'You guys must think I'm pretty stupid.'
'Look,' Mark says, 'we've both been through a lot. First our baby sister, then our mom. We don't need all that dredged up again.'
'Don't you want to know who killed your mom?'
'Cody did it. Everyone knows that.'
'Nobody who knew Cody thinks he did it. There are other suspects. Don't you care?'
'I do,' Robin says.
I turn to him. 'Then help me, Robin. You're not going to feel good about yourself till you clear this thing up.'
Robin, enticed by my plea, clumps down the stairs followed by his mutts.
'Hey, David!' He offers me his hand. 'I'm real sorry, man. Mark said call you, warn you off. The ambush was my idea. I thought it'd be fun, like those games we used to play in the woods.'
Up close he looks cadaverous. There are big circles under his eyes, multiple piercings in his eyebrows, and I notice what could be track marks amidst the crude tattoos on his scrawny arms. Like his brother, he has his father's squared-off jaw and powerful brow, but unlike Mark his features are softened by his mother's seductive eyes and sensitively modeled lips. His skin, too, is darker than Mark's. Like Blackjack's, I think.
'Forget about it,' I tell him. 'No serious damage. I've got a slightly cut lip and a sore set of ribs which I could've gotten playing football. Remember what coach Lafferty used to tell us. ‘Just ignore the pain, boys – it's part of the game.’
Robin laughs. 'What an asshole he was!' After a moment, Mark starts laughing too.
We adjourn to the living room – if you can call it that. It's a mess: a ratty old dorm-style couch with exposed stuffing and easy chairs with broken springs; piles of discarded newspapers strewn about; clusters of crusted Styrofoam coffee cups; unwashed glasses with strangely colored residues adhering to their bottoms.
When we're seated, I turn to Robin. 'What're you trying to cover up?'
Mark leans forward. 'There's nothing to cover,' he says.
'Shut up, Mark! I'm talking to your brother.'
To my surprise he obeys.
'Mark's right. There's nothing.' Robin speaks softly.
Listening to him, I realize that despite his unkempt appearance and the grubby way he lives, he's a much more interesting person than Mark, more vulnerable, more likeable too.
I look over at Mark. He meets my stare.
'Even if there was, it wouldn't be any of your business,' he says.
'David's dad tried to help Mom,' Robin reminds him.
'Not all that well, considering what happened.'
I turn back to Robin. Mark, I understand, cannot be reached. He's the same cold WASPy son of a bitch who hit me a low blow in lower school. But Robin's accessible. Sure, he's screwed up, but he's also got some heart. I like his face, the hurt I see in it, would like to draw it if I get the chance. Mark's smooth, American aristocrat's face doesn't interest me at all.
Deciding there's nothing more to be gained by sitting around, I suggest it's time for me to leave. Mark springs to his feet. It's obvious he hates this house and can barely stand his brother. Robin and I shake hands, then he spontaneously grasps me in a hug.
'You're a good guy, David,' he says, holding me tight. 'I'm sorry. I really am.'
As I hug him back, I catch a smirk on Mark's face. Then just before Robin and I disengage, Robin speaks into my ear in the same raw whisper he used last night: 'Mom left a diary and I've got it. Call me.'
An awkward moment as the three of us stand silent beside the door. Then Mark and I leave, the brothers not touching or even bothering to say good-bye.
Mark drops me at the Townsend. From the lobby, I step into Waldo's for a beer.
At the bar, Sylvie Brown, the black reporter, catches my eye.
'How they hangin’, David?' She picks up her glass, moves to the stool next to mine. 'Deval's telling everyone you're a rude boy.'
'I probably am.'
'At the risk of inciting more rudeness, would you be willing to do some drawings for my book? Portraits of the principal media types sitting around in here. You know, different cliques at different tables. Also couples like you and Pam who met and paired off during the trial. Might be fun for you, chance to do a job on certain folks.'
I know just the kind of portraits she has in mind. Listening to her, I can see the finished drawings in my head. She's right, they would be fun to do, and Waldo's would make the perfect setting.
'Intriguing notion,' I tell her. 'I'll see what I can work up.'
On my way upstairs. I pick up my messages. After a quick shower in my room, I start returning calls.
Jurgen Hoff tells me his lady friend is game to pose.
'She's excited about it. The way I imagine it, she'll be sprawled out on her bed.'
'Then the bed should be unmade,' I tell him. 'Think of Manet's Olympia. I see rumpled sheets.'
We arrange to meet at the lady's apartment Sunday evening when Jurgen's restaurant is closed.
Next I return a call from Chip Rakoubian. He tells me he's spoken with his mother and she's agreed to talk to me. Since she's crippled, confined to home, he suggests I meet him at the Rathskeller at five tomorrow afternoon. He'll drive me over to the house, introduce us, then leave us alone.
'She's got a little quirk,' he tells me. 'I think I mentioned she used to be a professional dominatrix. Thing is she still enjoys the role… so it'd be nice if you'd be extra respectful and address her as ‘Ma'am’.'
I tell him, Sure, anything for the cause…
I'm trying to relax, thinking about what I've set up – tomorrow evening questioning ‘Ma'am’; Sunday evening questioning Jurgen while drawing his naked girlfriend sprawled on her bed – when my thoughts turn to Robin Fulraine. I'm about to call him, when my phone rings. It's Pam, excited. Thins are going gangbusters for her in New York.
'Two networks want me. The money being offered is huge! Meantime CNN's upping their offer. My agent says Monday'll be The Day.'
She tells me she could fly back to Calista tonight, but she's decided to sweat things out in New York.
'If I'm going to leave CNN, they'll keep me off the air till my contract runs out. The idea being, ‘If she's going to work for a rival network, why give her more exposure?’'
When she gets around to asking how things are going with me, I tell her I've located Susan Pettibone in Connecticut.
'Would you be willing to interview her?' I ask. 'You're barely an hour now from where she lives.'
Pam goes for it. I fill her in, tell her about Susan's report of what Tom said when, awakened by her call, he thought for a moment that she was Barbara.
'According to Susan he said: ‘God! Did you really do it? or ‘Did he really do it?’ The cop who questioned her didn't follow up. Maybe there's something else she'd have remembered if he'd pushed. Also what hints Tom might have given her when he asked her to come out to Calista. Also whether he ever mentioned the girl who lived next door in the roominghouse.'
'Gee, David, how is she going to remember any of that?'
'People often remember their last conversation with someone who died.'
'If she remembers, I'll get it out of her,' Pam promises.
I set up a Saturday afternoon portrait session with Robin. He seems pleased by the prospect.
