She was at home, watching TV with a friend, when the call came. She was in Connecticut, where she’d remained all these years since Kathie disappeared. She was 29 back then—the same age as Kathie. Now she was 49. Her day job involved counseling abused women. Nights were a different story. They were devoted to volunteer work, of a sort. The hours were horrible, and horribly unpredictable, and her phone bills were through the roof. Not that she minded.
Bobby. That’s what they called him back when he was still hobnobbing with Jackie Onassis and making seven-figure deals and flying off to Paris and Saint-Tropez. The name stuck even during the bad old days, in the early 1980s, when he and his lovely young wife, Kathie, were no longer the happy couple they’d once been. By then Kathie’s complaints about Bobby—that he regularly brutalized her, physically and psychologically—were an open secret among their friends and neighbors.
They were happy once. That was in the early 70s, when they were married in a private ceremony with no guests. On their second date, he had asked her to move in with him. Urbane and cryptic, an artist wrapped in a suit, he sculpted and knew architecture. Kathie, a dentist’s assistant, barely 19, was impressed. She did not come from money.
At Lehigh University, in Pennsylvania, Bobby majored in economics. After graduation he headed west for more schooling at U.C.L.A. just as the 60s counterculture was reaching full flower. In all likelihood, this is where he met the first of two major influences, marijuana, which would become his lifelong companion.
No question, Bobby was a ticket. He could be wildly generous, giving friends thousands of dollars. No repayment required. They would hit the clubs, in a pack that included Bobby, Kathie, Gilberte, and their friends Kathy Traystman and Peter Schwartz, a photographer. They haunted Studio 54 and Xenon. Bobby always seemed to know the club’s landlord. “Durst party,” they’d say, and in they’d go, right past the unruly mob. They danced, they imbibed, sometimes to excess.
where she had made her bones as a reporter. By 1980 she had moved to Manhattan, where the real action was. Her articles appeared inchronicling her early life as a mobster’s little girl. She’d received $350,000 for the film rights. She began holding court at Elaine’s, the literary cantina.He killed her. That’s what Gilberte thought. She couldn’t prove it. There was no proof.
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