The Bestseller Job

by Greg Cox

  She glowed. “You know, that may just be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  He shrugged. “Once in a while, I get lucky.”

  “No, that comes later,” she teased him. “Back at the hotel.”

  Nate was momentarily at a loss for words.

  “Ahem,” Eliot said, clearing his throat. “We got company, remember?”

  “How could I forget?” Nate shared a brief, private look with Sophie before turning his attention to their client. Denise looked up as he approached. “Thanks again for your assistance,” he said. “To be honest, I don’t ordinarily approve of clients taking part in the proceedings, but rules are made to be broken, I guess, especially when dealing with a trained professional such as yourself.”

  “But I’m not a professional,” Denise said firmly. She took off her wool cap, letting her red hair tumble down. She had already washed the camouflage paint from her face. “Not anymore.”

  Good for you, Nate thought. Everybody deserved a second chance.

  “But what about Beria?” Eliot asked. “We still going after him?”

  Nate shook his head. “I think we can count on his own people to take care of that for us.”

  LATER:

  The old man trudged along the beach at Coney Island, taking his usual early morning stroll. The tide was out and Lily, his Jack Russell terrier, tugged eagerly at her leash. In the summer, when the picnickers and sunbathers descended by the thousands, the beach could be too crowded to traverse, but on this cold October morning, the old man and his dog had the miles-long expanse of sand and surf all to themselves. A salty breeze blew off the ocean. To his right, the Boardwalk ran parallel to the shore, beneath the shadow of the slumbering Wonder Wheel. Gulls cawed overhead. Rush-hour traffic sounded more than a mere block away.

  A damp chill began to settle into the man’s bones. Hot coffee and a microwaved bowl of leftover clam chowder called to him. He pulled on Lily’s leash.

  “C’mon, girl. Let’s head back. Breakfast’s waiting.”

  Lily perked up her ears at the b-word.

  Before they could turn back toward the Boardwalk, however, the terrier lifted her nose to sniff the air. Her head turned toward the shore.

  “What is it, girl? You smell something?”

  All at once the dog raced toward the waves, nearly yanking the old man’s arm from his socket. Lily dragged him across the beach.

  “Whoa there! Not so fast!”

  He let go of the leash, figuring there was no harm in letting her run free. It wasn’t like she was going to get hit by a car on the beach. There was nothing around but sand and ocean. He could always call her back if she went too far.

  Lily ran toward the edge of the water, yapping furiously. The old man followed to investigate. He wondered what had the dog so worked up.

  Probably a dead fish or crab, he guessed. Or some smelly flotsam.

  But as he got closer, he saw a body lying in the surf. Seaweed was tangled around the motionless figure. Waves lapped over the body, which was facedown in the sand.

  “Oh, crap,” the old man said. He had grown up along the ocean and he knew a floater when he saw one. His mind ran through the usual possibilities: suicide, accident, the mob.

  Lily yapped excitedly. Reclaiming her leash, the man pulled her away from the body. “C’mon, girl. Leave it alone.”

  Curiosity compelled him to check out the body, which belonged to a lean, middle-aged gentleman in what had once been an expensive suit. Duct tape clung to his wrists. A single gunshot wound, to the back of his head, made it clear that he had been dispatched execution-style.

  So much for suicide, the old man thought.

  Lily tugged a stick from the sand nearby, then trotted over to show it to her human. At first, the man thought it was just a piece of driftwood, but then he realized that it was actually part of a broken ebony cane, which must have washed up along with the stiff. The old man shook his head. It looked like it had been a nice cane.

  He fished out his cell phone. Shaking fingers dialed 911.

  “Hello, police? I’d like to report a body.”

  | | | | | | EPILOGUE | | | | | |

  LOS ANGELES

  world premiere proclaimed the lighted marquee of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, which was lit up like a Christmas ornament in brilliant hues of red and green. The world-famous movie palace was a vision of Oriental splendor, its ornate exterior embodying Hollywood’s idea of a traditional Chinese pagoda. Towering coral-red columns, adorned with elaborate wrought-iron masks, flanked the entrance, which was guarded by a pair of imported stone Heaven Dogs. A thirty-foot-high stone dragon coiled above the front entrance. Copper-topped turrets rose from the jade-green roof. Dramatic lighting added to the effect as the landmark theater played host to the gala premiere of Assassins Never Forget, now a major motion picture.

  A parade of stretch limousines disgorged well-dressed celebrities, who posed on the red carpet for the fans and paparazzi swarming Hollywood’s Walk of Fame. A barrage of camera flashes strobed the scene. Massive floodlights projected wheeling beams of light high into the darkening sky. It was a beautiful summer evening, and everybody who was anybody had turned out for the premiere, as had a few very special guests.

  “Admit it,” Sophie said, resplendent in a red satin gown. Standing off to one side, away from the red carpet, she basked in the old-time Tinsel Town glamour. You could practically smell the showbiz in the air. “Wasn’t this worth making a special trip for?”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” said Nate, her escort for the evening. He had cleaned up nicely for the occasion, looking positively dapper in a tailored Armani suit that, for once, didn’t look slept in. He had even gotten a decent haircut. “Hold on for just a moment,” he said, consulting his smartphone with a distracted air. “There’s this slumlord in Chicago I’ve got my eye on…”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” she said firmly, confiscating the phone. “You can put the job on hold for one night. For my sake, if not for yours.”

  “But you don’t understand. This guy is trying to drive out his tenants by…” He started to protest, but relented. “All right. I guess he can wait.” He took her arm and watched the glitzy spectacle with her. “I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to walk the red carpet yourself, but that might be a bit too conspicuous. There’s something to be said for keeping a low profile, considering.”

  “I know.” She couldn’t deny that the spotlight called out to her, especially given how dazzling she looked tonight, but he was right. It wouldn’t do for their faces to be plastered all over People magazine and glimpsed on Entertainment Tonight, not if she needed to impersonate a real estate agent or nuclear physicist next week. “Besides, it’s not as though I haven’t crashed plenty of red-carpet events in the past. This is just the first time I’ve never had to con my way in.”

  “Feel free to pose as a countess if it will make you feel more comfortable,” Nate said. “I can always be your oily European gigolo.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but tonight I’m happy to be myself.” She glanced across the courtyard at another couple attending the premiere. “Parker and Hardison look like they’re having a good time.”

  “I see,” Nate said. “Should we be worried?”

  “C-3PO has tiny feet,” Parker observed.

  She and Hardison were checking out the famous Forecourt of the Stars, where generations of Hollywood legends had left impressions of their hands, feet, and miscellaneous body parts in the cement courtyard in front of the theater. More than two hundred colored concrete blocks, bearing the imprints of everyone from the Marx Brothers to Trigger, surrounded the pair. Hardison literally stood in Darth Vader’s footprints.

  “The magic of the movies,” he said, decked out in a powder-blue tuxedo and shades. “Makes even an ordinary protocol droid seem larger than life.” Like millions of starstruck visitors before him, he placed his own hand within Vader’s glove print, seeing how they compared. He coul
dn’t help wondering if it would be possible to lift a human star’s fingerprints from one of the other blocks. It was something to think about, for future reference.

  “Feel the power of the Dark Side,” he murmured.

  “Always,” Parker said. Contemplating the robot footprints before her, she kicked off her shoes.

  “Hold on there,” he said, restraining her. “Not sure you want to be doing that. This is a formal event, you know. Shoes and shirts strictly required.”

  “Seriously?” Parker said, disappointed. She wiggled back into her shoes. Her embroidered black jumpsuit had been picked out by Sophie, who had also personally taken charge of Parker’s hair and makeup. The blond thief had already pocketed her earrings and necklace.

  Hardison thought she looked like a movie star.

  Taking her hand, he dragged her across the sprawling forecourt, in search of his ultimate goal. A daunting collection of concrete signatures stretched before them. You needed a map to find the block you were looking for.

  Fortunately, there was an app for that.

  “Full impulse ahead!” he said eagerly, quickening his pace. He consulted the interactive map on his phone. “Sensors indicated that we are coming within visual range of… oh my.”

  His voice grew hushed as he gazed upon the holy of holies: a concrete block bearing the handprints and signatures of Gene Roddenberry, William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy, and the entire cast of Star Trek. A bronze plaque in the center of the square bore an embossed image of the starship Enterprise.

  “O, Great Bird of the Galaxy,” Hardison whispered, choking up. His eyes watered. “Excuse me, I need a moment…”

  Parker was somewhat less awestruck. “Which was the one with the ears?”

  She stepped forward for a closer look, about to set foot on George Takei’s splayed handprints.

  “Red alert!” Hardison blurted in alarm. “Reverse all thrusters!” He yanked on her arm, pulling her back before she could plant her heels in the final frontier. “What in the name of the United Federation of Planets are you thinking, girl? You don’t go stomping over sacred ground like that. You just don’t.” He formed the Vulcan salute with his fingers. “Respect the five-year mission. Live long and prosper.”

  Parker tried to make the sign back, with mixed results. She cocked her head and examined him like she would a tricky combination lock, making an effort to understand. “This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

  “Girl, you have no idea. This here, it’s a geek relic. A genuine slab of sci-fi history.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You want me to steal it for you?”

  The suggestion caught him by surprise, like a Klingon battle cruiser decloaking.

  “No! I mean, you can’t be serious. That would be wrong, so wrong.” He hesitated, imagining how the block would look on display in his apartment, next to his collection of vintage Mego action figures. “Wouldn’t it?”

  Parker grinned evilly.

  Going inside the theater, Sophie and Nate met up with Eliot and Denise in the opulent lobby. Gleaming red-and-gold columns supported the lofty ceiling. Colorful murals captured exotic scenes from the Far East. A vast chandelier, far more impressive than the one that had once graced Brad Lee’s tacky Long Island mansion, glittered overhead. The hubbub of excited voices echoed off the walls.

  “Good to see you again,” Sophie greeted their former client. Several months had passed since the Leverage crew had straightened out Denise’s problems, and since Beria’s body had washed up on the beach. “Thanks so much for inviting us to the premiere.”

  “Are you kidding?” Denise replied. She looked much happier and healthier than she had when they had first met back in Boston. Shadows no longer haunted her eyes, and a weight seemed to have lifted from her shoulders now that Gavin’s death had finally been avenged. A metallic copper gown matched the brass compass she still wore. She gave Sophie an enthusiastic hug. “It was the absolute least I can do. You folks put everything right… and made all of this possible.”

  Nate grudgingly accepted a hug as well. “We’re looking forward to seeing the movie,” he said, although Sophie knew that he would rather be running down a slumlord, crooked tycoon, or war profiteer. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d simply gone out to a movie.

  Baby steps, she thought.

  “Speaking of which,” Denise said, turning back to Sophie, “I’m sorry nothing came of that audition. I put in a good word for you, but you know how it goes. Since when does Hollywood listen to the author… or the executor of the author’s estate? The book is all mine these days, but I’m afraid I didn’t have much say over the casting of the movie.”

  “I’m sure you did your best,” Sophie said graciously. She was disappointed not to have landed a part in the film, after killing the audition, but apparently it was not meant to be. “I can’t complain, really. After all, I’ve already played the starring role…”

  “Until I killed you,” Denise said.

  “That was a pretty good shot,” Eliot recalled. “Not sure I could have pulled it off.”

  That was high praise coming from him. He and Denise made a nice couple, Sophie thought, seeing them together for the first time since they’d wrapped up the sequel scam. Eliot never talked about it, of course, but Sophie wondered what exactly had happened between Denise and him.

  Not that it was any of her business.

  EARLIER:

  “You look great,” Eliot said, admiring Denise, who was stunning. “More than great, actually.”

  “You, too,” she replied. There was an awkward pause before she came forward and gave him a peck on the check. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. “It’s been too long.”

  They disengaged in a less than strategic manner.

  “Who’s counting?” he lied.

  Things had been hot and heavy for a while, but then, after laying Gavin’s ghost to rest, they had eventually drifted back to their own lives. Calls and visits had grown less frequent, increasingly preempted by one crisis or another. Their last real rendezvous had been months ago.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t called or e-mailed more,” she apologized, “but what with taking charge of Gavin’s estate, finding an actual agent I can trust, a new apartment in a new city…”

  “You’re moving on,” he translated. “I get it.”

  Despite what had gone down between them in New York, he suspected that Denise was ready for a new life now, one that didn’t involve a hitter with a guilty past—and an old friend of Gavin’s. All of that was behind her now, or it ought to be.

  “Do you?” she asked. “Really?”

  He let her off the hook.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  In retrospect, he should have seen this coming. Women came and went in his life, which was probably just as well. His life didn’t lend itself to white picket fences and anniversaries, at least not anymore. Permanent attachments were not in the cards. It was better that way.

  Or so he kept telling himself.

  “I’m happy for you,” he said.

  The A-list crowd was beginning to make its way toward the auditorium. Palatial staircases led to the upper balconies. Hardison and Parker joined the others in the lobby, but there was no need to rush. Their seats were reserved.

  “So things are going well?” Nate asked Denise.

  “It’s been a like a dream,” she said. “The hype over the movie has shot Assassins back onto the bestseller list, which means more royalties that I can donate to human rights groups throughout the world. And, maybe I’m being naive, but I like to think that all this attention might lead to increased public awareness of what people like Beria are up to. There have already been plenty of feature stories asking how real the world depicted in Assassins is.”

  “I saw the piece on 60 Minutes,” Nate said. “Strong stuff. I hear there’s even talk of a congressional investigation.”

  A wistful look came over Denise’s face. “I just wi
sh Gavin could see all this.”

  “How do you know he can’t?” Nate said.

  Sophie recalled that Nate was a former altar boy, who had once contemplated going into the priesthood and even attended seminary. Lucky for her, he had reconsidered.

  Nowadays he preferred to play God instead.

  “I’d like to think so,” Denise admitted. “Things are going so well, in fact, that I might even write a sequel… for real this time.”

  “Just keep us out of it,” Nate said.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  On Leverage, the crew’s grateful clients always thank Nate and Eliot and Sophie and Hardison and Parker for everything they’ve done. Books are the same way. I could not have written this novel without the help and support of several key individuals, all of who deserve my gratitude.

  First off, I want to thank my talented editor, Ginjer Buchanan, for thinking of me in the first place. And my agent, Russ Galen, for making sure the deal happened.

  And I’m grateful to the real-life Leverage crew, including John Rogers, who carefully reviewed my outlines and manuscript and offered many valuable suggestions, and Geoffrey Thorne, who allowed me to pick his brains on matters Leverage-related—during the San Diego Comic-Con, no less! And to my friend Rob Brubaker for suggesting one particular bit on business.

  Finally, none of this would have been possible without my girlfriend, Karen Palinko, who let me take over our air-conditioned kitchen so that I could keep on writing even during a brutal heat wave, and who provided generous amounts of emotional and logistical support throughout. And, of course, I have to mention our four-legged distractions—Henry, Sophie, and Lyla—who kept me sane by occasionally dragging me away from the keyboard for walks and games of fetch.

  Oddly, it’s the cat who wants to play fetch.…

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Greg Cox is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous novels and short stories. He has written the official novelizations of such films as The Dark Knight Rises, Daredevil, Ghost Rider, and the first three Underworld movies, as well as novelizations of four popular DC Comics miniseries: Infinite Crisis, 52, Countdown, and Final Crisis.