Lawrence Block - The Devil Knows You’re Dead

“No, and I wasn’t at all interested, but the implication was that he’d be interested in publishing a book about my experiences. From what he’d already said about your firm I had the impression that you were strictly a reprint publisher.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“And I also had the impression that Glenn had no more interest in my writing a book than I did. He wanted something from me, and he didn’t want to let me know what it was. I was uneasy around him. He always seemed sneaky to me.”

“Evidently your instincts were better than mine.”

“Or maybe he didn’t have a hidden agenda here,” I suggested. “Maybe he saved his dark side for when he was away from the office.”

She was the boss, she told me. If Glenn had had a dark side, or even a light side, he’d have been less likely to expose it to the woman who signed his paycheck. She took me around the office and introduced me to three of his fellow employees, including the young woman in charge of foreign rights, and a brief conversation with each of them added nothing substantial to my store of knowledge. Lately his work had centered largely upon a proposed large-print book club, and the legal ramifications of requiring members to purchase a minimum number of books annually. I wound up learning a little more about the subject than I cared to know. I didn’t figure it had much to do with money in a strongbox, or gunshots, and blood on the sidewalk.

Back in Eleanor Yount’s office, she wanted to know my guesses on some of the case’s unanswerable questions. I told her it was too early in the game for guesses. There wasn’t enough to go on.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” she said. “I’d like to know how this turns out, and I have the feeling I won’t get to read about it in the newspapers.”

“You might.”

“Even so, they won’t have the whole story, will they?”

“They usually don’t.”

“Will you come back and tell me? And of course I intend to have my accountant make very certain that W&Y didn’t pay for Glenn’s apartment. I’ll let you know if there are any irregularities. If you could let me have a card—”

I gave her one of my cards. She said, “A name, a number, and nothing else. A minimalist business card. You’re an interesting man, Mr. Scudder. I don’t publish originals, but I’m friendly with just about everyone in this town who does, so if there should happen to be a book you’ve been wanting to write—”

“There really isn’t.”

“That’s remarkable,” she said. “I didn’t think there was a policeman or private detective anywhere in New York who wasn’t trying to get a book published. Nobody’s out looking for criminals these days. They’re all looking for an agent.”

I had called Drew Kaplan earlier but he’d been in court. I called again from Waddell & Yount. His secretary said she’d spoken to him and he could see me in his office at three o’clock. And yes, she said, Mr. Kaplan had a safe in his office. Her tone left me feeling faintly foolish for having asked.

I called Lisa Holtzmann and listened again to Glenn’s voice. If I had to hear a voice from the grave, I would have preferred something a little more informative. All he did was tell me to leave a message. I waited him out and identified myself, and she picked up right away. I told her she had a three o’clock appointment with Drew Kaplan at his Court Street office.

“Will you be able to come with me, Matt?”

“I was planning on it,” I said. “I figured you might want company.”

“I’d be nervous making the trip by myself.”

I told her I’d be at her place at two, that that would leave us plenty of time. I had another call to make, to TJ’s beeper, but I didn’t want to loiter in the Waddell & Yount office waiting for a callback, nor did I think “Who wants TJ?” would go over well with the girl on the switchboard. I went out and called from the street, punched in my number at the tone, and waited for his call.

After five minutes without a callback and a couple of dirty looks from passersby looking for a phone, I spent a quarter and called my hotel. The only slips in my box were a pair of calls from TJ. No message, just his beeper number. I fed the phone another quarter and called Elaine and got her machine. “It’s Matt,” I said. “Are you there?” When there was no response I said, “I’d like to see you tonight but things are starting to heat up. We could have dinner if I get done in time, or else I can come over late. I’ll call as soon as I have a better picture of my schedule.” It seemed as though there ought to be something to add to that, but I couldn’t think what, and then the tape ran out and saved me the trouble.

I depressed the hook and held on to the receiver, hoping for TJ’s call. Of course he could have called while I was talking to my hotel or Elaine’s machine, in which case he’d have gotten a busy signal. I was thinking this through when a man in a dark suit and a porkpie hat asked me if I was going to make my call or what. “Because if what you want’s a private office,” he said, “there’s buildings up and down Broadway got plenty of vacancies, more’n they know what to do with. Talk to ’em, they’ll fix you up with a desk, a chair, phone company’ll put in your own private phone.”

“Sorry.”

“Hey, no problem,” he said, and dropped his own quarter in the slot.

A block away I spent another quarter and called AA’s Intergroup office. I asked the volunteer who answered if there was a lunchtime meeting nearby. She sent me to a community center just off Union Square and I got there as they were reading the preamble. I sat down and stayed put for an hour, but I was barely aware of what they were saying. My mind was too busy with Glenn Holtzmann to have room for much else. Still, it was as good a place to think as any, and the coffee wasn’t bad, and the buck I put in the basket was as much as anyone expected from me. And if I’d declined to throw that in no one would have cared. Nobody suggested I go rent myself an office, nor did anyone advise the old fellow sleeping two rows in front of me to look for a hotel room.

I got to Fifty-seventh and Tenth a few minutes early. There was a different doorman on duty, but when I gave him her name he was every bit as suspicious as the one the night before. I gave him my name as well and told him I was expected, and once he’d confirmed this we were old friends.

Up on Twenty-eight, she opened the door just as I knocked and closed it as soon as I’d cleared the threshold. She took hold of my arm just above the elbow and told me she was glad I was there. “You’re five minutes early,” she said, “and in the past ten minutes I must have looked at my watch twenty times.”

“You’re anxious.”

“I’ve been anxious ever since you left last night. The money made me nervous from the moment I discovered it, but it wasn’t entirely real until I showed it to you and we talked about it. I should have made you take it with you.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Because it kept me up most of the night. It just scared me, that’s all. At one point I decided it wasn’t safe in the closet, that was the first place they would look.”

“The first place who would look?”

“I have no idea. I hopped out of bed and got the box down from the shelf and stowed it under the bed. Then I decided that was the first place they’d look. I decided the money was dangerous and all I wanted was to be rid of it. I had the idea of opening the box and throwing all the money out the window.”

“That’s some idea.”

“You know what stopped me? I was afraid to open the window. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep from jumping. In fact I got so I was scared to stand close to the window even with it shut and locked. Heights don’t usually scare me, but it wasn’t the height, it was my own mind I was afraid of. Look at me.”