Murder at The Washington Tribune by Margaret Truman Page A

“news?” It seemed that way, although he knew Morehouse would have a tough time getting his bosses to run an article based upon speculation and innuendo.
    Morehouse’s suggestion that he, Joe Wilcox, a twenty-three year veteran reporter, enlist the help of the self-righteous, smug Gene Hawthorne, was especially galling. Morehouse knew of his dislike for the young reporter. Had he made the suggestion in order to humiliate him? If that was his intention, he’d succeeded, at least momentarily.
    He finished his drink, checked his watch, and ordered a second. While waiting for it and Edith Vargas-Swayze to arrive, he found himself smiling, and feeling, suddenly, strangely buoyant.
    Morehouse had said that the Kaporis story might be the big one Wilcox had been seeking his entire career. Maybe Morehouse was right. Maybe it was time to suck it up and summon new energy to attack the story with the zest he’d demonstrated in the past. He’d recently been going through the motions, he knew, disheartened and dejected, wondering where his career had taken him. He was in the midst of that thought when Edith came through the door, spotted him, and slid on to the bench across from him.
    â€œI was afraid you were standing me up,” Wilcox said.
    â€œI’m not that late,” she said. “I see you’ve started without me.”
    â€œJust killing time. Drink?”
    She shook her head. “Afraid I’ll be called back. The natives are restless tonight. Three shootings so far, more to come.”
    He was glad he wasn’t back at the paper. The night reporters assigned to the cops beat would have been dispatched to cover the shootings, and he would have been pressed into service, too. There was always the possibility that he’d receive a call at home or on his cell phone, but that was unlikely now that the Kaporis murder had taken center stage. He’d be left alone to produce something worthy of the Metro section’s front page. Hopefully, the attractive woman seated across from him would help.
    â€œSo,” she said after they’d ordered their meals, Virginia crab cakes for her, lamb chops for him. “Level with me, Joe. Who’s the smart money on at the
Trib
?”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œWho tops the rumor list in the Kaporis story?”
    â€œOh,” he said, pursing his lips and nodding. “Who done it, you mean?”
    â€œLet me put it another way. Is the paper trying to cover anything up?”
    â€œProtect who killed her? Come on, Edith, be reasonable. The brain trust wants to find the killer itself, clean up its own act, make a splash with it. We’ve been interviewing everyone who was there that night, or at least those who admit they were.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œNothing, so far. I went over the list of people you interviewed. Obviously, you didn’t come up with any more than I did. I was disappointed about the ex-boyfriend.”
    â€œDisappointed?”
    â€œYeah, in you, Edith. I found out through a friend at lunch.”
    â€œI wasn’t involved, Joe. I knew about it but—”
    â€œI know, I know. It’s just that—”
    â€œThe LAPD interviewed the kid. Clean.”
    â€œStill. You interviewed the roommate, Pruit?”
    â€œRight. Icy lady.”
    â€œWhat do you know about her?”
    â€œThe roommate? Nothing. Why?”
    He hesitated for a moment. “You should run a background on her. She might be a call girl.”
    Vargas-Swayze’s eyebrows went up. She sat back to allow their food to be placed before them. When the waiter left, she came forward and asked, “Do you know that? I mean, for a fact?”
    â€œNo, but it’s possible. Worth checking out.” It was awkward passing along such a salacious, unsubstantiated rumor, but it was all he had at the moment.
    She started to eat, and Wilcox observed her from across the table. He’d always found her appealing,