Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

“And who’s ‘we’?”

“My people, Bruce. My team. This is what we do, what you’re paying for. We lay the traps, create the fiction, put the right people in place, and hope it all works. Just like three years ago. You said yourself our plan was brilliant.”

“It was, but it didn’t work.”

“What happened three years ago?” Polly asked.

Bruce smiled and said, “Let’s save it for dinner.”

A clerk walked in with three bulky manuscripts, all four inches thick. He dropped them on Bruce’s desk, handed him the thumb drive, and left the room.

Lindsey said, “Well, I guess we have our work in front of us.”

Polly said, “I really don’t want to read that. The summary was tedious enough.”

Bruce said, “I’m afraid you have no choice. You are both welcome to retire to my home and read on the porch, the veranda, in a hammock, or wherever. Noelle is there and she would enjoy having you around.”

“Where are you going to read?” Polly asked.

“Right here. I’m fast and I need to keep an eye on the store just in case a lost customer stumbles in.”

6.

Early reviews for Pulse were mixed. When they gathered for cocktails at dark on the veranda, the three weary readers compared notes. Bruce claimed to be almost finished, though he admitted he often skimmed as he blitzed through books. He was enjoying the story, said he was hooked. Lindsey professed to be no literary critic and her tastes ran to nonfiction and biography, but she was enjoying the story. The writing wasn’t that great. Polly was hardly halfway through the pile of five hundred typewritten pages and seriously doubted if she could finish.

“Can you sell it?” she asked.

“Of course,” Bruce replied. “Given Nelson’s track record, some publisher somewhere will give us a contract. It’s very commercial and the pages turn.” Bruce did not miss Polly’s use of the word “you,” as if the probate court had already substituted him as Nelson’s literary executor. He waited for her to ask “How much?” but she did not.

Noelle appeared with a bottle of white wine and refilled the glasses. She was certainly welcome to sit and join the conversation. Bruce had made it clear that he told her everything, but she left to check on dinner.

Bruce said, “I keep asking myself as I read how much of this can really be true. Is there really a drug that can prolong life in the sickest of old people? A drug whose true side effects are really unknown because the patients are comatose and dying anyway?”

Lindsey said, “It’s bizarre, but right now we have to assume it’s real. Nelson was murdered for a reason and until we know otherwise, we are assuming it’s because of this novel.”

“Which makes the informant all the more plausible,” Polly said. “Because there was no way Nelson knew anything about this story. I’ve been on the Internet for two months and have found nothing even remotely similar to this scenario.”

“Same here,” Lindsey said. “If it’s true, it’s a deeply guarded secret.”

“With billions on the line,” Bruce said.

“So let’s speculate,” Polly said. “You’re Nelson Kerr and you’ve written three bestsellers, none dealing with drugs, healthcare, the like. You’re approached by an informant, probably someone working for the drugmaker or the nursing homes, and this informant wants to talk. He wants to expose the bad guys.”

Bruce said, “And he also wants some money. He’s sticking his neck out and he wants to be compensated.”

“Why not just go to the FBI?” Polly asked.

“Because he’s not sure it’s a crime,” Lindsey said. “The drug is prolonging lives, not killing people.”

“But it’s fraud, right?”

“Don’t know. It’s never been litigated, never been heard of. The informant isn’t sure he’ll get anything for blowing the whistle. He has a conscience. He’s frightened. He needs his job. So he decides to approach Nelson Kerr, an author he admires.”

Bruce said, “And Nelson started digging and asked too many questions. The bad guys realized they might have a problem, and they were probably watching him. When they realized what he was doing, they panicked and decided to take him out.”

“A really stupid move,” Lindsey said. “Think about it. It has already been reported that he died under suspicious circumstances during a hurricane. He had just finished a novel, his last one, and it’s about to be published. Can you imagine the media frenzy when word leaks that the author was murdered? If you’re the guy who ordered the hit, publicity is the last thing you want. There will be more people digging into the murder while the book is flying off the shelves. A really stupid move by someone.”

“Agreed. But who?” Polly asked.

“We’ll find out,” Lindsey said.

“I’d like to hear your plan,” Bruce said.

“We are paying for it,” Polly added.

Lindsey relaxed in her chair and kicked off her sandals. She took a sip of wine and seemed to savor it. Noelle appeared in the doorway and said dinner would be ready in five minutes if anyone wanted to wash up.

Lindsey finally said, “Initially, we’re moving on two fronts. The first one we’ve discussed and it calls for Bruce to become the literary executor, sell the book, and generate as much buzz as possible over the author’s death. We hope that this will attract Nelson’s informant. The second front involves the infiltration of the industry. There are eight companies that control ninety-five percent of all nursing home beds. Six are publicly traded, and because they answer to shareholders they generally comply with regulations and stay out of trouble. The other two are privately owned and both are bad actors. They get sued all the time and are notorious for health violations, shoddy recordkeeping, pathetic facilities, it’s a long sad list. You wouldn’t want anyone you know staying in one of their homes. Both are billion-dollar corporations. So, we go in.”

Bruce and Polly were left hanging and waited for more. Finally, Bruce said, “You used the word ‘infiltrate.’ ”

“Yes. We have methods. We’re not the government, Bruce, and, as you know, we have ways of gathering information that some might consider in the gray areas. We never break laws, but we’re also not bound by such legal niceties as probable cause and valid warrants.”

Polly said, “Excuse me, but what are we talking about?”

“I’ll explain it over dinner,” Bruce said. “But you’re working for us, Lindsey, and it’s fair for us to ask if you operate outside the law.”

“No. We know the gray areas. As do you, Bruce.”

7.

Noelle was an excellent cook and her lobster ravioli was well received. The conversation was about flood insurance, or lack thereof, and how many people on the island were realizing that their losses were not covered. As with all storms, the early responders and aid groups were crucial and much appreciated, but with time they had moved on to the next disaster.

Bruce filled his wineglass and shoved his plate a few inches away. “So, Polly, I don’t know if you recall, but three or four years ago some valuable manuscripts were stolen from the Firestone Library at Princeton. Though they were considered priceless, they were insured for twenty-five million. Princeton didn’t want the money. It wanted the manuscripts. The insurance company didn’t want to write a check, so it decided to track down the manuscripts. It hired Lindsey’s firm.”

Lindsey smiled and went along like a good sport.

“At the time, I was a pretty serious dealer in the rare book trade, a dark and murky world on the best of days, and I was even suspected at times of handling stolen rare books. Don’t ask if I did that because I will not answer, and if I do answer I have been known to dabble in fiction, like my favorite writers.”