“Before. My niece—she’s also a survivor—was following the blog and forwarded it to me as a possible book project. I signed the deal with Adrienne three weeks ago. Paid more than I wanted to, frankly, but, like I said, she’s that rare reluctant author. Not like she needs the dough, either.”
“But I’m right that the threats will only help in terms of book publicity?”
“I’m upping the print run to a quarter million copies. The only problem now is that this little shit has Adrienne terrified. She called me today trying to return her advance. She wants to pull out of the deal. I even offered her more money, but, like I said, she doesn’t need it.”
“I don’t suppose you have any theories about who the little shit might be.”
“Who knows why these kinds of crackpots do what they do? And just in case you’re thinking it’s me, take a look through our catalog. Even a quarter million print run won’t make this a lead title for me. I bought Adrienne’s book because I think it will help a lot of women.”
“To be honest, one of my colleagues suggested Adrienne might be doing this herself.” Always better to let a nonexistent colleague be the bad guy.
“I’d bet every dollar I have against it. I’ve been in publishing thirty-two years, and I’ve worked with authors concerned about privacy. We’ve published under pseudonyms. Forgone the tours and the interviews.”
“Doesn’t that hurt the book?” Ellie asked.
“Are you kidding? It makes the writer’s story all that more interesting. The mystery becomes the marketing hook. Who is she? Who are the people she’s writing about? So, you know, we’ll tell the reader we’ve got to change some names and dates and cities and details, and then the author gets to remain anonymous. But I’ve never seen anyone quite like Adrienne. So skittish. I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s threatened to pull the plug. When I told her about the fact-checking, I thought her head was going to explode.”
“Fact-checking?”
“Haven’t you heard? That ‘Million Little Pieces of Bullshit’ has us all investigating our own writers. We can always tell readers that we’ve changed details to protect anonymity, but we have to know the heart of the story is true. When Adrienne found out we’d be verifying the underlying narrative, she even insisted on a nondisclosure clause in the contract. The only reason I’m talking to you is she told me you already know about the book. The woman’s gonna drive me nuts by the time this thing comes out.”
“She told me she doesn’t want the past to bleed into the present.”
“Whatever. I’ve read enough of her work to get a feel for that husband of hers. Don’t get me wrong: it’s part of what makes her journey so sellable. Upper East Side wife and mother, all prep schools and high society. People eat that WASPy shit up. But if I had to guess, I’d say her husband finds this whole thing a bit too messy for his taste.”
Ellie had to hand it to the woman: she had good instincts. But if Janet Martin’s instincts about Adrienne were right, then Ellie’s were necessarily wrong. Whoever was stalking Adrienne was still out there.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was Thursday—three full days since Julia Whitmire’s body had been found, nearly two since they’d arrested Casey Heinz—and Ellie was the last to arrive at the conference room of the district attorney’s office.
“You see the cover story on this week’s New York?” She tossed her copy of the magazine, fresh from the newsstand, onto the faux veneer of the table for Rogan and Max to see.
“Prep School’s Deadly Pressures?” was the cover story, complete with side-by-side headshots of Julia Whitmire and a boy named Jason Moffit, smiles beaming, full of life.
Max flipped to the article. “Says here the NYPD continues to investigate Whitmire’s death but that inside sources say it’s almost surely a suicide.”
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I don’t leak to the press. There was no shortage of people at the callout who were thinking the same thing, though. The article’s not really about Julia, even. They’re using her death plus this other student’s heroin overdose to shine a light on the pressures those Casden kids are under. That headmistress is probably tearing up the pages into little pieces as we speak.”
Donovan looked at his watch. “Folger sent me an e-mail saying he was running a few minutes late. Traffic on the FDR.”
They were waiting for Casey Heinz’s defense attorney, Chad Folger. A sit-down between the investigating detectives and the defense attorney wasn’t typical, but from the start nothing about this case had been normal. The initial label of suicide. The involvement of a hired investigative firm. The reward money.
“Folger’s a heavy hitter,” Rogan said. “How’d a kid from a homeless shelter swing his retainer?”
“He didn’t. Folger’s doing it pro bono. The lady at the shelter—”
“Chung Mei Ri,” Ellie offered.
Rogan pointed at her. “Rainman, right here.”
“Ms. Ri called one of the big, national LGBT advocacy groups. Folger’s on their list—a gay brother or something. Now Folger says he has important information and wanted a meet as early as possible. This case is such a quick-moving target that I insisted you two participate.”
They heard a rap on the door before it opened. A well-suited man in his early forties walked in. Ellie recognized him most recently from daily trial coverage of one of the country’s biggest corporate fraud prosecutions. The defense had won.
“Hey, sorry for the wait. You must be Ellie Hatcher and J. J. Rogan. Casey told me you guys have been pretty decent to him, under the circumstances.”
Rogan raised a skeptical brow. “Can’t say we’re used to defendants calling us the good guys.”
Chad Folger smiled broadly. “Maybe ‘good guys’ is pushing it a little. But decent. He definitely said you were decent. High praise, though, compared to what I usually hear.” He offered a quick handshake to Max. “Donovan.”
Once they were seated at the table, Folger immediately leapt to his feet again, taking over the small room with his pacing. “So, let me start by thanking you for hearing me out today. I want to make clear at the outset that Casey isn’t raising any allegations of wrongdoing or abuse against you guys, or anyone at the NYPD for that matter.”
“Because we’re decent,” Rogan said with a smirk.
“Precisely. But Earl Gundley’s another matter. And the Neanderthals he hires as quote-unquote security associates are even worse.” He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a Redweld folder bulging at the seams, and dropped it to the table. It landed with a loud thud. “Those are complaints filed against Gundley when he was still with the department.”
“We were told he was never disciplined,” Max said.
“True, the complaints were eventually dismissed, but I think we all know that smoke sometimes means fire.”
“Only sometimes,” Max emphasized.
“And that is why I also have three file boxes in my office, each filled with civil complaints against Gundley’s security company. Excessive force. Breaking and entering. One lady whose husband hired Gundley to document her infidelity alleged that these guys snuck into her bathroom to photograph her and the personal trainer going at it in the shower. They call themselves security, but they’re glorified thugs.”
Ellie could only imagine what a lawyer with Folger’s talents would do with the fact that someone had threatened Adrienne Langston—a continuation of activity that began with Julia—yesterday morning while his client was in custody.
“With all due respect, Mr. Folger, I was unhappy about Gundley’s involvement, too,” Ellie said. “But it doesn’t change the fact that Casey had a key to Julia Whitmire’s house and a pair of her panties.”