Murder at The Washington Tribune by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page A

Crystal City, Virginia. The doorman buzzed her and Wilcox was directed to apartment number 8-C on the eighth floor where she stood in the open doorway.
    â€œI appreciate you taking time to see me,” Wilcox said.
    â€œIt’s okay,” she said.
    Wilcox had been surprised at the apartment’s size during his first visit. The living room was larger than his at home, and sliding glass doors opened on to a balcony from which D.C., as well as arriving and departing flights from nearby Reagan National Airport, could be seen. A dining area and kitchen were at one end. A hallway led to what he assumed were the bedrooms, probably a couple of them considering that two single people had lived there.
    Mary Jane was a tall, slender young woman with an elongated face framed by blond hair with a bleached coarseness, worn long and straight. She was dressed that day in white shorts, a sleeveless navy blue tank top, and flip-flops. He judged her to be somewhat older than Kaporis, maybe by three or four years. Kaporis had been twenty-two. Her former roommate might by pushing thirty, he thought, but certainly no older than that. She sat in a chair, crossed her legs, and lit a cigarette. An ashtray on a table next to her was almost filled with extinguished butts. Wilcox wasn’t sure where to sit. The last time he was there, he’d taken the couch. But that would place her to his side, an awkward arrangement. Instead, he pulled an ottoman from in front of another chair and positioned it directly in front of her. He pulled a reporter’s notepad and pen from his inside jacket pocket and said, “I know we’ve already gone over things, Ms. Pruit, but I have some additional questions to ask. Okay?”
    She drew on the cigarette, snubbed it out in the ashtray, and said, “Go ahead, only you’re wasting your time. I don’t know anything more than I told you before.”
    â€œFair enough. How long did you and Jean Kaporis live here together?”
    â€œYou already asked me that question, Mr. Wilcox. Is this a truth test? Jean moved in here about a month after she came to Washington. That was a year ago, give or take.”
    â€œHow did she end up living with you? I mean, was this your apartment, or did the two of you find it together?”
    â€œIt was mine. Another roommate moved out. A friend of mine met Jean and told her I was looking for someone. That simple.”
    Wilcox nodded and made notes. He looked up and asked, “Did the two of you get along?”
    Pruit laughed and lit another cigarette. “Sure we did.”
    â€œI mean,” he said, “sometimes roommates have conflicts about—well, about things like noise or friends spending time here or—”
    â€œWe got along.”
    He noted it and said, “The last time we spoke, Ms. Pruit, I asked about Jean’s boyfriends. Remember?”
    â€œYes, I remember.”
    â€œYou said you didn’t know anything about the men in her life.”
    â€œI still don’t.”
    â€œThat strikes me as strange,” Wilcox said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWell, I have a daughter who’s had roommates. From what she’s told me, the most popular topic of conversation among young female roommates is the men in their lives. Or out of them.” He cocked his head, pen poised over the notepad.
    â€œWe didn’t talk about things like that, Mr. Wilcox.”
    â€œWhat
did
you talk about?”
    â€œNot much. We were on different schedules. I work nights, she worked days at the paper.”
    â€œShips passing in the night.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œWhere do you work, Ms. Pruit?”
    â€œI’m a freelancer.”
    â€œOh? Writer? Artist?”
    â€œI’m a freelancer,” she repeated. “Let’s leave it at that.”
    Wilcox wrote “freelancer” on his pad, but he was thinking beyond those simple words. What was she, a prostitute, perhaps working for one of the