Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

"And Trafficant went along with this?"

"What did he have to bargain with, a loser behind bars? Lowell was offering him freedom, lots of money, possible fame if the diary hit big. So he wouldn't get credit for the poems; he could live with that. He was a con, used to deals."

"How much money did Lowell get for the poems?"

"A hundred and fifty thousand advance against royalties. Lowell took fifty for himself, Lowell's agent got fifteen. The retreat- Sanctum- was started as a way to transfer the rest of the eighty-five thou to Trafficant."

"Sounds like you were in on it from the beginning," said Bleichert.

"I helped finance the retreat because I believed in Lowell."

"Idealism."

"That's right."

Bleichert said to MacIlhenny, "So far the tone of this is very self-serving."

MacIlhenny said, "Be frank, Curt. This old nose tells me they're operating in good faith."

App hesitated.

MacIlhenny patted him.

"All right," the producer said. "I used the retreat too. To launder money. Nothing big. Some friends of mine- kids, people in the industry- were bringing marijuana up from Mexico. We didn't consider it really a drug, back then. Everyone smoked."

He picked something out of his sweater.

Bleichert moved his head impatiently. "I hope there's more."

"Plenty," said App. "Lowell was hoping the poems he stole from Trafficant would put him back in the spotlight. They did, but in the wrong way. All the critics hated them and the book bombed. Meanwhile, Trafficant's book became a fu- a best-seller." He chuckled, wanting everyone else to join in. No one did.

I remembered the enraged letter Trafficant had written to the Village Voice in support of Lowell. Mustering the only real passion a psychopath can ever develop: self-defense.

"What made Lowell think Trafficant would keep quiet about the deal?"

"Lowell was desperate. And naive- most arty types are. I've dealt with them for thirty years; take my word for it. And the fact that the book failed protected Lowell. Why would Trafficant want to claim authorship of a turkey, especially with his other book doing so well? But Lowell wasn't even thinking in those terms at the beginning. He was obsessed with his place in history, freaking out that his reputation was rotting. He used to sit in that cabin on his property all day, trying to produce, but nothing came. He kept drinking and doping to forget, and it only made matters worse."

"How'd the failure of the poetry book affect him?"

"He drank himself unconscious, then came out of it saying it was Terry's work anyway, Terry had no talent, was just a slick criminal who'd taken advantage of him. Meanwhile, Terry's doing interviews with The New York Times and selling a thousand books a week. Lowell stopped talking to him, and Terry knew it was only a matter of time before he'd be leaving Sanctum. That's when he transferred his royalties to me for safekeeping. For all his tough talk, he was still a con, had no idea how to cope with the world, so he came to me."

"And you taped him."

"For his protection."

Bleichert grunted.

"Irony," said App. "It's the key to a good story line. Lowell's name on that book of poems was supposed to buy success but it didn't. Trafficant became the darling of the literary set. You could package it as a comedy and sell it to cable."

Bleichert said, "So Trafficant spilled his guts to you because he was worried about making it in the outside world."

"That, and he wanted to talk. Cons always do. No self-control. Never met one yet who could keep a secret."

"Know lots of cons, do you?"

App folded his hands across his sweater. "I meet all sorts of people."

"I still haven't heard any details about murder," said Bleichert.

App smiled. "Lowell killed Terry. Two days after the Best girl's accident. Things finally came to a head, because Lowell was shaken up by what had happened, ready to close down the retreat. And still pissed at Terry. He ordered Terry off the premises. Terry cursed him out and threatened to go public with the whole book scam. When Terry turned his back, Lowell hit him on the head with a whisky bottle, kept hitting him. Then he panicked, called me, blubbering. I went over and we buried Trafficant."

Clapping his hands once.

"And with that," said Bleichert, "you were able to buy Lowell's secrecy on Karen Best forever."

"Keeping quiet about that was in Lowell's interest, too. His reputation was lousy enough without someone dying at his party."

"Where's Trafficant buried?"

"Right underneath Lowell's writing cabin - Inspiration he called it. That's where he killed him. The floor was dirt; they just dug down."

"Who's they?"

"Lowell, Denny Mellors, Chris Graydon-Jones."

"Why Mellors?"

"He was a weeny- and I'd say that if he was white. He hated being black, as a matter of fact. Denied it. He thought if he just kept writing and kissing ass, he'd be rich and famous. Anyway, that's where Terry is. I don't know if the cabin's still standing, but I can find the spot- right near the pond."

"Not far from Karen Best," said Bleichert.

App didn't answer.

"Any other bodies we should know about?"

"Not to my knowledge. You'd have to ask Lowell. He's the creative one. Did you know that he published his first book while in college? Everyone told him he was a genius. Fatal error."

"What was?"

"Believing his own reviews. Now can we get the ball rolling on transferring me to a decent place?"

"So you've been collecting Mr. Trafficant's royalties all these years."

"After the first few years it was chicken feed. Nothing's come in for the last five."

"How much chicken feed?"

"I'd have to check. Probably not more than a hundred and fifty thousand, all told."

"And Mr. Trafficant's advance payment for his book?"

"Seven thousand dollars. He blew it all in a crap game the same day he cashed the check. That's why he was so uptight when Lowell threatened to kick him out. Here he was a best-seller, eighty-five g's dropped in his bank account, and he had no idea how to handle it. Now can you get me to a decent place?"

"We'll work on it, Mr. App."

"Meantime, can I have my own food brought in? The crap here is loaded with fat and grease. I have my own chef, he could-"

Bleichert reread the confession and his notes of App's recitation.

The door from the hallway opened, and a stocky black jail deputy came into the observation room.

"DA Bleichert?" he said, scanning my consultant's badge.

I pointed at the glass.

"They in the middle of something?"

"Just finishing up."

He looked through the one-way. Bleichert was still reading. App and MacIlhenny sat in silence.

"Hmm," said the deputy. Then he knocked.

"Yeah?" said Bleichert, annoyed.

The deputy went in. "Sorry to bother you, sir, but I've got an urgent message."

Bleichert was annoyed. "From who? I'm busy."

"A Detective Sturgis."

"What does he want?"

"He said to tell you in private, sir."

"Okay, hold on." To MacIlhenny and App: "One sec."

He came out of the room, closed the door, and tapped his foot. "Okay, what's so damned urgent?"

The deputy looked at me.

Bleichert walked to a far corner well away from me. The deputy followed and whispered something in his ear.

As he listened, Bleichert's sour face lightened. "I'll be damned !"

"Everything okay with Lucy?" I said.

Bleichert ignored me. To the deputy: "You're sure?"

"That's what the man said."

"How long ago?"

"Hour or so."

"And this is definitely confirmed?"

"That's what he said, sir."

"Well, I'll be damned- unreal… goddammit… okay, thanks."