Well, Prescott’s wife and co-author had done just that: come up with a perfect plot. Maybe the man on the street a moment ago was Reilly, acting as bait. And it was the professional killer who’d come up behind him.
Maybe even Jane Reilly herself.
She’s pretty tough…
The detective had another thought. Maybe it was none of his suspects. Maybe the former agent, Frank Lester, had been bitter about being fired by his client and killed Prescott for revenge. Malloy had never followed up on that lead.
Hell, dying because he’d been careless…
Then the hand tugged on his shoulder slightly, indicating he should turn around.
Malloy did, slowly.
He blinked as he looked up into the eyes of the man who’d snuck up behind him.
They’d never met, but the detective knew exactly what J.B. Prescott looked like. His face was on the back jackets of a dozen books in Mal-loy’s living room.
“Sorry for the scare,” Prescott explained, putting away the pen he’d used as a gun muzzle-an ironic touch that Malloy noted as his heart continued to slam in his chest.
The author continued, “I wanted to intercept you before you got home. But I didn’t think you’d get here so soon. I had to come up behind you and make you think I had a weapon so you didn’t call in a ten- thirteen. That would have been a disaster.”
“Intercept?” Malloy asked. “Why?”
They were sitting in the alleyway, on the stairs of a loading dock.
“I needed to talk to you,” Prescott said. The man had a large mane of gray hair and a matching moustache that bisected his lengthy face. He looked like an author ought to look.
“You could’ve called,” Malloy snapped.
“No, I couldn’t. If somebody had overheard or if you’d told anyone I was alive, my whole plot would’ve been ruined.”
“Okay, what the hell is going on?”
Prescott lowered his head to his hands and didn’t speak for a moment. Then he said, “For the past eighteen months I’ve been planning my own death. It took that long to find a doctor, an ambulance crew, a funeral director I could bribe. And find some remote land in Spain where we could buy a place and nobody would disturb me.”
“So you were the one the police saw walking away from where you’d supposedly had the heart attack in Vermont.”
He nodded.
“What were you carrying? A suitcase?”
“Oh, my laptop. I’m never without it. I write all the time.”
“Then who was in the ambulance?”
“Nobody. It was just for show.”
“And at the cemetery, an empty urn in the plot?”
“That’s right.”
“But why on earth would you do this? Debts? Was the mob after you?”
A laugh. “I’m worth fifty million dollars. And I may write about the mob and spies and government agents, but I’ve never actually met one… No, I’m doing this because I’ve decided to give up writing the Jacob Sharpe books.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s time for me to try something different: publish what I first started writing, years ago, poetry and literary stories.”
Malloy remembered this from the obit.
Prescott explained quickly: “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think literature’s any better than commercial fiction, not at all. People who say that are fools. But when I tried my hand at literature when I was young, I didn’t have any skill. I was self- indulgent, digressive… boring. Now I know how to write. The Jacob Sharpe books taught me how. I learned how to think about the audience’s needs, how to structure my stories, how to communicate clearly.”
“Tradecraft,” Malloy said.
The author gave a laugh. “Yes, tradecraft. I’m not a young man. I decided I wasn’t going to die without seeing if I could make a success of it.”
“Well, why fake your death? Why not just write what you wanted to?”
“For one thing, I’d get my poems published because I was J.B. Prescott. My publishers around the world would pat me on the head and say, ‘Anything you want, J.B.’ No, I want my work accepted or rejected on its own merits. But more important, if I just stopped writing the Sharpe series my fans would never forgive me. Look what happened to Sherlock Holmes.”
Malloy shook his head.
“Conan Doyle killed off Holmes. But the fans were furious. He was hounded into bringing the back the hero they loved. I’d be hounded in the same way. And my publisher wouldn’t let me rest in peace either.” He shook his head. “I knew there’d be various reactions, but I never thought anybody’d question my death.”
“Something didn’t sit right.”
He smiled sadly. “Maybe I’m a better at making plots for fiction than making them in real life.” Then his long face grew somber. Desperate, too. “I know what I did was wrong, detective, but please, can you just let it go?”
“A crime’s been committed.”
“Only falsifying a death certificate. But Luis, the doctor, is out of the jurisdiction. You’re not going to extradite somebody for that. Jane and Aaron and I didn’t actually sign anything. There’s no insurance fraud because I cashed out the policy last year for surrender value. And Jane’ll pay every penny of estate tax that’s due… Look, I’m not doing this to hurt or cheat anybody.”
“But your fans…”
“I love them dearly. I’ll always love them and I’m grateful for every minute they’ve spent reading my books. But it’s time for me to pass the baton. Aaron will keep them happy. He’s a fine writer… Detective, I’m asking you to help me out here. You have the power to save me or destroy me.”
“I’ve never walked away from a case in my life.” Malloy looked away from the author’s eyes, staring at the cracked asphalt in front of them.
Prescott touched his arm. “Please?”
Nearly a year later Detective Jimmy Malloy received a package from England. It was addressed to him, care of the NYPD.
He’d never gotten any mail from Europe and he was mostly fascinated with the postage stamps. Only when he’d had enough of looking at a tiny Queen Elizabeth did Malloy rip the envelope open and take out the contents: a book of poems written by somebody he’d never heard of.
Not that he’d heard of many poets, of course. Robert Frost. Carl Sandburg. Dr. Seuss.
On the cover were some quotations from reviewers praising the author’s writing. He’d apparently won awards in England, Italy, and Spain.
Malloy opened the thin book and read the first poem, which was dedicated to the poet’s wife.
Walking on Air Oblique sunlight fell in perfect crimson on your face that winter afternoon last year. Your departure approached and, compelled to seize your hand, I led you from sidewalk to trees and beyond into a field of snow- flakes of sky that had fallen to earth days ago. We climbed onto the hardened crust, which held our weight, and, suspended above the earth, we walked in strides as angular as the light, spending the last hour of our time together walking on air.
Malloy gave a brief laugh, surprised. He hadn’t read a poem since school, but he actually thought this one was pretty good. He liked that idea: Walking on the snow, which had come from the sky-literally walking on air with somebody you loved.
He pictured John Prescott, sad that his wife had to return to New York, spending a little time with her in a snowy Vermont field before the drive to the train station.
Just then Ralph DeLeon stepped into the office and before Malloy could hide the book, the partner scooped it up. “Poetry.” His tone suggested that his partner was even more of a loss than he’d thought. Though he then read a few of them himself and said, “Doesn’t suck.” Then, flipping to the front, DeLeon gave a fast laugh.
“What?” Malloy asked.
“Weird. Whoever it’s dedicated to has your initials.”