Cold Paradise (17 page)

35

O
NE BY ONE, THAD SHAMES’S GUESTS STRAGGLED IN for breakfast on the afterdeck at midmorning. Stone thought everybody looked tired, maybe a little shell-shocked. Not much was said, and he didn’t feel ready to tell Thad and Liz what little he knew about Bartlett’s background. He would wait for more information.

Stone was finishing his coffee when Juanito arrived with a fax of a dozen or so pages. Stone flipped through them, with Dino looking over his shoulder, occasionally pointing out something.

“What is that?” Thad finally asked.

“It’s a copy of the criminal record of Paul Bartlett, aka Douglas Barnacle, William Wilfred, Edgar Chase and Terence Keane.”

“He was all those people?” Liz asked.

“Those and maybe more. I’ll summarize for you: He was born Robert Trent Smith, in Providence, Rhode Island, where he attended the public schools and the Rhode Island School of Design, which, incidentally, is very highly thought of. He was kicked out of school a month before graduation for running some kind of swindle that bilked nearly a hundred thousand dollars out of other students and faculty. After that, he chalked up half a dozen arrests for various confidence games. He was, apparently, a real bunco artist, and not averse to the use of violence, when he was caught. Five years ago, he got involved in a mob-backed boiler-room operation, selling worthless stocks at high prices. He ended up in jail and traded his testimony against his cohorts for his freedom and the federal witness protection program. While he was there, he shared a cell with a car thief and insurance scam artist. After that, he apparently left the program and took up a new identity as Paul Bartlett, in Minneapolis, where he eventually married a wealthy widow. Then he got his former cell mate to tamper with the seat belt on his car, and he wrecked it, killing her, but only after she changed her will in his favor.”

“Then he’s not Paul Manning?” Thad asked.

“No. Five years ago, Paul Manning and his wife were sailing in Europe, right, Liz?”

“That’s right.”

“And Bartlett was in jail at the time.”

“So Bartlett was just a waste of your time?” Callie asked.

“Not entirely,” Stone said. “At least you and I managed to get him caught for murdering his wife.”

Dino spoke up. “And I managed to save the State of Minnesota the cost of a trial.”

“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.

36

D
INO 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 further.” 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 bestseller. 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.”

“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 coconspirator.”

“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.