"Of course."
"I think he'll admit that to Peter and me. He's like any other parent-he simply wants what's best for the boy. Among us, we'll figure out what that is."
"And the other lawyers," I said, referring to Nancy Taggart and Jesse Irizarry, from the city child welfare agency and the foundling hospital, "they'll go along with whatever you propose?"
"We haven't talked with them yet. Not till you say you're on board," Robelon said.
"Andrew Tripping will do a full allocution?" I wanted a complete admission to the assault on Dulles, no weasel words or excuses.
"We'll work on that with him."
"On Wednesday morning, when we report back to Moffett?"
"Yes, but-" Robelon started to answer.
"Why doesn't it surprise me that there's a 'but'? Why is it always an angle with you guys?" I asked. "What's this one?"
"He pleads guilty on Wednesday morning. He admits to hitting the boy, causing the injuries. We'll give you everything you want on that. But we put the sentence off for three weeks. Let him get his affairs in order, see the boy one more-"
"No way."
"No, what? It's a misdemeanor charge. A short adjournment to tie up loose ends, secure his belongings, make arrangements for his bills to be paid while he's in jail. Nobody in your office ever objected to that kind of thing."
"It's the boy, Peter. I don't want him seeing the boy."
"One time. Supervised. You've read all the reports. You know the kid loves him. Since when are you some kind of expert on child psychology, Alex? That Dr. Huang will be present to supervise. Andrew needs to have one face-to-face with the kid. Apologize to him, explain why it's better that he gets help before he thinks about asking to raise Dulles by himself. What the hell do you know about how this kid's gonna feel that his father's in jail for a complaint that the child himself made to the doctors?"
I couldn't respond to Peter's tirade. If there was a single visit, with close supervision, I suppose it might be a necessary part of the child's recovery process. "Let me talk to our shrinks," I said.
Graham tried to be the diplomat. "Look, Alex. It's late in the day, and we're hitting you with this by surprise. Think about it overnight, talk to your people tomorrow, and let's see if we can work this out by Wednesday. I really believe a plea would resolve this quite reasonably for everyone involved."
"Everyone except Paige Vallis," I said, thinking of how her death had taken her interests completely out of the criminal case. "And now I'm supposed to leave Andrew Tripping out of jail even longer, risking the possibility that he'll never surrender, but I don't have a clue whether he's responsible for the Vallis murder."
"Goddamnit, Alex," Robelon shouted at me. "If you had a scintilla of evidence to point in his direction, then you and your goons should lock his ass up. Don't you dare think for a fraction of a second of walking into a courtroom and making that kind of allegation that you can't support. That's completely unprofessional."
Robelon was on his feet, and Hoyt was pressing the palm of his hand against the taller man's chest.
"We all need a break," Hoyt said. "Let's wrap it up before the weekend. Gretchen's on her way. You and I will be out of here."
"Gretchen?" I asked, completely distracted by his non sequitur.
"Hurricane Gretchen. She's headed for the Outer Banks tomorrow, and then supposed to roll up the coast, hitting us hard on the cape and islands. That's what this drizzle is about," Hoyt said, pointing to the gray clouds outside the window.
"I didn't even notice. I don't think I've looked out the window since I got here this morning."
"I've got to fly up to Nantucket to secure the boat before the weekend. Better check on your house," he reminded me.
Hoyt was giving me the chance to small-talk my way back into a conversation with Robelon. I'd be damned if I'd apologize for my crack about Tripping. His involvement in Vallis's death certainly hadn't been ruled out by the homicide detectives.
I tried to stay in neutral territory. Bouncing off my interview of Spike Logan, I remembered Hoyt's lively discussion about collectors when we had been at the New York Yacht Club.
We closed up the conference room and walked to the elevators. "I've got a question for you, Graham. You told me on Saturday that you're the maven of great collectors. Besides J. P. Morgan, who were the other well-known collectors of the twentieth century?"
Robelon walked behind us, brooding, as Hoyt answered me. "Nelson Rockefeller, Armand Hammer, William Randolph Hearst, Malcolm Forbes. Dozens more like them, just not as well known. You looking for a rich husband, Alex?"
"Skip the husband. Just a tiara. How about King Farouk? Would he be on that list?"
"What'd you say about Farouk?" Robelon asked.
Tell your client I'm on to him, I thought to myself. "I asked Graham what kind of collector he was."
"Something to do with Paige Vallis?" Hoyt wanted to know.
"No, no. Another matter altogether."
"One of the most bizarre collectors of all times. I mean," said Hoyt, "there were the usual high-end things. Famous jewels, postage stamps, rare coins-"
Robelon broke in. "Cars. Wasn't he the guy with the red cars?"
Hoyt nodded. "He had a passion for red cars. Bright, tomato red. Collected hundreds of them. Passed a law forbidding anyone else in Egypt from owning a red automobile, so when the soldiers saw a scarlet car speeding through town, they knew it was the king himself."
"Incredible."
"And antique weapons. Had a real thing for them."
"Like Andrew Tripping?" I said. Maybe Farouk was the inspiration for the scabbards, daggers, and scimitars that decorated his spare apartment.
"A little finer than Andrew's. And quite a cache. If you're really curious, you can check the old auction books. I think there were more than a thousand pages of cataloged items that Sotheby's put together, and those were only the things that Farouk couldn't get out of the country with him when he fled in fifty-two."
"Pornography?" I asked. Was there any sex offender twisted enough to kill for an original collection of erotic art, part of which Spike Logan thought was still in Queenie's apartment at the time of her death?
"Loads of it. But for some reason, that was all removed from the auction offerings just days before the collection went under the gavel," Hoyt answered. "The odd thing was that Farouk had piles of junk, too. Paper clips and labels from ketchup bottles, walking sticks and aspirin bottles. He's not my model, Alex. I prefer the more discerning pack rats, like Morgan."
"Autographed pictures of Adolf Hitler," said Robelon from behind me. "The fat old bastard collected those, too."
"How come everyone knows about Farouk except me?" I asked.
"Peter comes by it naturally," Hoyt said. "I think that's what attracted Andrew to him in college."
"My father's English," Robelon said. "Worked abroad for the government."
"In Egypt?"
"No, no. In Rome, actually."
"What does that have to do with King Farouk?" I asked.
"That's where Farouk died, in exile, in 1965," Robelon said.
"Let's put this case to bed. Then I'll buy the first round of drinks, Alex. Maybe we can get the truth out of my classmate here. Peter claims his father was just an attaché at the embassy. But Andrew swears Robelon senior was the most important British spook in Europe."
23
"Where has this day gone?" I asked Mike, who had settled in behind my desk. It was after six-thirty and the corridors were quiet and dark.