“Listen, want to make a little bet?”
“About what?”
“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that after Liz reads the novel she won’t be sure of whether Manning wrote it.”
“I’m not sure I’d take that bet,” Stone said. “She’s been equivocal every time she was in a position to nail something down. I mean, you’d have thought she could tell us right away that Bartlett wasn’t Manning.”
“Yeah, I would have thought that,” Dino agreed. “Of course, there could be a really strong resemblance. I mean, you knew Manning, and you weren’t much help.”
“You knew him, too, and you were no help at all, until shooting was required.”
“You saying I’m trigger happy?”
“Dino, as far as I’m concerned, you can shoot anybody anytime you feel like it, because usually, when you shoot somebody, he’s trying to shoot me.”
“I’m glad you noticed.”
“So, you suspect Liz of something?”
Dino shrugged. “Not yet. I’d just like to have a straight answer from her now and then.”
“So would I,” Stone said, half to himself.
36
Dino picked up a phone. “I know a guy on the Easthampton force; let’s start with the home address. Maybe we won’t have to go any farther.” Dino made the call and waited. “I’m on hold,” he said, then waited patiently. “Hey, yeah, I’m here.” Dino listened and asked a couple of questions, then hung up and turned to Stone. “Frederick James rented a house on Gin Lane up until a week ago. He spoke to the real estate agent, and they didn’t have a forwarding address. His address when he rented the place was a Manhattan hotel, the Brooke.”
“Dead end,” Stone said. “I’ll call the publisher.” He called New York information and was connected.
“Good morning, Hot Lead Press,” a young woman’s voice said.
“Good morning,” Stone said. “This is Lieutenant Bacchetti, NYPD. I’d like to speak to the editor of Frederick James. Can you find out for me which of your editors that is?”
“That’s easy,” she replied. “We’ve only got one editor. I’ll connect you.”
This time, a man, also young: “Pete Willard.”
“Good morning, Mr. Willard. This is Lieutenant Bacchetti of the NYPD. I’d-”
“No kidding? A real live cop?”
“That’s right. I’d-”
“Listen, I’ll bet you’ve got some great stories to tell. Have you got an agent?”
“No, and-”
“Great. And no publisher, either?”
“Mr. Willard, I’m calling on police business.”
“Oh, okay, shoot. Not really. I mean, go ahead.”
“I understand that you edit Frederick James?”
“Edit and publish. He was our first author.”
“I take it you’re new in business?”
“That’s right. Opened our doors ten months ago, and already we’ve got a best-seller. That is, this Sunday we will. Frederick James’s novel Tumult opens at number eleven on the Times list.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. We’re very excited.”
“Who’s we?”
“Molly and me. And baby makes three. No, Molly is… Well, she does everything I don’t. And she’s my wife, and she’s pregnant.”
“Congratulations again.”
“Thanks. We’re very excited.”
Back where I started, Stone thought. “Mr. Willard, I need to get in touch with Frederick James.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you’re one of his cop sources. He has all kinds of sources.”
“Not yet,” Stone said. “I’d just like to find him.”
“Well, Mr. James is pretty reclusive,” Willard said. “I’m not supposed to give out any information.”
“This is a very serious police matter,” Stone said. “I’d rather not have to come down there with a search warrant.”
“Hey, just like on Law and Order, huh? Except they always screw up the warrant, and the judge throws out the evidence from the search.”
“I won’t screw up the warrant, Mr. Willard. And believe me, it will be much simpler for you just to give me Mr. James’s address and phone number than for us to come down there and start tearing your office apart.”
“Actually, I don’t have either an address or a phone number for him. I know it’s peculiar, but like I said, he’s reclusive.”
“How do you communicate with Mr. James?”
“E-mail,” Willard said. “And through his agent.”
“What’s his e-mail address?”
“FJ at frederickjames dot com.”
“And his agent’s name?”
“Tom Jones.”
“The singer or the novel?” Stone asked dryly.
“No kidding, that’s his name. I’ll give you his number.”
Stone wrote it down. “By the way, Mr. Willard, if Mr. James should communicate with you, please don’t tell him I called. It might make you a co-conspirator.”
“Oh, jeez,” Willard said. “I won’t say a word.”
Stone hung up, laughing. “This is some kind of publishing house,” he said to Dino. “Just a kid and his pregnant wife. But I’ve got his agent’s name.” He dialed the number.
“Tom Jones,” a voice said-middle-aged, husky from booze and cigarettes. No operator, no secretary, just Jones.
“Mr. Jones, this is Lieutenant Bacchetti of the NYPD.”
“I didn’t do it!” Jones cackled. “She swore she was over eighteen, anyway.” He roared with laughter. It took him a moment to recover himself.
“Mr. Jones, I’m trying to find a client of yours.”
“And which client would that be?” Jones asked, clearing his throat loudly.
“Frederick James.”
“What a coincidence,” Jones said. “He’s my only client!” This time, he nearly collapsed with laughter.
The man has to be drunk, Stone thought. “Mr. Jones…”
Jones continued to laugh, cough and clear his throat. “Yeah?” he said finally.
“It’s very important that I see Mr. James.”
“Well, if you can do that, pal, you’re way ahead of me. I’ve never seen him.”
“He’s your client, and you’ve never seen him?”
“He’s reclusive.”
“And how do you communicate with him?”
“E-mail,” Jones said. “FJ at frederickjames dot com.”
“How about a phone number?”
“Don’t have one. I’ve never even spoken with him.”
“And how did you become his agent?”
“Manuscript came in over the transom,” he said. “Literally. I came to work one morning-I was just about to close up the shop for good-and the manuscript was lying on the floor. Tell you the truth, Lieutenant, I was all washed up as an agent. But when I read Tumult, I knew I had a winner. Trouble was, nobody in any established house would even take my calls, let alone read the manuscript. So I called my nephew, who was an editorial assistant at Simon and Schuster, and he read it and went nuts. His dad loaned him some money, and he packaged the book and got S and S to distribute it for him. He’s making out like a bandit.”
“Would that be Pete Willard?”
“That would be he.”
“Mr. Jones, did you ever know a writer named Paul Manning?”
“Sure, I knew him for twenty years; got him started and I represented him right up until his untimely death.”
“You haven’t heard from him lately, then?”
“Not likely. I don’t have those kind of connections!” Jones laughed hysterically again.
Stone waited him out. When Jones had recovered himself, Stone tried again. “Mr. Jones, how do you send Mr. James contracts to sign, checks from his publisher, that sort of thing? You must have some kind of address.”
“You promise not to tell him where you got it?”
“I promise.”
“He lives at One Vanderbilt Avenue, right here in New York.”
“Phone number?”
“Doesn’t have one; not even an unlisted one.”