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EIGHT

AFTER DR. BEN IS up and out in the morning, Rob Jacobson calls from Nassau County Correctional. It’s still only eight o’clock. I’m actually surprised the call didn’t come earlier.

“I need to see you as soon as possible.”

“Want, or need?”

“When it’s you, Janie, it’s usually both.”

Ah. There’s the old Rob .

“And just exactly what do you need to see me about?”

Don’t make it easy for him.

Fair’s fair.

Nothing’s easy for me these days.

“You’ve probably figured it out. But I’ll tell you when you get here.”

He knows I’ll be there and so do I. It’s why he placed the call and why I answered it.

When I’m finally in another jailhouse visitors’ room with Rob Jacobson two hours later, it occurs to me how little time has passed since Jimmy and I went to his house after I shot Joe Champi, and I played the recording I made before Champi died. The one where Uncle Joe told me that they’d just tried Jacobson for the wrong murders.

Jacobson is uncuffed when he sits down across the table from me. I’ve already told the guard not to worry, I might not be at full strength these days, but had no doubt I could take the prisoner in a fair fight if necessary.

“Look at us,” Jacobson says. “A team again.”

“We were never a team, Rob. Our relationship, if you can even call it that, was strictly transactional.”

He leans forward, as if his wrists were still cuffed, and clasps his hands in front of him.

“I was set up.”

“Not to put too fine a point on things, but for which murders?”

“All of them.”

“Tell it to your new judge. And your new lawyer.”

He smiles now. I know from experience how hard it can be to knock the smile off Rob Jacobson’s face. I even tried, without success, to slap it off one time.

“We’re still undefeated, you and me.”

“Pretty small sample size.”

“But one huge case.”

I take a closer look at him than I had outside the courthouse. He definitely has lost weight. And a lot of what I once thought was a permanent tan. Or maybe they’ve taken away his bronzer. Hair a little grayer. Matching the color of his jumpsuit.

“You could get me out of here at my bail hearing,” he says.

“Howie the Horse’s problem. Not mine.”

He leans forward a little more. I’m worried that if he gets any closer, he might try to kiss me.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” he says.

“Do people even still say that?”

“I’m saying it. And asking you this: How much will it take for me to get you back?” He shrugs. “You have to know that’s why I asked you here.”

“I do. Not exactly rocket science.”

“But you still showed up.”

“Maybe I’m just here for the begging.”

“Won’t be any. And want to know why? Because I know you as well as you know me.”

He nods at me before he leans back.

“How are you feeling, by the way?”

I hadn’t known that he knew about my cancer until after his acquittal. He and his dear friend Joe Champi both knew, as it turned out. Champi gave that up before he tried to kill me.

“None of your business.”

Another shrug. “Fair enough. So what do you think about my offer?” He grins. “You know you miss the rush of being in the game. You miss the thrill you got when you got me off.” Slight hesitation. “So to speak.”

He’s right. But I’m not going to tell him that.

“On that note,” I say, “time for me to go.”

“So what’s your answer?”

I stand.

“I’ll get back to you,” I tell him when I’m at the door and the guard is opening it for me.

“Oh, you’ll be back, all right,” Rob Jacobson says.

“You’re that sure of yourself?”

“All my girls come back sooner or later,” he says. “At least the ones who are still alive.”