“He had a record. We didn’t see it right away because it happened when he was a minor. Shoplifting. Selling pot. An assault charge—a street fight, I guess. After a concert.”
That son of Kate’s was a handful and then some. Pretty much scared me off having kids of my own.“None of those things were murder,” Robin said.
“No. But he was only sixteen.” Morasco moved toward the door. “Also the clerk at his hotel said that a couple of days after the shootings, right before he disappeared, he came storming into the lobby and shouted at him for no reason. Scared the hell out of the other guests.”
“Oh...”
“Yeah, and some witnesses said they saw him freaking out outside the New York library, the day after Mitchell died.”
“Oh.”
“Okay, anyway, I gotta go check on a few things, but go ahead and listen. I’ll be back in about ten minutes to walk you out.”
After he left, Robin put the headphones on and pushed the play button. She heard a rustling sound at first, and then Quentin’s voice.“So. This tape will be my formal confession to the police. But first I would like to make an apology.” Robin shifted in the chair, struck by the flatness of his voice, the lack of emotion. “I want to apologize to Robin and Eric Diamond. Robin Diamond in particular. I’m sorry, Ms. Diamond. Robin. They loved you very much.” Robin swallowed hard. Gripped the arms of her chic, cushioned chair. “They gave you a stable upbringing, with summer camp and family vacations. I bet you never woke up in the middle of the night at just five years old, realizing you were all alone in your house.” He coughed. Took a breath. “It’s interesting... I read in this book that Gabriel LeRoy had a nickname for April Cooper. He called her Baby Blue, which had been his name for the baby blanket he used to carry around with him everywhere when he was a little boy. He called her Baby Blue because she made him feel the way that blanket did. Comfortable. Safe. You had that with your parents, Robin. I never had a Baby Blue, so in my anger and confusion and hurt, I destroyed yours. That isn’t an excuse. If anything, it’s the opposite. I’m telling you that I did what I did for the most selfish of reasons.”
Robin shut the recorder off. Rewound it. Played the last section again. “You had that with your parents, Robin. I never had a Baby Blue.”
Rewound it again. Played it again. “You had that—”
She hit pause. Then played it one more time, just to make sure—not about what Quentin had said, but about the sound in the background. It was kids, shouting. Same as she’d heard during their last phone conversation. Was he in the same park? Had he recorded this confession right after hanging up with her?
Robin listened to the rest of the recording. “This next part is for the police. I am now formally confessing to the murder of Mitchell Bloom, may he rest in peace. And I am confessing to the shooting of Renee Bloom.” He didn’t mention friends and family, but as shecould tell now, it didn’t matter. It was his tone, the hopelessness in it. “Mitchell Bloom had his back to me when I entered the kitchen. It was very late. ElevenP.M. It had taken me that long to get up the courage to talk to him, and I was still used to West Coast time. He was making a sandwich. Listening to the BBC World News on the radio. I said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but if I could have a moment of your time.’ He was scared, then angry. Asked me what the hell I was doing in his house... I told him I wanted to talk about my mother. And he said, ‘Who gives a damn about your dead mother?’ I... I know I was an intruder. But I lost hold of my senses...” The story went on. Renee entering with the gun, the fight ensuing. “I was consumed with rage and jealousy and hurt,” he said. All in that same monotone, the voice you use to surrender.
After he was through with the confession, Quentin apologized to Dean for ruining their wonderful life together, to his in-laws and baby niece for bringing them shame, and finally to “Summer Hawkins, for being undeserving of her friendship.” And then he started to cry. Deep, racking sobs that tore at Robin as she listened. Had the shouting children heard him? Had anyone heard him? After several seconds, he caught his breath. “I love you all,” he said before ending the recording. “Please don’t hate me.”
Robin thought back to the phone call again, how his voice had cracked.Can we meet? Maybe in an hour? Please. I’ll meet you anywhere you’d like.
Quentin had never met her at the hospital. He’d never seen her again. Had he recorded his confession in a public park, right after speaking to her? Had he known at that point that he was going to kill himself?
Robin glanced at the door, then looked at the plastic bags on the table. She slid open the one that held his wallet and wedding ring. She removed the ring first—a thick band of yellow gold, veryold-fashioned. She held the band up to the light, read the inscription inside:YOU ARE MY EVERYTHING, DC. “You did have your Baby Blue, Quentin,” she whispered. “You idiot.”
She dropped the ring back in the bag, opened his wallet, and started going through it. Nothing that said “suicidal,” or “troubled,” or, for that matter, “fucked-up teen.” She slipped out a California driver’s license, two credit cards, an ID from the radio station he had worked for, $300 cash. A cloth handkerchief like her father’s father used to carry. No pictures. Who carried pictures in their wallets these days? Though she’d figured a guy with a cloth handkerchief might. There were a few business cards, many of them clearly from this trip. Someone from the New York Public Library. A woman named Edith Brixton. Detective Morasco. Nicola Crane. Behind the business cards, she found a movie ticket stub. She set it on the table and read the faded print, her throat tightening. 6/24/76.Easter Parade.A ticket stub for her mom’s favorite movie. From close to twenty years before Quentin had been born. “Nothing weird about that,” she said out loud.
Then she saw the name of the theater.
She heard footsteps outside the door and shoved everything back into the wallet, the wallet into the plastic bag. By the time Morasco came in, everything was in its place.
“Everything work out okay?” Morasco said.
“Fine,” she said. “Thank you.”
Behind him stood several other cops, plainclothes and uniform, among them a blond, handsome, devastated-looking man she recognized instantly as Dean Conrad. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said to her.
“I’m sorry for yours.”
She aimed her eyes at the ground and started to pass. “I’m going to tell you what I told these detectives,” he said quickly. “I spoke toQuentin a couple of days after the shooting. It was the last time I talked to him. He said he was feeling guilty because he hadn’t told the police everything about that night.”
“Yes?”
“He went to your parents’ house. He watched them from outside. Your mom left at one point—she kind of stormed out of the house and he followed her in his car until he lost her. Then he went back to the hotel. That was all he did.”
“Why did he confess to killing them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t he tell the police that he’d been outside their house?”
“I think he thought it made him sound like a stalker. Which he was, kind of... But he wasn’t a killer. I know Quentin better than anyone. And he isn’t. He wasn’t...”
