Megler snorted cynically. "Look, in New York it's almost impossible to get a conviction overturned
because of new evidence." He squinted, recalling the law. "It's got to be the kind of evidence that would've changed the outcome of the case in the first place and, even then, you have to be able to show you made diligent efforts to find the evidence at the time of the trial."
"But if I do find something would you handle the case?"
"Me?" He laughed. "I'm available. But you're talking a lot of hours. I bill at two twenty per. And the state ain't picking upthis tab."
"But I really think he's innocent."
"So you say. Come up with fifteen, twenty thousand for a retainer, I'll talk to you."
"I was hoping you'd do it for free."
Megler laughed again. Since he had no belly, it seemed to be his bones that were jiggling under the slick polyester skin of his shirt. "Free? I don't believe I'm familiar with that word."
For the first time in her life Rune had an assistant.
Bradford Simpson volunteered to help her. She suspected he was motivated partly by his desire to go out with her – though she couldn't for the life of her guess why he'd want her and not some beautiful debutante who was tall and blonde (two of her least-favorite adjectives when applied to other women). On the other hand, he hadn't exactly asked her out again after the first rejection and she supposed that his reappearance had more to do with journalistic crusading than romance.
"What can I do to help?" he'd asked.
And she'd gotten a little flustered, since she didn't have a clue – never having had anyone work for her.
"Hmm, let me think."
He'd offered, "How about if I dig through the archives for information about Hopper?"
"That sounds good," she'd said.
He was now at her cubicle with another armful of files. He laid them out on her desk as neatly as his Robert Redford hair was combed and his penny loafers were polished.
"Did you know Lance Hopper?" she asked him.
"Not real well. He was killed a month after I started my first summer internship here. But I worked for him once or twice."
"Youworked for the head of Network News?"
"Well, I wasn't exactly an anchorman. But he gave assignments to all the interns. Scut work usually. But he also spent a lot of time with us, telling us about journalism, getting stories, editing. He's the one who started the intern program. I think he would've made a good professor." Bradford fell quiet for a moment. "He did a lot for me, for all of us interns."
Rune broke the somber spell by saying, "Don't worry. We'll pay him back."
Bradford turned his blue eyes toward her questioningly.
She said, "We're going to find who really killed him."
8
What's that? Rune opened her eyes, stared up at the ceiling of her houseboat's bedroom, watching the ripples of the morning sun reflecting onto the off-white paint. She turned her head, squinting.
What's wrong?
She felt the boat gently rocking in the Hudson, water lapping against the hull. Heard the baritone grind of a boat engine that seemed near but was probably two hundred yards away – she'd learned how noise carries on the water. The sound of rush-hour traffic too.
So what was it? What was missing? What wasn't here that ought to be?
The tie-dye sheet had tangled around her feet, a percale Gordian knot. Her white Joy of Movement T-shirt had ridden up to her neck and her hair was in her face. Rune was a restless sleeper. She untangled her feet and pulled the shirt down. She brushed a crescent of pizza crust out of the bed and sat upright.
Well, part of it was the silence – a special kind of silence, the sort that comes from theabsence of a human being.
Rune realized that Claire was gone.
The young woman always had her Walkman plugged in by ninea.m. Even upstairs, in the houseboat's bedroom, Rune usually could hear the raspy chunk of decibels murdering Claire's ears.
But today, nothing.
Rune went into the white-enameled head, thinking: Maybe she got up early to go shopping. But no, none of her stores – clothing and cosmetics – opened before ten or eleven.
Which meant that maybe she'd already moved up to Boston!
Which is exactly what happened. Rune, downstairs, stood in the middle of the living room and read the note Claire had left. As she scanned the words she grinned like a kid on Christmas Eve.
Excellent! she thought. Thank you, thank you, thank you…
The note was all about how Claire appreciated (spelled wrong) everything Rune had done for her in the past couple of weeks (six and a half) even though she was a moody bitch a lot but that was good
because if she could live with her she could live with anybody (Rune, trying to figure v -ho theshes were and not liking the conclusion).
Claire explained that she was going home to her mother's in Boston, like she'd said, and how she was going to think about going back to school. She spent a long paragraph, the last one, talking about how happy she was that Rune and Courtney were such good friends and how they'd gotten along so well because-
The smile vanished.
– she knew Rune would take good care of the girl. Oh, shit…
Rune ran into the small storeroom in the bow of the boat, the room that Claire and Courtney had shared.
Goddamm it!
The little girl was lying, asleep, on top of Claire's futon, clutching a mutant stuffed animal that might, at one time, have been a rabbit.
Son of a bitch. Claire, how could you? Rune did a fast survey. The room was pretty much cleared out. Claire had taken her clothes and jewelry and whatever other objects had filled the dust-free squares and circles and trapezoids on the top of the dresser.
Everything, gone – except for Courtney's toys and clothes and a poster of the Jackson 5 that Claire had kept, waiting for it to become chic enough to put up again.
Son of a-
Rune ran outside to find the letter again.
– bitch!
The closing paragraph of the letter said only that she hoped to be back to pick up Courtney sometime and to give her the home she needed and deserved.
Sometime?
Rune was sweating. She actually felt her scalp prickle. Her fingers left stains on the paper.
No address. No phone number.
She didn't even remember Claire's real last name -the girl kept trying on stage names for the day when she became a professional model.
Rune went back to the room and searched carefully. The only clue she found was a bra under the bed with initials penned on the side – C.S. But Rune thought it looked a little small for Claire and remembered that one of her boyfriends had been a transvestite.
Hopeless, Rune sat down in the middle of the room and picked up a toy, a wooden penguin on a stick. His broad plastic feet were on wheels. She ran him back and forth, the webbed feet slapping on the wooden deck.
I don't want to be a mother.
Claire…
Slap, slap, slap.
The jogging penguin woke up Courtney.
Rune sat down on the futon, kissed the girl's cheek. "Honey, did you talk to your mommy this morning?"
"Uh-huh."
The little girl rubbed her eyes. Oh, they're so damn cute when they do that. Come on, kid, get ugly.
"Did she say where she was going?"
"Uh-huh. Can I have some juice?"
"Honey, did your mother say where she was going?"
"Bawden."
" Boston, I know. But where?"
"Uh-huh. Juice?"
"Sure. We'll get some Ocean Spray in a minute. Where in Boston?"
"Grandma's house."
"Where is your grandmother's house?"
"Bowden. I want some juice."
"Honey, what's your mother's name?"
"Mommy." The little girl started to squirm.
"No, I mean her last name?"
"Mommy. I want some juice!"
Rune said, "Did she say anything before she left?"
Courtney stood up in bed, pulled away from Rune. "Zoo."