Stuart Woods - Cold Paradise

“Oh, I’ll bet you’re one of his cop sources. He has all kinds of sources.”

“Not yet,” Stone said. “I’d just like to find him.”

“Well, Mr. James is pretty reclusive,” Willard said. “I’m not supposed to give out any information.”

“This is a very serious police matter,” Stone said. “I’d rather not have to come down there with a search warrant.”

“Hey, just like on Law and Order, huh? Except they always screw up the warrant, and the judge throws out the evidence from the search.”

“I won’t screw up the warrant, Mr. Willard. And believe me, it will be much simpler for you just to give me Mr. James’s address and phone number than for us to come down there and start tearing your office apart.”

“Actually, I don’t have either an address or a phone number for him. I know it’s peculiar, but like I said, he’s reclusive.”

“How do you communicate with Mr. James?”

“E-mail,” Willard said. “And through his agent.”

“What’s his e-mail address?”

“FJ at frederickjames dot com.”

“And his agent’s name?”

“Tom Jones.”

“The singer or the novel?” Stone asked dryly.

“No kidding, that’s his name. I’ll give you his number.”

Stone wrote it down. “By the way, Mr. Willard, if Mr. James should communicate with you, please don’t tell him I called. It might make you a co-conspirator.”

“Oh, jeez,” Willard said. “I won’t say a word.”

Stone hung up, laughing. “This is some kind of publishing house,” he said to Dino. “Just a kid and his pregnant wife. But I’ve got his agent’s name.” He dialed the number.

“Tom Jones,” a voice said-middle-aged, husky from booze and cigarettes. No operator, no secretary, just Jones.

“Mr. Jones, this is Lieutenant Bacchetti of the NYPD.”

“I didn’t do it!” Jones cackled. “She swore she was over eighteen, anyway.” He roared with laughter. It took him a moment to recover himself.

“Mr. Jones, I’m trying to find a client of yours.”

“And which client would that be?” Jones asked, clearing his throat loudly.

“Frederick James.”

“What a coincidence,” Jones said. “He’s my only client!” This time, he nearly collapsed with laughter.

The man has to be drunk, Stone thought. “Mr. Jones…”

Jones continued to laugh, cough and clear his throat. “Yeah?” he said finally.

“It’s very important that I see Mr. James.”

“Well, if you can do that, pal, you’re way ahead of me. I’ve never seen him.”

“He’s your client, and you’ve never seen him?”

“He’s reclusive.”

“And how do you communicate with him?”

“E-mail,” Jones said. “FJ at frederickjames dot com.”

“How about a phone number?”

“Don’t have one. I’ve never even spoken with him.”

“And how did you become his agent?”

“Manuscript came in over the transom,” he said. “Literally. I came to work one morning-I was just about to close up the shop for good-and the manuscript was lying on the floor. Tell you the truth, Lieutenant, I was all washed up as an agent. But when I read Tumult, I knew I had a winner. Trouble was, nobody in any established house would even take my calls, let alone read the manuscript. So I called my nephew, who was an editorial assistant at Simon and Schuster, and he read it and went nuts. His dad loaned him some money, and he packaged the book and got S and S to distribute it for him. He’s making out like a bandit.”

“Would that be Pete Willard?”

“That would be he.”

“Mr. Jones, did you ever know a writer named Paul Manning?”

“Sure, I knew him for twenty years; got him started and I represented him right up until his untimely death.”

“You haven’t heard from him lately, then?”

“Not likely. I don’t have those kind of connections!” Jones laughed hysterically again.

Stone waited him out. When Jones had recovered himself, Stone tried again. “Mr. Jones, how do you send Mr. James contracts to sign, checks from his publisher, that sort of thing? You must have some kind of address.”

“You promise not to tell him where you got it?”

“I promise.”

“He lives at One Vanderbilt Avenue, right here in New York.”

“Phone number?”

“Doesn’t have one; not even an unlisted one.”

“Mr. Jones, when you hear from Mr. James, it’s important that you don’t tell him I called.”

“But he’s my client. I represent him.”

“Believe me, Mr. Jones, you don’t want to get in the middle of this.”

“Has he done something wrong?”

“Not that I know of. We just want to talk to him.”

“Well, okay. Whatever you say.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jones, and if you do hear from him, please call me at this number.” Stone gave him the cell phone number and hung up.

“What?” Dino said.

“This looks real good,” Stone said. “This guy Jones was Manning’s agent before he ‘died.” Jones has no idea who he is, I think.“

“Did you get an address?”

“Yep. One Vanderbilt Avenue.”

Dino looked at Stone as if he were a retarded child. “Stone, One Vanderbilt Avenue is Grand Central Station.”

“I knew that,” Stone replied.

Dino looked thoughtful. “Haven’t we run across One Vanderbilt Avenue as an address before? It sounds familiar.”

Stone slapped his forehead. “Mail drop! I tracked it down once, roamed around Grand Central until I found this wall of mailboxes. They’re unattended, except when somebody shows up to sort the mail. Can you call the precinct and detail a man to watch it?”

“Stone, Frederick James has committed no crime that we know of, and he’s not a suspect in any case. You trying to get me fired? Why don’t you get Bob Berman to do it?”

“That’s a thought, but I just had another one. If I were James, and I didn’t want to be located, for whatever reason, I’d rent a box at One Vanderbilt, then I’d go to the post office and have the mail forwarded to another address, and then, if I really don’t want to be found, I’d have it forwarded from that address. I might get my mail a week late, but what the hell?”

“So it would be a waste of Berman’s time.”

“Yes, it would. Mr. James has built himself a fire wall, and I can’t think of a way around it.”

“He must get paid,” Dino said.

“Yes, but the checks go to the mailbox.”

“But they have to be deposited, or the guy gets no money, right?”

“Right!” Stone said. He called Tom Jones back.

“Tom Jones.”

“This is Lieutenant Bacchetti again.”

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this. My wife will catch on.” He roared with laughter.

Once again, Stone waited. “Mr. Jones,” he said when he could get past the laughter. “How do you pay Frederick James?”

“He takes checks,” Jones said. “If I were dealing with me, I’d demand cash!” This time it was a high-pitched giggle.

“Mr. Jones, when was the last time you paid Mr. James any money?”

“Last month, when Tumult came out. His contract calls for a payment on publication.”

“All right. Dig out your most recent bank statement.”

“It’s right here in my bottom drawer, with all my bank statements,” Jones said.

Stone heard the man struggling with a desk drawer.

“Got it,” Jones said.

“Now, go through the canceled checks until you find the one to James.”

“Okay, let’s see: laundry, phone bill, liquor store-hey, that’s a big one!” More laughter. “Here it is!”

“Turn the check over.”