‘She’s up there. Probably still asleep. She got in at all hours.’
Blair thought of leaving, and coming back later. But she reminded herself that Rebecca had indicated it was urgent in her texts.
‘Thanks,’ Blair said to Rebecca’s mother. She climbed up the creaking steps. The top floor had sloped ceilings. All the doors were open but one. Blair knocked on it.
‘Rebecca?’ she whispered.
Before she could even step back, Rebecca flung the door open. She was wearing a form-fitting red dress and she was barefoot. Her hair was wet, but had been combed through. Her eyes were artfully made up.
‘Blair. Glad you’re here. Come in.’
Blair stepped inside and looked around. The room was a catastrophe. Every surface was piled with electronics or teetering piles of folded clothing. A few suitcases, half-packed, were open on the floor. Rebecca did not offer her a seat, but, if she had, it would have been academic. There was nowhere for her to sit.
‘Sorry for the mess,’ Rebecca said. ‘I’m packing, as you can see.’
Blair stared at her. ‘Packing? Where are you going?’
Rebecca’s face brightened and she held out her arms as if inviting a hug.
‘They hired me! They want me. Cable news. The story about Yusef Muhammed is what sold them on me. They want me to start right away.’
Blair avoided the hug. ‘Based on that one article?’ Blair said, frowning.
‘Well, that, and the fact that I was a star reporter at a top network in L.A.,’ Rebecca said airily.
‘You mean before that time when you … manufactured a witness,’ Blair reminded her. ‘I googled you.’
‘And I have paid for it a thousand times over. Believe me,’ said Rebecca.
‘I’m sure,’ said Blair. ‘So you finally found a way to get back in. Thanks to Yusef Muhammed.’
‘Well, the story got me the interview and I took it from there.’
Blair looked around at the suitcases. ‘And you’re going right now?’
Rebecca nodded and sighed. ‘Thank God. Can you imagine what it’s been like for me, living here? In my childhood home? With them?’ She gestured toward the door and Blair knew she was referring to her parents.
‘But …’
‘What? I thought you’d be happy for me.’
‘Well, yes … of course,’ said Blair.
‘It’s been a living hell here,’ she said. ‘Working at that two-bit paper, being under their roof.’ Rebecca shuddered. ‘Well, I guess I had it coming. But now I can close this chapter. I am outta here …’
Blair nodded, unable to speak for a moment. ‘And this is what I needed to come out here first thing to hear?’ she asked.
Rebecca stopped throwing things into her suitcase and sighed. She pushed it back on the bed and sat down. There was not enough space for Blair to sit beside her. Rebecca gazed at her own, interlocked fingers. Then she leaned forward and pushed the books off her Sleeping Beauty desk chair and they thudded onto the wood floor.
‘Here, sit,’ she said.
Blair perched her butt on the edge of the chair.
Rebecca sighed. ‘Look, I didn’t want to do this to you … You have to believe me, Blair. I was excited about working on this story.’
‘Well, it’s not really me that you need to explain to. It’s Yusef Muhammed. You promised him your help.’
‘I never expected all this to happen so quickly,’ said Rebecca. ‘But, I’m constantly throwing out feelers and, like I said, when opportunity knocks …’
‘I thought the feelers you were throwing out were about the investigation into Molly’s murder,’ said Blair coolly.
Rebecca grimaced. ‘Blair, I know it’s important to you.’
‘To me? What about you?’
‘Hey, I thought if anyone would understand about my career it would be you.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but this pisses me off a little,’ said Blair.
‘What? You expect me to stick around here, looking into this little case when I have a chance to go back to TV on a national network.’
‘This case is not little to the people involved,’ Blair said in an icy tone.
Rebecca ran her manicured fingers through her long, damp hair and avoided meeting Blair’s eyes.
‘Look, it’s not going to be easy for me either. I’m going to have to move to Miami. They hired me for the Miami office. I have zero money for this move and if I’m not everything they want, I could make this whole relocation thing, and then be out of there in a heartbeat. I mean it’s going to be sort of an ordeal. Trial by fire.’
Blair thought of Yusef Muhammed, spending years behind bars for something he didn’t do.
‘This is what you call an ordeal?’ she said.
Rebecca ignored her sarcastic tone. ‘Look, you’re all bent out of shape, but, in fact, you’re just here for a few days. You wouldn’t give up your career to pursue this.’
‘I’m not a reporter. I thought this is what you do.’
‘Yes, but I’m used to a little bigger story, if you know what I mean. I could spend years on this. I haven’t got years to waste.’
Blair nodded. ‘I see.’
Rebecca sighed. ‘This is not charity work I’m doing. I have to look out for myself, for my future. Who knows? Maybe sometime I might be able to interest the network in pursuing this story. After all, they did love the article. I mean, not right away. At first I have to do what they want me to do.’
Blair stood up from the desk chair. ‘Well, I’ll tell that to Yusef Muhammed. You’re still interested, but not right away,’ she said.
‘Oh stop being such a drag,’ Rebecca said wearily. ‘What were the chances we would ever get him out of there? I mean, realistically.’
‘Realistically …’ Blair pursed her lips and looked up at the ceiling. ‘How shall I phrase it? You are a selfish bitch.’ She looked directly at Rebecca and gave her a sharp nod. ‘Is that clear enough?’
Rebecca sighed. ‘I guess you don’t wish me well in my new job.’
Blair shook her head but did not reply. She picked her way through the debris and went down the stairs without looking back.
Rebecca came out of the room and gazed at her over the landing. ‘I have to think about myself …’ she said.
Blair did not look back at her as she left, though she raised her middle finger and jerked it in Rebecca’s direction. Blair crossed the living room to the front door, just as Rebecca’s mother shuffled into the room in her bathrobe and slippers, looking tired and bewildered. Blair offered no explanation. Mrs Moore would find out her daughter was heading for Miami when Rebecca walked out the door with all her baggage. Blair doubted she would get more warning than that. Good riddance, Blair thought angrily, and slammed the door behind her.
SEVENTEEN
Blair looked through the windshield at the bleak, wintry mountain landscape. I need to get away from here, she thought. I don’t belong here. These people are like savages. She turned the key in the ignition and started back down the driveway.
The thought of leaving, of driving away from Yorkville, seemed undeniably appealing. Personally, she liked the idea of never coming back. Of course, as long as Malcolm lived here, she would always have a reason to come back.
There was still the problem of Yusef Muhammed. She had promised Celeste that she would try to correct the injustice that had been done and it had seemed like she was making progress, when Rebecca agreed to help her. Now, with Rebecca gone, Muhammed’s case was back in her lap, and, as much as she wanted to help him, she was not an investigator. Plus, she had a life in Philly and a company to run. The thought of it gave her a headache. Would Muhammed ever get out? She dreaded having to tell him about Rebecca’s new job. Rebecca had offered him hope, and then, just as suddenly, erased him from her concerns. Well, there was no escaping it. She had to explain the situation. It was really Rebecca’s place to do it, but she knew that Rebecca would not.
She drove back to E
llis’s house and slowly climbed the front steps to the porch. She let herself into the house and sat down heavily on the battered sofa in the front room. There was no use avoiding it, she thought. She had to give Muhammed a call. Blair exhaled a few times, to steady her voice, then dialed up the prison and asked to speak to the prisoner.
She expected a song and dance from the security guards and a series of hoops which she needed to jump through, but the man she spoke to was, if not pleasant, at least civil. He promised to connect her with Yusef Muhammed, and, in only a few minutes, she heard his deep voice at the other end of the phone.
‘Yusef,’ she said briskly. ‘This is Blair Butler.’
‘Yeah …’ he said warily.
‘Look, that article about your case in the local paper has stirred up some interest.’ As she spoke to him, her gaze traveled across the room to the mantel, where Malcolm’s photo had been replaced in the frame.
‘Yeah. I heard that,’ Yusef murmured. ‘Rebecca told me.’
‘So now we just have to see if we can turn that interest into a plan to get you out of there.’
‘Who’s we?’ asked Yusef suspiciously.
Blair sighed. ‘Well look, that’s partly why I’m calling. Rebecca has to leave. She has … taken a job in Miami. But I haven’t given up.’
There was a sharp intake of breath and then a long silence at Muhammed’s end of the phone.
‘Yusef?’ she ventured.
There was no reply.
‘I guess she has to,’ she said into the silence ‘to … attend to her own career, but she’s not the only one who can help.’
Yusef snorted, a short, bitter laugh. ‘No. Course not,’ he said.
‘I know this is disappointing, but I thought you would want to know. We ought to be clear about the situation going forward,’ Blair said.
‘Crystal,’ said Yusef.
‘Excuse me?’ said Blair. ‘Oh you mean like, “crystal clear”.’
‘No, I get it now,’ said Yusef. ‘The fucking liar.’
Blair, huddled in a crouch at the edge of the chair, did not correct him, or come to Rebecca’s defense.
‘I’m sorry this happened,’ she said. ‘But don’t give up.’
‘Give up?’ he asked coldly. ‘Why would I give up? No, no. This fills me with newfound hope. A reporter promises to help me, manages to make my situation into front page news after all these years and then she leaves town. Leaves me to rot. But hey, I’ve still got you on my side. The sister of the woman who put me here fifteen years ago.’
‘Now that’s not fair. I tried to explain to you …’
‘Right. I can’t talk any more,’ said Yusef.
Before Blair could say another word, he had hung up the phone.
Blair set the phone down on the coffee table and covered her eyes with her hands. Of course he was angry and disappointed. He had been betrayed by Celeste and now by Rebecca. What else would he be, but angry? She suddenly realized how ill-equipped she was to do anything on his behalf. Rebecca, an experienced reporter, had been the ideal person to consult, but now she was out of the picture. Who else was there?
Blair sat for a while rubbing her temples, as Malcolm’s cat jumped up on the arm of her chair and made squawking noises. Blair reached out absently and ran a hand over the cat’s furry coat. There had to be someone. Then, she had an idea. She wasn’t sure if it was a good idea or not, but she needed to try something. She stood up from the chair. There was no need to put on her scarf and jacket – she had never taken them off. She went to the front door and shuddered, looking out at the cold, windy day. Then she pulled the door open, went down the steps and got back in her car.
‘I know I don’t have an appointment, but do you think Mr Whitman could see me briefly?’ Blair asked.
Stacy de Soto, her eyelashes long, her hair arranged in an elaborate updo, ran a manicured fingernail down the page of the old-fashioned daybook. She pressed a key on the intercom with the eraser on a pencil and waited.
‘Mr Whitman? Miss Butler is here. She doesn’t have an appointment. But she wants to speak with you.’ Stacy listened intently to her Boss’s voice and then looked up at Blair. ‘Ok. You can go on in,’ she said.
‘Oh thank you,’ said Blair. ‘I won’t be long.’
Stacy looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘He’s got an appointment in fifteen minutes,’ she reminded Blair.
‘I’ll be out before then,’ said Blair.
She went to the door and tapped on it.
‘Come …’ said a voice from within.
Blair went in and closed the door behind her. ‘Mr Whitman?’
‘Blair,’ the attorney said. ‘Good to see you.’
‘I’m sorry to barge in without an appointment, but I really need your help.’
‘Well, I’ll help you if I can,’ he said.
Blair took a deep breath. ‘Did you happen to see the paper?’
The attorney smiled. ‘I did. I saw that you got Muhammed’s story onto the front page. You’re making some progress.’
‘Well, you were right about the police. They have no interest in reopening this case. But I enlisted a reporter to help me. Rebecca Moore. Unfortunately, now she’s left town.’
‘You got the wheels in motion,’ Whitman observed. ‘That’s the important thing.’
‘That’s just not good enough,’ said Blair. ‘I mean, that’s not going to get Yusef Muhammed out of jail. I don’t know what would. But I can’t stay here forever, I have a company to run.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ said Whitman. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Well, I wondered if there was some way I could pay you a retainer to start legal proceedings on his behalf.’
‘What kind of proceedings?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. Whatever can be done to help get him out of there. File some motions based on this new information we found.’
Whitman frowned. ‘I can’t take your money. Right now, with what you’ve got, there’s not much I can do.’
‘Doesn’t the truth matter at all?’ Blair cried.
‘You’d be surprised how little weight it holds in legal matters. Look, as I told you, the only thing we have to go on is hearsay. That article made a start, but it was mostly speculation. You need to unearth the facts.’
Blair rubbed her hand over her forehead. ‘That’s what I hoped to do when I enlisted Rebecca. She had a lot of experience chasing down information. I mean, I’m a pretty logical person and I can think of questions to ask, but I’ve got no legal background. I really don’t know where to begin. And she was able to get the story published on the front page of the paper, where people would read it and start to see things a different way. Now, she’s gone and I’m afraid people will lose interest if there’s no follow-up. I feel like I’m back where I started from.’
‘I understand,’ he said.
‘So what should I be doing?’ Blair asked.
‘Well, you need a witness statement. You need someone – besides your late sister who cannot testify – that can establish Muhammed’s whereabouts at the time of Molly’s death. Or some physical evidence from the crime that will show that Muhammed was not involved in the murder of Molly Sinclair. That’s how you get the case reopened.’
‘After all these years?’ she cried. ‘Where am I going to come up with that?’
‘It is a tall order,’ Whitman agreed. He was quiet for a minute, then he spoke cautiously. ‘You were willing to pay me. Are you willing to pay an investigator?’
‘Yes,’ Blair said cautiously. ‘Yes, I would be, if it was someone competent. I think I owe that to Yusef Muhammed. Do you have someone you can recommend? An investigator that you use for your cases?’
Whitman grimaced. ‘I do.’
‘You’re hesitating,’ said Blair. ‘Is he any good?’
‘He is, but can be a bit difficult,’ said Whitman apologetically.
‘I don’t care about his personality,’ she said. ‘Is he capable?’
‘I have found him to be capable. He used to be a cop.’
‘Used to be?’ Blair asked. ‘Is he retired?’
‘In a manner of speaking, he was still young when he was forced to retire because of a disability. He developed a tremor in his hands which made it impossible for him to pass the marksmanship test so he had to resign.’
‘That is unfortunate.’
‘I use him quite a bit. I find him to be reliable. Not personable, as I said. But reliable.’
‘I don’t need a friend,’ she said.
Whitman nodded. ‘Do you have a minute?’ he asked. ‘I can give him a call.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Blair. ‘I’ll wait.’
EIGHTEEN
The road up the mountain was winding and the day was growing dark. Blair drove carefully, using her high beams. She had learned from Brooks Whitman that the man she was en route to see was a solitary sort. After his forced retirement, he liked living as far away as possible from his fellow humans. Whitman had called him while Blair was in his office and had explained her situation to him. The investigator was out on a case, but he had agreed to see her later and now, in the waning hours of the day, Blair was seeking his hideaway in the woods.
Blair was not at all sure that a private detective was the way to go, but she was out of options. Whitman assured her that this investigator was thorough and could be trusted.
‘Just don’t interfere,’ Brooks Whitman said. ‘Give him the check and get out of his way.’
‘Gladly,’ said Blair.
She had hesitated when Whitman told her that Tom Olson had been a patrolman at the time of Molly’s murder. Blair was apprehensive that he might be prejudiced in favor of the police department, but Brooks Whitman assured her that Tom Olson prided himself on being impartial. Blair found the driveway and pulled in. The small house looked deserted, with no lights on. The only sign that anyone lived there was a single rocking chair on the front porch. Blair pulled up, parked her car and knocked on the door. No one answered. She knocked again. Now that she was on the porch, she could see that the television was on inside, but still, no one came to the door.
‘Hello? Mr Olson?’ she called out.
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