Stuart Woods - Cold Paradise

“I don’t want you to feel you’ve wasted my time, Stone,” Thad said. “You were perfectly right to follow that lead, and I’m glad that it came to some good.”

“But now we’re right back where we started,” Stone said. “Liz, let’s talk about this sighting of Paul Manning in Easthampton.”

“All right,” she said.

“Tell me exactly the circumstances under which you saw him.”

“I was in a shop on Main Street, pointing to something in the window for the saleslady to get for me, and I saw him outside the window.”

“Did you see his face?”

“Not entirely, just partly. I caught a glimpse of his nose, which was straight, and that threw me off for a moment. Then, as he was walking away, he did this thing with his shoulders that he used to do.” She demonstrated with a sort of shrug. “As if his jacket weren’t resting comfortably on his shoulders.”

“I remember his doing that in St. Marks,” Stone said. “What else?”

“That was it. I waited until he had gone on down the street, then I got into my car, made a U-turn and got out of there. You’re looking at me as though it were my imagination.”

“No, no,” Stone said. “I believe you. I just wanted the details.”

“And,” Thad said, “there is the matter of the vandalizing of Liz’s house.”

“Of course,” Stone said. “I know the threat is real, and I think Paul Manning is just as dangerous as Paul Bartlett was.”

“So,” Thad said, “where do we go from here?”

“I’ll have to give that some thought,” Stone said. “I’d feel better if we had some bit of information that would give us a basis for a search.”

“What sort of information?” Thad asked.

“Well, for instance, a man made several phone calls to my office and wouldn’t give his name, making my secretary suspicious. Caller ID told us the calls came from a Manhattan hotel.” He pointed to the stack of computer paper that rested on a deck chair nearby. “A friend of mine managed to print out the guest list, and Liz and I went through it carefully. I was hoping a name might ring some sort of bell. One name seemed plausible, but it didn’t work out, and neither of us saw another familiar name on the list.”

“I did,” Callie said.

“You did what?” Stone asked.

“I saw a familiar name on the list.” She got up, went to the stack of paper, riffled through it and ripped off a page. “Here,” she said, handing it to Stone.

Stone looked at the sheet. “Frederick James? Does that mean anything to you, Liz?”

Liz shook her head. “No.”

“It should mean something to you, Stone, and you, too, Dino,” Callie said.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Dino said.

Callie picked up the novel Dino had been reading and tossed it to him.

“ Tumult , by Frederick James,” Dino read aloud.

“I’d forgotten the name,” Stone said.

“And he’s a novelist, like Paul,” Liz said.

“Why didn’t you mention this before, Callie?”

She shrugged. “I meant to, but somebody changed the subject, and I forgot about it until you mentioned the hotel guest list just now.”

Stone looked at the sheet. “His home address is on Gin Lane, in Easthampton. That’s interesting.” Stone took the book from Dino and turned it over, opened the back cover. “No photograph. All the dust jacket says is, 'Frederick James travels widely around the world, never staying in one place for long. This is his first novel.'”

“Usually there’s some sort of biography,” Thad said. “Who published it?”

Stone looked at the book jacket. “Hot Lead Press. Linotype machines used to use hot lead to set type. Never heard of this outfit.”

“Liz,” Dino asked, “have you read this book?”

“No.”

“Read it, or at least some of it. See if you think Paul Manning wrote it.”

Stone handed her the book.

“All right,” she said. “God knows I’ve read all of Paul’s earlier novels; I ought to know his work.”

“Well,” Stone said, “now we’ve got some information-James’s home address and his publisher’s name. We couldn’t ask for a better start. Dino, while Liz reads the book, let’s you and I make some phone calls.”

They went into the saloon, where there were two extensions. Stone was about to pick up a phone, but Dino stopped him.

“Listen, want to make a little bet?”

“About what?”

“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that after Liz reads the novel she won’t be sure of whether Manning wrote it.”

“I’m not sure I’d take that bet,” Stone said. “She’s been equivocal every time she was in a position to nail something down. I mean, you’d have thought she could tell us right away that Bartlett wasn’t Manning.”

“Yeah, I would have thought that,” Dino agreed. “Of course, there could be a really strong resemblance. I mean, you knew Manning, and you weren’t much help.”

“You knew him, too, and you were no help at all, until shooting was required.”

“You saying I’m trigger happy?”

“Dino, as far as I’m concerned, you can shoot anybody anytime you feel like it, because usually, when you shoot somebody, he’s trying to shoot me.”

“I’m glad you noticed.”

“So, you suspect Liz of something?”

Dino shrugged. “Not yet. I’d just like to have a straight answer from her now and then.”

“So would I,” Stone said, half to himself.

Dino picked up a phone. “I know a guy on the Easthampton force; let’s start with the home address. Maybe we won’t have to go any farther.” Dino made the call and waited. “I’m on hold,” he said, then waited patiently. “Hey, yeah, I’m here.” Dino listened and asked a couple of questions, then hung up and turned to Stone. “Frederick James rented a house on Gin Lane up until a week ago. He spoke to the real estate agent, and they didn’t have a forwarding address. His address when he rented the place was a Manhattan hotel, the Brooke.”

“Dead end,” Stone said. “I’ll call the publisher.” He called New York information and was connected.

“Good morning, Hot Lead Press,” a young woman’s voice said.

“Good morning,” Stone said. “This is Lieutenant Bacchetti, NYPD. I’d like to speak to the editor of Frederick James. Can you find out for me which of your editors that is?”

“That’s easy,” she replied. “We’ve only got one editor. I’ll connect you.”

This time, a man, also young: “Pete Willard.”

“Good morning, Mr. Willard. This is Lieutenant Bacchetti of the NYPD. I’d-”

“No kidding? A real live cop?”

“That’s right. I’d-”

“Listen, I’ll bet you’ve got some great stories to tell. Have you got an agent?”

“No, and-”

“Great. And no publisher, either?”

“Mr. Willard, I’m calling on police business.”

“Oh, okay, shoot. Not really. I mean, go ahead.”

“I understand that you edit Frederick James?”

“Edit and publish. He was our first author.”

“I take it you’re new in business?”

“That’s right. Opened our doors ten months ago, and already we’ve got a best-seller. That is, this Sunday we will. Frederick James’s novel Tumult opens at number eleven on the Times list.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. We’re very excited.”

“Who’s we?”

“Molly and me. And baby makes three. No, Molly is… Well, she does everything I don’t. And she’s my wife, and she’s pregnant.”

“Congratulations again.”

“Thanks. We’re very excited.”

Back where I started, Stone thought. “Mr. Willard, I need to get in touch with Frederick James.”