A Dangerous Fiction (12 page)

I'd met her parents once, shortly after Chloe joined the agency: tall, dark, angular people, high-powered attorneys in a large city firm. Very fine people, touchingly proud of their only child. I'd marveled at the lack of any resemblance between them and their petite, kewpie-doll, blue-eyed daughter until the obvious explanation occurred and was later confirmed by Harriet: Chloe was adopted, a much-loved only child.

I wondered what else her parents had said.

“Wait,” Jean-Paul said. “You talked to your father about this?”

Chloe turned on him combatively. “Yeah, so?”

“So Jo specifically asked us not to discuss these incidents with anyone.”

“It just so happens that we talked this morning, after the
New York Times
and PW and everyone else already had the story. I thought he might be able to help. You are such a suck-up, Jean-Paul, it's pathetic.”

“Just because I'm concerned—”

“Concerned? Try obsessed!”

“Knock it off, both of you,” I growled, and they subsided, glaring off into different corners.

Lovers' quarrel, I thought. All I needed.

•   •   •

If that meeting had had a soundtrack, it would have been by Bartók. And yet despite the disharmony, my little crew pulled together over the next week as never before, including Harriet, who did not, after all, go home that afternoon. Later that day, Tommy and another detective came by the office to do a second round of interviews. Harriet emerged from hers with reddened eyes; yet within minutes I heard her on the phone, reassuring someone that I was still at the helm of Hamish and Donovan. The reason I heard it was that she had taken to leaving her office door ajar, in a show of openness.

Though they still weren't speaking, Jean-Paul and Chloe worked like demons, while Lorna guarded my office so zealously that Mingus began to feel redundant. Like so much of her solicitude, it was well-meaning but tone-deaf. Solitude was the last thing I wanted or needed. Like Harriet, I took to leaving my office door open.

My first calls were to the journalists on the distribution list. They were sympathetic but unbending. The story was already out on various blogs and websites; they had no choice but to cover it themselves. I spoke to dozens of book editors and publishers, all full of indignation on my behalf and Harriet's, for she, too, was seen as a victim. During that week, every agent and editor I knew called to commiserate and share their own horror stories about obsessive writers. No one seemed to wonder about the distribution list, which to me had been the most disturbing aspect of the incident. They assumed that the pushy writer who accosted me outside the office was the same person impersonating me online. I was glad about that, and kept my darker suspicions to myself.

Everyone worked overtime to keep submissions flowing while we coped with the phone calls. I went to two dinner parties and a book launch; I kept all the lunch dates on my calendar and insisted that Harriet do the same. “Business As Usual” was our mantra.

My greatest fear was that the phony press release would prove a self-fulfilling prophecy, leading to wholesale defections until the agency collapsed around me. But once again I was unjust to my clients. Their support gave me strength I could never have summoned on my own. The first one I called was Rowena Blair. She was the client I could least afford to lose, and the one who could most easily leave, since a writer who churns out a bestseller a year can have any agent she wants.

“I'd kill him,” she said after I told her the story. “I'd feed him to the pigs. I'd cut off his balls and serve them on a bed of fucking rice.” After that, Rowena called at least once a day. She offered me a private detective, the services of her masseuse, the use of her country house in East Hampton. I was tempted to take her up on the last, just to get away, but I knew that house: secluded in the woods, it had towering glass walls. I'd have felt far more exposed there than in the city.

And it wasn't just Rowena. Gordon Hayes phoned daily. He said he was checking on Mingus, but I knew he was checking on me. Keyshawn Grimes stopped by the office to offer himself and a cadre of friends as bodyguards. I explained about Mingus, but Keyshawn wasn't impressed. “Dogs can't go everywhere,” he said, and a strange thought came to me then, like a wisp of a dream that dissipates even as you reach for it: where I grew up, dogs were welcome in places black men were not.

I didn't want a bodyguard or posse, for that would only draw more unwanted attention; but I understood that for my young author, this must seem the perfect opportunity to repay a debt in a currency he actually possessed. I looked at him, and an idea came to me.

“I'm going to a PEN reception next week,” I said. “Mingus certainly can't go there. Why don't you come with me? Not as my bodyguard, though. As my guest.”

Keyshawn went away happy, and I went back to the phones. Incoming calls were stacked up like planes circling a landing field, so constant that I hardly had a moment to myself. Lorna disapproved, but keeping busy was a good thing. Fearsome beasts lurked in the crevasses between tasks. Denied access by day, they came out at night when I was defenseless. Every evening I'd fall exhausted into bed, and sleep would claim me quickly—only to creep out a few hours later like a faithless lover, leaving me alone with my revolving thoughts.
Who hates me enough to do this? How could a stranger bear so much malice? How could a friend conceal it?

I
took as much care preparing for the PEN reception as a debutante for her coming-out ball. This would be my first major outing since last week's sabotage, and I needed to project the very opposite of what I felt: an image of serene confidence and invulnerability. Thursday afternoon, one week after the phony press release, I left work early to get my hair and nails done, then went home and riffled through my closet, still full of clothes Hugo bought me. When we first married, my wardrobe had consisted of three pairs of frayed jeans and an assortment of consignment-shop finds. Hugo took me on forays into Bloomingdale's and trendy SoHo boutiques he read about in the
Times
' Style section. Effortlessly attracting the attentions of every saleswoman in the shop, he'd stride through the racks snatching up garments, never glancing at price tags or bothering with sizes; then he'd enthrone himself in an armchair (armchairs tending to materialize as needed in Hugo's vicinity) and watch as I modeled his selections. He'd dressed me the way a child dresses a paper doll, and with as little resistance, for in those days I was a blank slate with no taste of my own but absolute faith in his. Hugo's choices were, I believe, designed to elicit envy in other men; sexy but not slutty, they said “Eat your heart out,” not “Come and get it.”

I tossed half a dozen dresses onto the bed, considered them for a moment, and narrowed my choices down to two: a Laila Azhar scoop-necked number and a black-and-white Nicole Miller jersey with a wrap front. The Laila Azhar looked casual but elegant; the Nicole Miller was that and sexy, too. Hugo would have chosen the second for me. He had enjoyed the envy of other men because he was devoid of jealousy, too sure of me to worry. I, on the other hand, had suffered agonies of the stuff in the early days of our marriage. Before I met him, Hugo had a long and storied career as a playboy and philanderer, and Molly warned me that he'd never change. For a long time I believed her. Hugo's second wife had been one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood, and he'd cheated on her, so what hope was there for me?

And yet he never did. In the ten years we were married, Hugo never strayed, though plenty of women tried their best. I would love to say that this was because I satisfied him so thoroughly that no other woman could tempt him, but the truth, I believe, is that by the time we met, Hugo was tired of sowing wild oats. He'd sown enough for ten men already; he had nothing left to prove. At that point in his life, fidelity suited him. The energy he saved on women he invested in his work, and the results of that choice were four brilliant novels.

I tried both dresses on and studied my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Mingus declined to weigh in. Finally I chose the wrap-front. “Man's lust is woman's capital,” Hugo used to say, and I have never had cause to doubt it.

•   •   •

“Whoa,” Keyshawn said, rising from an armchair in the lobby.

“Whoa yourself,” I said. He looked very handsome in a one-button charcoal jacket, gray slacks, and a pristine white shirt with the store creases still in it. I should have brought Jean-Paul, too, I thought. Strolling in on the arms of those two hotties, I'd have given Rowena a run for her money. Keyshawn was twenty-three but looked even younger, except for his eyes. He had a writer's eyes, watchful and a bit remote. Had I really needed a bodyguard, I'd never have chosen a writer, because writers are rarely fully present in the moment; there's always a piece of them standing aside, taking notes. Even Hugo; especially Hugo. Sometimes I would say something to him, and he'd look at me in that absent, writerly way; and a year or two later, my words would pop up in his work.

We took a cab to Joe's Pub in the East Village. The PEN symposium was sponsored by the Freedom to Write Program, which defends writers around the world who are threatened or persecuted for their work. It was a cause Hugo and I had supported for years, and I continued to support it after his death, taking on endangered writers as clients and bullying American publishers into giving them a voice. Not that much bullying was required, to be fair, because this particular cause appealed to the best in people who were normally fixated on the bottom line. Tonight's speakers included Salman Rushdie and a Burmese woman who was on everyone's short list for the Nobel.

Joe's was an attractive space, half theater, half pub, with fuchsia banquettes and tables illuminated from within. The usual suspects were there in force. I introduced Keyshawn to several writers and his own publisher, the head of Doubleday, who congratulated him on his book and drew him aside to chat. Rowena was late as usual. I kept a wary eye out for Teddy Pendragon, who was bound to be around somewhere. He wanted Hugo's papers, and I'd had no time to sort through them. The biographer was circling my life the way a vulture circles a battlefield, and I hated it. It had occurred to me that all my troubles began right around the time Teddy started campaigning to write Hugo's bio; but not even I could find a connection there. Teddy might well have resented me while I was holding out on him, but once I gave in, I was his new BFF, at least until the next book came along.

A group of agents had gathered by the bar, and one of them, George Levy, waved me over. George had been the publisher of a Simon & Schuster imprint until he was ousted in a palace coup. Like so many in that position, he'd taken the leap into agenting, bringing on board a number of his bestselling authors. This act of blatant piracy had ruffled feathers in our insular world, but George was a first-class editor and a fierce, savvy advocate for his clients, and I liked him for that.

“You look stunning,” he said with a genial leer. “I knew there was a reason I stayed in publishing. Bartender! What'll you have?”

I ordered a scotch, and the other agents closed ranks around me, bathing me in waves of shared indignation and curiosity. I was buoyed by the former but could do little to satisfy the latter. I hadn't heard a word from Tommy Cullen for a week. For all I knew, he'd given up on me and moved on to the next case.

After a few minutes, George murmured that he'd like a private word, and we stepped around to the side of the bar where the waiters pick up their drink orders. I was wary—George was recently divorced and vigorously playing the field—but I misjudged him.

“Sorry to be the bearer of more bad news,” he said, “but in your place I'd want to know. One of your clients called me.”

I steeled myself. “Which one?”

“Tracy Simons.”

I breathed again. Tracy was a legacy from Molly, and the only client on my list I disliked. Her first book, which Molly sold, had been a roman à clef about her affair with a married governor, the exposure of which cost him his job and his marriage. The book had captured the zeitgeist of a popular disgust with politicians and sold well enough to make the bestseller list for about a quarter of a second. Since then she'd written two more novels to dismal reviews and plummeting sales, for which she blamed me. This was particularly galling, as she'd refused every editorial suggestion I gave her, on the grounds that her writers' group thought the book perfect as is. When we spoke last week, she'd oozed sympathy and sworn undying support. She must have gotten busy the moment she hung up the phone.

“Take her if you want her,” I told George. “It's fine with me.”

“Not interested. Sort of a one-trick pony, isn't she? Besides, if she'd leave you now, she'll leave me, too, eventually. Who needs that?”

Tomorrow, I thought, I'd give Tracy her walking papers. I was too busy with clients who wanted my help to bother with someone who didn't. After that, I suspected she wouldn't easily secure new representation. Publishing is still a small, collegial world, and other agents were likely to feel as George had about the timing of Tracy's move. She had just hurt her career badly, and there was enough meanness in me to be glad of it.

Rowena still had not arrived when our table was ready. Keyshawn rejoined me and we followed the maître d' to a table against the far wall. I squeezed into the banquette seat while Keyshawn folded himself into the chair opposite mine. The table to my right was occupied by an editor from Viking and her husband. We exchanged air kisses, then I looked to my left. Sitting right beside me, staring rigidly ahead of him, was Charlie Malvino.

“I'm starting to think you're stalking me,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

“That's funny, Charlie.”

He glanced at Keyshawn. “I'd heard you've taken to robbing the cradle.”

“Excuse me?” Keyshawn said, leaning toward Charlie.

“This is my client, Keyshawn Grimes,” I said. “Remember that name; you'll be hearing a lot of it when his book comes out. Keyshawn, this is Charlie Malvino, whose sorry ass I fired months ago. He still hasn't gotten over it.”

“Was it the whiny voice?” Keyshawn asked.

Just then the panelists filed onto the stage. Charlie settled back in his seat, looking like thunder. The moderator was an NPR host whom I knew and liked, but I couldn't focus on his remarks; I was too aware of Charlie glowering beside me. Five minutes into the program, he couldn't contain himself and leaned over and whispered, “Just so you know, I had nothing to do with it.”

“I never thought you did.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to your pet detective. The bastard's hounding me. I had to hire a fucking lawyer.”

Shushing sounds came from all around us. Salman Rushdie, in white pants and a Nehru shirt, was approaching the podium. I'd met him once at a White House dinner, which he attended with his wife at the time, the beautiful Padma Lakshmi. I found him charming, Hugo less so. I'd put that down to the usual writer's jealousy until later that night, in the cab back to our hotel, when Hugo burst out, “How does a guy like him get a woman like that?”

“Why not?” I said. “He's brilliant, she's stunning.”

“He's old enough to be her father.”

“You're old enough to be mine.”

“Au contraire, chérie,”
Hugo said. “You're older than I am.”

“Really? And how do you figure that, Sherlock?”

“Elementary, my dear Jo. You never had a childhood, and I never left mine.”

Rushdie was talking about his years in hiding when Charlie let out a sudden gasp and sank down in his seat. I turned to follow his eyes. Tommy Cullen was striding toward us. By the time he reached us, Charlie had his BlackBerry out and was frantically scrolling through numbers. But Tommy barely spared him a glance.

“Jo?” he said, and nodded toward the door.

•   •   •

It must have rained while I was inside. Neon lights reflected off the street, and music seeped upward from an underground club. Tommy led me toward the curb, where a portly, grizzled man in his fifties leaned against a parked Ford.

“Jo Donovan,” Tommy said, “Detective Juan Suarez.”

The man straightened up and we shook hands. Suarez had walnut-colored skin, empathetic brown eyes, and the sad, jowly face of a basset hound. He said, “I believe you know Rowena Blair?”

I knew at once, just as I had that night in the Parisian hospital, that something terrible was coming. And just as it had that night, a rebel force inside me took to the barricades, determined to stop it.

“Of course,” I said. “She's my client and my friend.”

“When did you last speak with her?”

“Yesterday after lunch. She called the office.”

“What did you talk about?”

“We made plans to meet here tonight, but she's late. Later than usual, I mean. Are you looking for her?”

“No, ma'am,” Suarez said, with a finality that breached the barrier. I looked at Tommy, but it was hard to read his expression in the neon-studded darkness. Two boys strolled past, arm in arm, then a woman on Rollerblades. I said nothing.

“Was she expecting anyone?” Suarez asked.

“She didn't say.” I couldn't pretend anymore. “Just tell me, please: what's happened?”

“I'm sorry to tell you that Ms. Blair was found this morning, shot dead in her apartment.”

The words were clear. I'd been primed for bad news. And yet I couldn't process it.

“Is she all right?” I said.

“No, ma'am,” Suarez said patiently. “She's dead.”

I closed my eyes and I saw her, draped in a green and gold gown, borne aloft on a litter. That bawd, that vital, earthy spirit, gone? I turned and walked away, with no idea where I was going. Tommy came after me, took my arm, and led me back.

“Shot, you said?” I asked Suarez. He nodded. “Who shot her? How did it happen?”

“Seems like she let someone in, and they shot her.”

There was a hole in that story I could drive a truck through. Rowena was always security conscious; she had to be, living as she did in a duplex on the two lower floors of a brownstone. The ground floor was her office and library, which opened out onto a private garden. Upstairs were her living quarters, a spacious two-bedroom flat with exposed brick and a wood-burning fireplace. It was a charming apartment, though not the safest for a woman on her own. But Rowena loved her garden oasis and wouldn't have traded it for twice the space in a high-rise doorman building.

“Impossible,” I said firmly, for I felt somehow that if I could refute part of their story, it would prove the whole thing untrue. “Rowena was very cautious. She would never have let a stranger into her home.”

“What makes you think it was a stranger?”

“Was she robbed? Was she . . .” I couldn't say it.

“Nothing like that,” Tommy said. It was the first time he'd spoken since we came outside. He still held my arm, and that firm grasp felt like the only thing tethering me to earth. I was grateful for his presence, but I didn't understand it. Rowena lived on West Eighty-fifth, close to me. Tommy's precinct was on the East Side.