Murder at The Washington Tribune Read Free Page B

you’d enjoy living in Washington, Georgia. It’s a nice city. Morehouse said the
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is beefing up at every level, in every department. They’re willing to pay for the right people.”
    Georgia turned in her web chair on their small patio and looked out over the garden she’d so tenderly cultivated. A single tear ran down her cheek, and Wilcox moved his chair closer, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” he said, “I don’t have the job. Nobody’s offered it to me yet. And if you feel that strongly about it, I’ll call Morehouse and tell him I’ve changed my mind, that I’m not interested.”
    She said nothing for a minute, her attention still on the garden. Then she turned, took his face in her hands, and said, “No, go for the interview, Joe. If you don’t, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what you missed, and that wouldn’t be good for us, for our marriage. I just wish you’d included me from the beginning. I fear surprises.” She brightened. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Joe.” He smiled at her use of the cliché. She knew and used more of them than anyone else he knew.
    Two days later, Wilcox took a personal day and flew to Washington where he sat with Paul Morehouse in the editor’s cubicle on the perimeter of the
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’s Metro newsroom. The air was thick with smoke; the keyboards provided a cacophonous background to their conversation. At first, he was put off by Morehouse’s crusty persona that bordered on rudeness. But he soon sensed that behind that exterior was a committed man, someone who had no patience with fools or pretenders.
Like my father,
Wilcox thought as the interview continued, interrupted frequently by phone calls and people sticking their heads into the office with questions. He even got in some questions of his own.
    â€œSay hello to Joe Wilcox,” Morehouse told a heavyset reporter who’d walked into the cubicle wearing yellow suspenders with tiny green evergreen trees on them.
    â€œWhaddya say, kid?” the reporter said, shaking Joe’s hand.
    â€œHe wants a job here,” Morehouse said.
    The reporter laughed. “Good,” he said. “You come to work here, the first person you come see is me. I’ll fill you in, show you where the bodies are buried—and tell you who
should
be buried.”
    â€œGet out,” Morehouse said, waving his hand.
    â€œNice meeting you, kid. Lotsa luck.”
    After another twenty minutes had passed, and Morehouse had asked questions ranging from pertinent to impertinent, he stood, yawned, and extended his arms over his head. “Interested?” he asked. He was a relatively short man, tightly packed with a deep chest and hard jaw, prematurely bald—Wilcox judged Morehouse to be only a few years older than he—the beginnings of gray at his temples. Bottle-green eyes seemed always to be asking a question:
Come on, come on, tell me more.
    â€œYeah, I think I am,” Wilcox said.
    â€œYou
think
you are?”
    Wilcox smiled. “No, I know I am. Do you guys pay salaries?”
    â€œLet’s go to Human Resources. They get testy when we go over their heads about pay.”
    They went down a long, carpeted hallway lined with photographs from the paper’s past, which went back to its founding in 1897. “You’re married, huh?” Morehouse commented as they reached a door with the sign HR .
    â€œYes. Her name’s Georgia. We have a daughter, Roberta.”
    â€œThey okay with you coming to work here?”
    â€œAt first—yes, they’re fine about it.”
    â€œGood. They won’t see much of you once you’re here,” he said, opening the door. “HR’ll work out moving expenses, benefits, that sort of stuff. No deep, dark secrets in your past, Joe? A good-looking young guy like you’ll have the broads here in D.C. salivating, wife or no