Murder at The Washington Tribune by Margaret Truman Page A

want to talk about, Peter?”
    â€œUs.”
    â€œForget it.”
    â€œPlease, Edith. All I want is the chance to tell you what’s on my mind—and in my heart.”
    She plopped in a chair and pulled her bare feet beneath her. “Peter,” she said softly, “there is nothing to talk about. Our marriage is over.”
    She didn’t want to believe what she now heard on the other end of the line. Was he weeping?
    â€œJesus,” she mumbled to herself. “Peter, stop it,” she said into the phone.
    â€œI’ll kill myself, Edith.”
    She kicked her feet out from under her and sat up straight. “Stop talking nonsense!”
    â€œI will, Edith. I swear I will. All I’m asking for is a few minutes with you. Please. I’m begging you.”
    She tried to sort out her thoughts. She didn’t believe his threat. It was a call for attention, that’s all, a pathetic, stupid attention getter.
    On the other hand . . .
    â€œAll right,” she said with a sigh. “When?”
    â€œI can come there right now.”
    â€œTo my apartment? Absolutely not. A public place, somewhere quiet. Can you pull yourself together and behave?”
    â€œOh, yes, Edith. I promise. The Fairfax Bar, in the Westin Fairfax?”
    â€œOh, God,” she said. “How romantic.” They’d spent their wedding night at that hotel.
    â€œIt has those private little alcoves in the bar. Remember? A half hour?”
    â€œYes, I remember, Peter. But keep one thing in mind. I’m a cop. I have a gun. And if you try to play games with our financial settlement, try to weasel out of it, I’m liable to use it.”

NINE
    PARK MURDER RAISES MPD CONCERN
Newspaper and Park Murders Linked?
    That was the headline and subhead on the lead story of the
Trib
’s Metro section front page the following morning. Accompanying the story were side-by-side headshots of Jean Kaporis and Colleen McNamara. The interview a reporter from the LA bureau had done with Kaporis’s former boyfriend ran as a sidebar: “Jean was a really nice girl. I’m real upset about what happened to her.” He said they’d dated for only a few months shortly after she’d arrived in Washington, but decided to sever the relationship soon after: “It was an amicable breakup. We had different ambitions,” he said. “I’m an actor now, a movie actor.”
    Joe and Georgia Wilcox sat at the kitchen table in their Rockville home, the paper open to his bylined article.
    â€œGives me the creeps,” she said.
    â€œI know,” he said.
    â€œSeems like the boyfriend in L.A. is more interested in plugging his acting career than grieving for his former girlfriend.”
    â€œOh. I wasn’t thinking of that,” Joe said.
    â€œI hope they don’t just accept what he’s said. Boyfriends are the first suspects in every murder. Aren’t they?”
    â€œWhat? Sure, that’s right.”
    â€œDo they really think there might be a serial killer loose?” she asked.
    â€œThey have to be open to any possibilities,” Joe said. “Nothing gets ruled out.”
    â€œJoe, do you think Roberta is in danger if this madman is preying on young women who work in media?”
    â€œNo, but she should take precautions, like any young woman in the city. She’s smart and can take care of herself. But nothing’s lost by reminding her now and then—which you’ve been doing with regularity anyway.”
    His words failed to comfort, judging from worry lines etched into her brow.
    â€œMore coffee?” she asked, picking up the carafe and pouring a second cup for herself.
    â€œThanks, no,” he said. “I’ve got to get downtown.”
    â€œI’m glad you decided to sleep in this morning,” she said. “You looked exhausted when you came home last night.”
    â€œYeah, I guess I was dragging. Feeling better now