Murder at The Washington Tribune by Margaret Truman Page B

and sometimes lusted for her in a Jimmy Carter sort of way. Passive, carnal thoughts but nothing more than that—the remarkable exception being that one totally unexpected, unplanned, and unlikely night in bed together. He couldn’t take credit for having seduced her, which was just as well.
    She exuded a fleshy solidness, nothing loose anywhere on her as far as he could see. Coppery skin stretched taut across wide cheekbones beneath large, oval dark brown eyes. Her mouth, of normal size at rest, blossomed into something larger and sensuous when she smiled, a set of very white teeth framed by bloodred lipstick, and rendered whiter against the duskiness of her skin. She was, he estimated, about five feet, four inches tall, with a compact body she probably didn’t have to work hard at keeping firm. One thing was certain: there were no rules at MPD against female detectives wearing jewelry. Vargas-Swayze wore lots of it, multiple gold strands dangling down over the front of her white turtleneck, large gold earrings in the shape of fish, and rings of various sizes and design on three fingers of each hand, fingernails nicely manicured and painted to match her lips.
    â€œI interviewed the roommate again this afternoon,” Wilcox said, biting into a chop and wishing it had been pinker.
    â€œShe said something to indicate she might be in the life?”
    â€œCalls herself a freelancer, but won’t elaborate. Who did you talk to today?”
    â€œAside from my partner and my boss? We interviewed some of the people from outside the
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who’d signed in there that night.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œSome possibilities.”
    â€œEnough to shift emphasis from somebody at the paper?”
    â€œCould be. We’re running background checks on them, which we should have done the first time around.”
    â€œWhy now?”
    â€œPressure to solve this thing.”
    Wilcox smiled. “I’m under pressure, too,” he said. “Tell me more about these outside people.”
    â€œOff the record?” she said.
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    â€œOkay. We talked to—”
    Her cell phone rang. She fished in her purse, retrieved it, opened the cover and announced, “Vargas-Swayze.”
    Wilcox watched as she muttered responses to the caller. A few seconds later, she closed the phone and said, “Got to go, Joe. A female down in Franklin Park.”
    â€œNot my night,” he said, pulling out his wallet.
    â€œStay,” she said, standing. “Finish your chops. Sorry.”
    â€œMight as well tag along,” he said, also standing and waving for the waiter. “Be there in a few minutes.”

FIVE
    While waiting for the waiter to return his credit card, Wilcox called the
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’s night Metro editor. “Joe Wilcox, Barry. I’ve got the Franklin Park call covered.”
    â€œWe just got it on the radio. What are you doing there?”
    â€œHappened to be on the scene. I’ll be back to you.”
    He signed the charge slip, got in his car, and headed for Franklin Park, or Franklin Square, depending upon which tourist map you trusted. He drove faster than he usually did, and felt his adrenaline flowing faster, too. He hadn’t raced to a crime scene in years, having learned over the years to pace himself. Five or ten minutes seldom made any difference; the bodies weren’t getting up and going anywhere.
    But this was different. Tonight was different. The pervasive blanket of self-pity and self-loathing had lifted, at least for the moment. He felt better than he had in months.
    Vargas-Swayze was directing uniformed officers at the K Street entrance to the spacious downtown park when Wilcox pulled up. A half-dozen marked police cars, their red lights flashing, were parked haphazardly along the street. Wilcox started into the park but was stopped by an officer. “He’s okay,” Vargas-Swayze said, waving him through.
    He followed a sloping