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Immortal even.
I’m not sure what my plan is here, if it is an underage girl with him. Burst in on them and confirm my worst fears about Rob Jacobson, that he’s about half an Epstein?
One of my worst fears, anyway.
One of many.
I stop the car near the end of the driveway, hidden enough by the privet down here but still allowing me a view of a house pretty close to the road for this neighborhood, the back lawn far bigger.
I roll down the windows and feel the ocean breeze, smell it, hear the muted sound of the ocean from a half mile away.
I remember the night I came and parked not far from here and saw Gus Hennessy show up for his sleepover with Claire Jacobson.
One more fun couple of the Hamptons.
I know I might be wasting my time. I am quite conscious of time these days, and how precious it is. Twelve months left. Or whatever it is. That many days and nights.
How do I put them to their best use?
I think about timeallthe time.
Do I want to spend it alone?
Or with Jimmy and Ben and Rip the dog?
I love the sound and the feel of the ocean. There could be worse places to go out. Worse ways. I know I shouldn’t feel a sense of peace here, on what might be a useless, and cockeyed, stakeout of a dirtbag like Rob Jacobson.
But somehow I do.
I am here for an hour, more or less, when I hear a scream that shatters the sounds of the night, and the ocean up ahead of me.
The scream of a girl.
Somebody’s daughter, the way Laurel Gates was. And Paul Biondi’s daughter was.
And then her daughter after that.
I hear another scream, louder than the first.
Somebody’s daughter making that sound.
I’m out of the car now, running up the driveway.
Wishing I had a real gun on me.
One Hundred Fourteen
AS I SPRINT PASTthe Mercedes parked at the top of the drive and around the garage and into the backyard, heart pumping like I’m back on the trail, hearing one more scream in the distance, I stop briefly.
And hear the sound of laughter.
Rob Jacobson’s.
My client.
Then I’m in motion again, seeing him in the light of his back patio, shirt out of his jeans, shoeless, laughing his head off now, almost like someone baying at the moon.
“Got a runner!” he yells.
