Split Images

  "Where," Robbie began, and then said it quickly. "Where was his body found?"

  "In front of the art museum," Bryan said.

  Robbie jumped. "The Art Museum!"

  "Lying under that statue. The Thinker," Bryan said.

  "You found his body--you're telling me in front of the Art Museum on Woodward Avenue?"

  "Why," Bryan said, "did you think it was someplace else?"

  "I dropped him off--" Robbie stopped, but knew he had to go on. "It was a house in Hamtramck.

  That's where I saw him last, in Hamtramck."

  "And you're wondering how he got over to Detroit," Bryan said, "with three bullets in his chest from a Colt Python, three-fifty-seven Mag, that match a couple bullets taken out of a Haitian burglar and sent to us courtesy of the Palm Beach Police. Is that what's bothering you?"

  Hunched over the desk, his blue cashmere hanging loose, Robbie stared with a numb look, his mouth slack.

  Bryan said, "You want to hear the rest of your rights, or you want to call your lawyer first? . . .

  Don't know what to think, huh? We've also got asearch warrant that says we can pick up evidence.

  That Colt Python you think so much of and the tape over in the VCR. You got any movies you want to show us?"

  Annie said, "If you do make a statement it can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have a lawyer present--"

  Robbie said, "Goddamn it, shut up!" He came alive and hung there in a knot, losing his good looks, before easing back into the chair. Now he seemed stunned, amazed. He said, "Walter Kouza? "

  Bryan said, "There must be some mistake, huh?

  Who's Walter Kouza?" Poking at the nerve center of Robbie's pain. "He sure wasn't one of your international assholes, was he?" Bryan said, "No, Walter was just a local asshole trying to make it big."

  Bryan got up. Annie dug into her bag before she rose and came out with a pair of handcuffs. Bryan took them, jiggled them at Robbie and he got up very slowly.

  Robbie said it again, "Walter Kouza . . ." Like he would never get over it.

  Bryan said, "Put your hands behind you, we'll ride down to the Wayne County jail. It ain't Seminole, Smiley, but they do serve a lot of macaroni and cheese."

  HE SAID TO HIMSELF, Shit, just write it. It's only a letter. Go ahead.

  Under Dear Editor he wrote:

  Here is the material that Angela Nolan was preparing for your magazine according to the assignment you gave her on rich people. You will notice there are 15 finished pages of the interview typed up that are great and seem to describe exactly the kind of dangerous showoff Robinson Daniels is, or at least was. He is going to have to change his ways very quickly where I hope he is going or else get his ass knocked off. (If you need any information about the Southern Michigan Prison at Jackson, which has the largest inmate population in the nation, let me know.) There are also some very interesting notes you can fix up a little and use to finish the article yourself. (En-closed also are photos of both Daniels and Angela.) If you are in not too big a hurry, wait and I will let you know how the trial comes out. I'm betting the son of a bitch will get mandatory life. If he doesn't, I'll settle for 99 years.

  Bryan was going to end it there and sign it, but he thought of something else and added:

  If you have trouble deciding whether or not to run this great article by Angela Nolan, let me know. I'll come to N. Y. and hold you out the window by your heels until you decide.

  See if they had a sense of humor.

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