“Well, about that,” Rizzo said. “The case we’re on is a homicide. The guy who called your office was the victim.”
Kellerman blinked twice in reaction, but remained silent. After a moment, he spoke again. “So I am now on the periphery of two homicides,” he said. “Am I right to suspect that homicide investigators look upon such coincidences with skepticism?”
“Yeah, a little bit,” Priscilla said.
“Who was this man who was killed?” Kellerman asked.
“Robert Lauria,” Priscilla answered. “Does that name mean anything to you, Mr. Kellerman?”
After a moment’s consideration, he shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it does.”
Rizzo jotted a note in his book. “Any record of incoming calls kept, sir?” he asked. “Like a log? Anything like that?”
Kellerman shook his head. “No, Sergeant. When was this call made?”
Rizzo consulted his notes, then supplied the date. Kellerman frowned.
“That long ago?” he said. “Well, unless the man distinguished himself in some way, I can’t imagine my assistant remembering the call. Perhaps this man-Lauria, did you say?-is a friend or relative of Joy, my administrative assistant.” He reached a hand toward his intercom. “Shall I ask her?”
Rizzo held up a hand. “Not just yet, if you don’t mind. We’ll talk to her about that on the way out.”
“Very well.”
“Let me ask you something, Mr. Kellerman,” Priscilla said. “This guy lived over in Brooklyn. He was just an average Joe. Would a guy like that have any reason to call your office? Do you have any ideas about that?”
Kellerman raised his eyebrows. “Was the man a writer, Detective?” he asked. “Established or aspiring?”
“He was a laid-off shoe salesman,” Rizzo interjected. “Like Detective Jackson said, just an average Joe.”
“Well,” Kellerman explained, “besides our usual course of business calls, we do field about ten or fifteen inquiries a day from the general public, Sergeant. Most are regarding representation or submission guidelines. My staff has been told to refer such callers to our Web site or a publication called The Writer’s Market Place. You see, I no longer accept unsolicited manuscripts; it requires too much staffing and effort for what usually proves to be of little value.”
“I see,” Rizzo said. “So if somebody calls looking for representation, they get brushed off by your secretary.”
Kellerman smiled. “I’d rather call it ‘referred,’ Sergeant. Unfortunately, the net result is quite the same.”
“Any other reason someone like Lauria might call your office?” Priscilla asked.
“Yes, certainly, Detective. I represent three dozen authors with millions of copies in print and scores of staged works-both performed and printed. Sometimes we get calls from people requesting addresses or phone numbers for the writers. Fans, usually, most very harmless. But a few kooks as well, as you can imagine.”
Rizzo chuckled. “Yeah, we can imagine. But tell me, what’s your policy with those calls?”
“My staff is instructed to first discourage such requests. Then, and only if they believe the caller a true admirer of the author, the request must be received by us in writing, and we see that it’s forwarded to our client.”
“And do you actually do that?” Rizzo asked.
“Yes,” Kellerman answered.
“Are records kept of communications you receive and forward?” Priscilla asked.
Kellerman shook his head. “No. If it’s one of our more popular authors, we hold the intake until we have a bunch, then send them all together. For our more obscure clients, those receiving five or ten such communications a year, we forward them as they are received. A few of our more tempermental or eccentric clients have asked that we simply destroy any such material as it comes in.”
“Do you or any of your staff ever read this stuff, screen it?” Rizzo asked.
“No, Sergeant. We are simply the clearing house.”
“What about Avery Mallard, sir?” Priscilla asked. “What were his instructions about mail you received for him?”
Kellerman smiled. “I assume, Detective, that you have conferred with your colleague, Detective Sergeant McHugh? He was here after Avery’s murder, and he took my statement.”
“Yeah, we know, Mr. Kellerman,” Rizzo said reassuringly. “You were in Paris the whole week, you’re not a suspect in anything. Forgive us if we gave that impression. This is all very routine, believe me.”
“Of course,” Kellerman said genially. “To answer your question, Avery had a very liberal policy. He wanted any and all correspondence we received forwarded to him immediately. I believe he even responded to much of it. Avery was deeply appreciative of his public and grateful for his talent.” Kellerman’s face clouded, the blue of his eyes softening. “He was a warm, wonderful man,” he said wistfully. “I was the only representative he ever had, from his first attempts as a novelist to his early playwriting successes and his eventual Pulitzer.”
Then he looked from one detective to the other. “He was my dear friend, Officers, as well as my client. I miss him terribly already.”
His eyes grew colder as he spoke.
“I hope you find his killer.”
Rizzo tapped his pen slowly on his note pad and sighed. “Well, I can appreciate that, and I’m sorry for your loss, but we’re actually lookin’ for Lauria’s killer, Mr. Kellerman.”
The three sat quietly for a moment. Then, to break the silence, Priscilla spoke.
“I heard Mr. Mallard had been inactive for a few years, not producing much.”
“That’s true,” Kellerman responded, conversationally, matching Priscilla’s tone. “Avery had a long dry spell. Not for want of effort, mind you. He just couldn’t get restarted. He feared he had lost his ability, his creative edge. I must say, I was beginning to wonder myself.”
“So where’d An Atlanta Landscape come from?” Rizzo asked.
“Who knows?” Kellerman answered. “I’ve been in this business over forty years, Sergeant, and I still can’t explain creative talent. I imagine no one can. Where does it come from? Where does the sun come from?”
Rizzo nodded. “My partner here, Priscilla, writes a little. Just hooked up with an agent herself.”
Kellerman turned to Priscilla. “Really? May I ask the agent’s name?”
“Robin Miller,” she said with some pride.
Kellerman’s face lit up. “Really? I know Robin, she’s wonderful. You can’t go wrong with Robin, believe me.”
Priscilla looked away awkwardly. “Yeah, well, sometimes my partner here talks too much. My writing is sorta private.”
Kellerman nodded. “Most good writing is very private, Detective. Don’t ever apologize for that.”
“Well, to tell you the truth,” Priscilla now said with a smile, “I had no intention of apologizing.”
“Take it easy, Cil,” said Rizzo. “I only brought it up ’cause you mentioned how Robin helped you out. You know, with your story and the ideas she has for the novel you’re working on.” He turned to Kellerman. “I’m curious, Mr. Kellerman. Did you ever do that sort of thing? Help your clients with the actual writing? Mr. Mallard, maybe?”
“Many times, Sergeant. Many times. It’s what a good agent does. Part of what a good agent does, that is.”
Rizzo nodded. “So what about Atlanta? You help him out with that?”
Kellerman shook his head. “No, actually, I didn’t. Well, no, that’s not entirely true.”
“Oh?” Rizzo asked. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you see, at some point Avery was faced with a dilemma. Are you familiar with the work, Sergeant? One of the characters, Samantha Sorensen, has simultaneous affairs with two of the main male characters. Avery felt very strongly about that story arc, but apparently an acquaintance of ours and the eventual producer, Thomas Bradley, didn’t. He saw the work as stronger without the love interest angle.”