Murder at The Washington Tribune by Margaret Truman Page B

though.” He got up, came around behind, leaned over and wrapped his arms around her. “Aside from what the story says, what do you think of the writing?” As many years as he’d been writing for a living, her opinion always mattered.
    â€œTerrific,” she said. “You put your heart and soul into it, and it reads that way.”
    â€œMaybe I haven’t lost the touch altogether,” he said, smiling and going to the window that overlooked the garden, including his small vegetable patch relegated to a corner.
    â€œOf course, you haven’t,” she said, joining him.
    â€œHappens to the best of us,” he said. “You 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.” He turned and placed his hand on her shoulders. “I was beginning to think I was losing it, Georgia.”
    â€œAnd now you know you’re not,” she said, perkily. “Who called when I was in the shower?”
    â€œPaul.”
    â€œI imagine he’s happy that his best reporter came through.”
    â€œYeah, he’s pleased. At least I think he is. You never really know with him. He wants a follow-up tomorrow. I don’t have much to go on unless somebody at MPD decides to open up.”
    â€œWhat about your sources? Edith?”
    â€œShe’s under a gag order about the Kaporis murder. But I’ll give her a try. Got to run.” He kissed her lightly on the lips, pulled back, then kissed her again, harder and longer this time.
    â€œMy,” she said when they’d disengaged. “What did I do to deserve that?”
    â€œThere’s more where that came from, baby,” he said in his best Humphrey Bogart voice, lisp and all.
    He was on his way out the door when she stopped him. “I 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€œYeah, she mentioned him to me the other day—says he’s like me.”
    â€œThen you should approve of him.”
    â€œWhy? Lots of days I don’t like myself.”
    â€œOh, stop it. You’ll like him. Take my word for it. Our daughter has good common sense when it comes to the men in her life.”
    â€œReally? What about that foul ball, Bobby whatever his name was?”
    â€œThat was an exception. Just be sure you’re here tomorrow night.”
    â€œI’ll do my best.” She looked angrily at him. “I’ll be here,” he said.
    â€œGo on, go to work,” she said. “We need the money.”
    Her comment about needing money resulted from an experience Joe had had years earlier. He’d 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, “Goddamn it, Morrie, go out and kill somebody. We need the money.” 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: “According to this morning’s
Washington Tribune . . .
”
    He turned the radio louder and took pleasure in hearing his article cited. That he’d 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