Murder at The Washington Tribune: A Capital Crimes Novel

Another speaker came to the podium. Joe Wilcox leaned close to his wife and muttered just loud enough for her pretty ears only, "Another speaker." He shifted position in his chair and twisted his neck against a growing stiffness and full-blown boredom. With them at a front table were three couples, others from The Washington Tribune and their spouses who'd agreed to attend the awards evening with the Wilcoxes out of friendship, or obligation, or maybe a little of both. The dinner was an annual event for the Washington Media Association, whose members came from the ranks of Washington, D.C.'s, print and broadcast journalists. Like most such groups, its leadership was fond of bestowing awards on deserving members and on their chosen profession, giving that same leadership a reason for taking to the podium to express their views on many things, mostly political. An occasional, usually accidental, bit of humor provided blessed audience relief from those who spoke endlessly, others longer. At least they're getting to the awards, Wilcox thought as the speaker said "In conclusion" for the third time. Wilcox looked to a table at which his daughter, Roberta, sat. She was the reason Joe and Georgia were there. The speaker at the podium finally did conclude, and the bestowing of awards commenced, twenty-two in all. Three weeks lateror so it seemedRoberta was the sixteenth recipient called to the podium to accept the award for Best Local Investigative ReportingBroadcast, accompanied by the producer and the director of a TV series they'd done on corruption within the Washington MPD. "Doesn't she look beautiful?" Georgia said. "Of course she does," Wilcox replied. "Because she is." Roberta Wilcox did look stunning that evening in a stylish pantsuit the color of ripe peaches. But it was radiance from within that created a virtual aura around her, enhanced by a bright smile that had lit up the nightly news since she'd joined the station three years earlier. "The best-looking newscaster in D.C." was the consensus. She usually wore her auburn hair pulled back when on the air, but this evening she'd let it down, framing an oval face with inquisitive raisin-brown eyes, her skin fair but not pale, her makeup tastefully underapplied. She thanked the station for having given her the freedom and support to pursue the expose, read helpful names from a slip of paper including the producer and director, and ended by crediting her parents for having instilled in her the natural curiosity necessary to get the job done. "Of course," she added, "I come from good reportorial stock. My father is as good a reporter as there is in this city." She watched him wince, tossed him a kiss off her fingertips, and led her fellow award winners back to their table. It was announced from the podium that the evening had come to an end, and most of the three hundred men and women left their tables to mingle, gravitating to familiar faces and offering congratulations to the winners, and to their families. "How'd an ugly guy like you end up with such a knockout of a daughter?" a Trib reporter asked Wilcox, accompanied by a laugh and a slap on the back. "Her mother's genes," Wilcox replied, nodding in the direction of his wife, who'd gone to Roberta's table to talk with her and her celebrating tablemates. "Must be," Wilcox's friend said. He lowered his voice. "What do you think of Hawthorne getting an award?" Gene Hawthorne, aMargaret Truman is the author of 'Murder at The Washington Tribune: A Capital Crimes Novel', published 2005 under ISBN 9780345478191 and ISBN 0345478193.