though.â He got up, came around behind, leaned over and wrapped his arms around her. âAside from what the story says, what do you think of the writing?â As many years as heâd been writing for a living, her opinion always mattered.
âTerrific,â she said. âYou put your heart and soul into it, and it reads that way.â
âMaybe I havenât lost the touch altogether,â he said, smiling and going to the window that overlooked the garden, including his small vegetable patch relegated to a corner.
âOf course, you havenât,â she said, joining him.
âHappens to the best of us,â he said. âYou lose energy and drive. Lots of guys I know have. I see them down at the Press Club. The spirit is certainly willing but the flesh is weak, along with the mind.â He turned and placed his hand on her shoulders. âI was beginning to think I was losing it, Georgia.â
âAnd now you know youâre not,â she said, perkily. âWho called when I was in the shower?â
âPaul.â
âI imagine heâs happy that his best reporter came through.â
âYeah, heâs pleased. At least I think he is. You never really know with him. He wants a follow-up tomorrow. I donât have much to go on unless somebody at MPD decides to open up.â
âWhat about your sources? Edith?â
âSheâs under a gag order about the Kaporis murder. But Iâll give her a try. Got to run.â He kissed her lightly on the lips, pulled back, then kissed her again, harder and longer this time.
âMy,â she said when theyâd disengaged. âWhat did I do to deserve that?â
âThereâs more where that came from, baby,â he said in his best Humphrey Bogart voice, lisp and all.
He was on his way out the door when she stopped him. âI forgot to tell you. Roberta wants to come by for dinner tomorrow night. She has a new beau and wants us to meet him.â
âYeah, she mentioned him to me the other dayâsays heâs like me.â
âThen you should approve of him.â
âWhy? Lots of days I donât like myself.â
âOh, stop it. Youâll like him. Take my word for it. Our daughter has good common sense when it comes to the men in her life.â
âReally? What about that foul ball, Bobby whatever his name was?â
âThat was an exception. Just be sure youâre here tomorrow night.â
âIâll do my best.â She looked angrily at him. âIâll be here,â he said.
âGo on, go to work,â she said. âWe need the money.â
Her comment about needing money resulted from an experience Joe had had years earlier. Heâd nurtured a relationship with an enforcer for organized crime as a source for a story. The hit man, with the unlikely name of Maurice, had invited Wilcox to dinner at his house, which Wilcox reluctantly accepted. During dinner, Maurice went into the kitchen where his wife confronted him, screaming, âGoddamn it, Morrie, go out and kill somebody. We need the money.â Ever since, Wilcox went off to work with that order from Georgia to bring home the bacon. On a slab. A private little joke between them.
Although it was past normal morning rush, traffic was clotted. He tuned to all-news station WTOP where the news reader turned to the D.C. area; speculation about a serial killer on the prowl was the second story in the segment: âAccording to this morningâs
Washington Tribune . . .
â
He turned the radio louder and took pleasure in hearing his article cited. That heâd manufactured the anonymous police source bothered him less this morning than it had the previous day and night. The possibility of there being a serial killer was not far-fetched. Besides, without it, the article would never have run. Reporting that someone at MPD had floated the theory gave the story credence, enough to
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