Free A Deadly Secret: The Story of Robert Durst by Matt Birkbeck Page B

gone to the stone cottage with her sister, Fadwa, arriving around 7 P.M. She rang the bell, but no one answered. She returned to the car and sat there for forty-five minutes. She wanted to get into the house, and told her sister she was going to break in. Fadwa tried to talk Gilberte out of it, but Gilberte was like a woman possessed. She got out of the car and walked through the snow and around to the side door. It was dark, the only faint light coming from several homes on the other side of Lake Truesdale.
    Gilberte pushed away some snow from the ground and picked up a rock. She looked around, then flung the rock through the door window. She reached in and turned the lock, opened the door, and let herself in.
    “Are you crazy?” said Eleanor.
    “Eleanor, you have to hear this,” said Gilberte, who continued her story. She had been inside the house many times before and knew the layout well. It was small, to some people claustrophobically so, maybe 1,200 square feet in total. The kitchen, dining room, living room, and bedroom on the main floor, another bedroom and mudroom downstairs, which offered access to the backyard and pier.
    While Gilberte was in the mudroom she looked inside the washing machine and dryer. They were empty. She checked the hamper, hoping to find Kathie’s sweatpants and sweatshirt, the clothes she’d worn to her party on Sunday.
    The clothes weren’t there.
    Gilberte then walked upstairs and through the bedroom, living room, and kitchen. Everything seemed to be in order. Najamy was looking for something, any sign of a struggle, maybe even blood. But the house was crisp and clean. As Gilberte tiptoed around the kitchen, she noticed there was mail inside a plastic garbage can next to the sink. She reached over and picked it up. Her eyes opened wide. It was Kathie’s mail. And it was unopened.
    “Why would Bobby throw out her mail?”
    “I don’t know. But I found something, a small sheet of paper. It was an itinerary of some kind, in Bobby’s scribbled handwriting. It listed days and times, from Monday to Wednesday. And I found a receipt for boots Bobby bought on February third.”
    “Why would he write up an itinerary?” said Eleanor.
    Gilberte didn’t have any answers. More important to her was the condition of the house.
    “Eleanor, I think there’s something very wrong. The house was clean. Too clean, pristine. It looked like someone even scrubbed the floors.”
    Kathie wasn’t much of a housekeeper, that much was certain, often leaving clothes lying around or dishes in the sink.
    “What about the housekeeper? What’s her name? Janet. Janet Finke.”
    “I don’t know. But I’ve never seen the house like this,” said Gilberte. “There’s more, Eleanor. I spoke with Bobby this morning. He said the reward was really ten thousand dollars. Somehow the papers screwed it up. He also said he was devastated.”
    “Cheap bastard. That’s all she’s worth to him?” said Eleanor. “And he’s not the least bit ‘devastated.’ I don’t believe it.”
    “He thinks she had some kind of breakdown.”
    “No, Gilberte. He killed her. I know he did.”
    —
    Michael Burns sat inside the small, mirrored room, tapping his forefinger on the thick wooden table under the watchful eye of Mike Struk.
    Burns had been summoned to the Twentieth Precinct by Struk, who called Burns at his Mount Vernon home the day before. Burns knew the request to talk about Kathie Durst was more like a command, so he obliged.
    Before the meeting Struk had run a background check that showed Burns had no criminal record. As he sat there tapping his finger on the table, Burns looked around the room while Struk pretended to be reading through a file. He wanted Burns to be nervous. The first few questions were perfunctory, such as age and occupation. Burns said he was thirty-two years old and unemployed.
    “So, tell me how you met Mrs. Durst.”
    “At a party, at the Dursts’ penthouse, last summer.”
    “Who