you?”
    â€œI wouldn’t do that,” he said.
    â€œThe hell you wouldn’t. When it comes to a buck, Peter, you’d kill to save one.”
    â€œYou know that’s not true.”
    â€œWhat do you