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 oâclock news, on which Roberta Wilcoxâs six oâclock 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.
âHello, Edith. Itâs Joe Wilcox.â
âI was just thinking of you,â she said.
âPositively, I hope.â
âDefinitely positive. I was watching your kid on TV. Sheâs good, to say nothing of lovely.â
She didnât 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.
âYeah,â Joe said. âSheâs a winner. Look, Edith, Iâm putting a story to bed about the Franklin Park thing, and thought Iâd touch base with you one more time before I wrap it up.â
âSorry, Joe, but thereâs nothing new on the case. Even if there were, I still couldnât talk about it. Bernie Evans came down hard on us today about leaks. The gag over the mouth is tight and secure.â
âIâm sure it is,â he said. âBut I keep hearing stirrings about the possibility that Kaporisâs and McNamaraâs murderers might be the same person.â
âNothing to that, Joe. Hot air. Empty rumors, plain and simple. No evidence.â
âSo, youâve heard them, too?â
âWhat would a police force be without rumors, Joe? Evans said the IO received calls about a possible serial killer connection.â
âFrom the press?â
âWho else? Drop it, Joe. Thatâs my advice.â
âI canât,â he said. âWeâre going with that slant tomorrow.â
She sighed and shifted in the recliner. âI wish you wouldnât,â she said. âBernie Evans knows you and I are close. Heâll accuse me of feeding you the rumor.â
âAnd Iâll deny you did.â
âBecause I didnât.â
âExactly. Iâm just giving you a heads-up.â
âThanksâfor nothing.â
âEdith?â
âYes?â
âMuchas gracias.â
âDe nada, amigo. Buenos noche.â
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 sheâd 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 wasnât the first time sheâd 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.
âHello?â
âEdith. Itâs Peter. I hope I didnât wake you.â
âHello, Peter,â she said to her estranged husband. âNo, but I was on my way to bed.â
âGood. Iâm glad I didnât wake you. How are things?â
âGreat, but theyâd be better if your damn lawyer would send my damn lawyer the papers.â
âCan we get together and talk?â
âAbout what? Youâre not about to renege on what we decided, are you?â
âI wouldnât do that,â he said.
âThe hell you wouldnât. When it comes to a buck, Peter, youâd kill to save one.â
âYou know thatâs not true.â
âWhat do you
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