Pam nods, lies back, again exposing her wondrously freckled chest. She's glad, she tells me, that I finally opened up to her.
'I know it's hurtful to talk about these things. I'm touched you've shared them with me.'
'So you see I'm not working on something newsworthy behind your back. It's a private inquiry. Time- consuming too. I guess now that Washburn's in town, I'm going to have to spend more time at the trial.'
'You can always quit, do your own thing.'
'And pay for my own hotel room and car.'
'Is that the only reason you stick with the trial?'
I admit it isn't, that the real reason I don't quit and spend full time on the Flamingo killings is that then I'd have to face the fact that I'd given myself over to a ruling passion, that I'm not just conducting a hobby investigation but am on an obsessive personal quest.
'Why did you wait so long?' she asks. 'You could have looked into this years ago… before the trail went cold.'
'I wasn't ready. But this spring, when my mom died, some new material came my way. Then a couple months later the Foster trial and the offer from ABC. Everything seemed to gel. The message was clear. It was time to go home and face my demons.' I glance at her. 'Such as they are.'
'Oh, they definitely sound like demons,' she says.
No mention from her this evening about having to get her ‘beauty sleep.’ Rather, I'm invited for the first time to spend the night.
Later she says, 'Let me help you, David. I've got free time. We could backtrack your story together.'
'Boy-girl investigative team. Nice idea. But I work best on my own.' I look at her. 'You wouldn't be trying to distract me now, so Wash can put out better drawings?'
She laughs. 'Life isn't always a media war.' She places her hands on my cheeks, stares into my eyes. 'I like you, David. Don't you get it? I really do.'
There a health club on the top floor of the Townsend Hotel. If you're coming or going from there in workout clothes, you're supposed to take a special elevator lest guests in business attire be offended by the exposure.
Pam and I head up there at 6:00 A.M. to join other lean-mean media folk into physical fitness and self- torture. Gym workouts aren't my thing, but when Pam asks me to join her, I tag along lest she take me for a wimp. The exercise room is spacious, with plate-glass windows facing the city skyline and several rows of equipment – treadmills, StairMasters, Nautilus machines – all gleaming chrome and sleek black leatherette, shiny and welcoming in the brilliant early morning light.
Pam starts on a Nautilus circuit. I mount an exercise bike. An NBC reporter, Cynthia Liu, is pedaling furiously on an adjacent machine. I give her the once-over. She's already slick with sweat. She wears black Lycra tights and a sports bra, the kind with a little porthole in back. She's a skinny girl, her spine protrudes, and her frail shoulder blades stick out. She stares straight ahead at a TV monitor set to the daybreak program on the local NBC affiliate.
News of the early morning commute: expressway jam-up due to an accident. Promise of another sweltering day: one hundred percent humidity with a projected high of ninety-one degrees. No end in sight to the Forger's losing streak; team in the cellar for the third straight week. As the attractive, youthful, blow-dried anchors slip into casual morning happy-talk, I catch myself panting, slow my pedaling, then wipe myself down with the towel hanging from my handlebars.
'Kinda out of shape, aren't you?' Cynthia Liu comments, pedaling away, still looking straight ahead.
'Excuse me?'
She glances at me. 'Whatsamatta? Girlfriend wearing you out?'
Annoyed, I shake my head. 'I thought you were supposed to be nice.'
She smirks. Our eyes lock. Suddenly I feel like putting her down.
'Tell me,' I ask, 'are you bulimic?'
For a moment she holds the smirk, then her face squeezes up as if she's sucking on a lemon. She stops pedaling, shows me a hard gaze of hatred, dismounts, and stalks out of the gym.
Pam mounts the StairMaster on my other side. 'What was that about?'
'Little Miss Perfect made a personal remark. I chose to respond in kind.'
'Good for you, David! Now pedal up. Want an aerobic effect, you gotta work for it.'
She spends the next twenty minutes sweetly putting me through my paces, enjoying her new self-assigned role as my personal trainer: 'Faster, David! Faster!' 'Go for the burn!' 'Give me another, David. Another!' And, most sweetly of all: 'Hey! Don’t' pussy out on me… please!'
At 6:30 we step into the gym elevator. She snuggles with me on the descent. Her body, warm and most, turns me on. Alas, she informs me sadly, she doesn't have time now to make love. Too much to do, a meeting with Starret and Wash, then over to the county courthouse for her early stand-up. She smooches me as the doors open, steps out of the elevator, turns to face me, and grins. The doors close, the elevator descends. Still excited, I head down to my room for a shower.
Wash and I exchange polite nods in the courtroom corridor. Inside he take seat four down from mine. Then, lest he think he's got me outgunned, I make a point of sketching furiously.
It's a good day for courtroom drawing. The prosecutor and defense counsel get into a snit, the judge becomes impatient, and soon the three are glaring at one another with anger and disgust. Meantime, defendant Foster shows the jury a beatific smile. Out of this conflict I create a stunning four-face portrait, which Harriet loves, and which, when broadcast on the early evening news, puts Wash's first-day efforts to shame.
Slam-dunk for the good guy… which is not to say that Wash won't soon snag a few baskets himself. Still I've out-psyched him his first day and can count on holding my lead a while. He'll start becoming dangerous when he gets the player's physiognomies clear. Until then I'll rule the court.
During one of the afternoon breaks, I phone Mace Bartel and ask if I can have a photocopy of the Flamingo file.
'The whole thing? There're thousands of pages.'
'I'll gladly pay copying charges.'
'It's not the money, David. It's the time and effort. I can't spare anyone for the job.'
'I'll do the scutwork.' Long pause. 'I don't see myself as a rival investigator on this, Mace. After all, it's been twenty-six years.'
'It's not that.'
'What is it then?'
When he goes silent, I start feeling guilty.'
'Listen, Mace, I wasn't a hundred percent straight with you out at The Elms the other day when you asked why I was so interested in the case.'
'I figured.'
'I have a very personal reason for being interested.'
'Which is?'
'My father was Mrs. Fulraine's shrink.'
'Well,' he says, 'that's very interesting. I appreciate your telling me.'
'I should have told you the other day, but I didn't feel like discussing it. Dad committed suicide, and…'
'I know. One of my guys interviewed him. Couple months later I wanted to do a follow-up, but then… well, it was too late. I spoke to his secretary. She couldn't find his file on Mrs. Fulraine. For a while I wondered if maybe there was a connection. You'll find our notes on the interviews when you come over.'
