Excerpt from Sam Roberts' THE BROTHER

Our last interview ended as the dozens that had preceded it had.  David got up from the chair next to mine.  He shook hands, said good-bye, and left me and his lawyer, who had monitored virtually every one of our conversations while he played video games on his computer.  David had never told his wife that he had finally agreed to be interviewed.

My search for David Greenglass was over.  But I was still searching for an end to a story that I felt had stopped short of a climax.  So I followed David home.

For a driver who is colorblind, David didn't run a single red light (he can tell red from green by which of the three lights on the traffic signal is lit), but his leased coupe took advantage of every shortcut.  As he pulled into his driveway, the garage door opened automatically.  I vaguely recalled the neighborhood from my brief encounter ten years before.  Some of the kids from the elementary school at the end of the block must be in college by now.  The trees arched closer together across the street than they had then, though the sky was still revealed through gaps left by limbs lost to storms.  The house looked the same.  It is a white frame house with faded red trim.  It sits on a corner lot.  The shades were drawn tight, just as they had been the first time I visited.

The Greenglasses have lived pseudonymously for more than half their lives; their circumspect lifestyle is a testament to the enduring attraction of the case.  That they have largely succeeded is a consequence of New York's impersonality.

A lamppost stands on the front lawn, between the driveway and the house.  It is slightly askew.  The light works.  Something is missing, though.  The wrought-iron arm from which most homeowners hang a sign that proudly proclaims their family name is bare.

Except for two empty hooks.