Norma’s office door opened. She shook my hand with her small ice-cold one and ushered us in—us as in Lulu and me. Very was making another call and held up one finger to let us know he’d join us in a second.
Norma’s windowed office was insanely cluttered. There were white metal bookcases bursting with manuscripts, bound galleys and recently published hardcovers. Her desk was heaped with piles of manuscripts. So was the carpeted floor.
She sat down behind her desk. There was one other chair in there—piled with books, naturally. I put them on the floor and sat down, looking her over. She had dark circles under her eyes and seemed emotionally wrung out. She was wearing a different drab, shapeless linen dress. Same limp hair. Same horn-rimmed glasses.
“How are you, Norma?”
“Not great.”
“I’m truly sorry about Tommy.”
She said nothing in response. Just watched Lulu sniffing delicately at the piles of manuscripts on the floor, possibly in search of one that smelled like a bestseller. Trust me, her guess was as good as 90 percent of the editors in New York.
Very joined us now, closing the door behind him, his eyes widening as he gazed across the desk at Norma. He seemed startled . . . or something.
So did Norma as she gazed back across the desk at him. She gulped. She definitely gulped. Was I witnessing an instant attraction? Was bony little Norma Fives Very’s type? She was brainy. He said he liked brainy. But was a hyper, rock ’n’ roll homicide detective her type? Such a love match would never have occurred to me before, but ever since Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett tied the knot that summer, I’d decided I knew nothing about what drew two people together.
“Norma Fives, say hello to Detective Lieutenant Romaine Very of the NYPD. He’s investigating Tommy’s death. Also Sylvia’s.”
Again Norma gulped. “Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant. Well, not pleased. There’s nothing to be pleased about, is there? But if there’s anything I can . . .” She glanced around at the office. “Sorry, I don’t seem to have another chair. I’ll have Bart get you one.”
“Please don’t bother,” he said, leaning against the closed door, his muscular arms crossed in front him, right knee jiggling. “I’ve been sitting all day. Just have a few quick questions for you anyhow.”
“All right. What is it that you wish to know?”
“I understand you and Tommy O’Brien had a romantic relationship.”
She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Of a sort,” she said glumly.
“Meaning . . . ?”
“Tommy was a married man. My first. I’m told that every sophisticated professional woman in New York must have at least one affair with a married man. Tommy was mine. I don’t intend to have another one. Absolutely nothing good came of it. He left his wife and moved into a fleabag studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. He was miserable. His wife was miserable. And I spent most of my time crying. What’s so sophisticated about that?”
“Why didn’t Tommy move in with you when he left his wife?”
“I have a tiny studio on Bank Street that’s barely big enough for one person. And we weren’t ready to make that sort of commitment.”
“Did you ever spend the night at his place in Hell’s Kitchen?”
Norma shook her head. “Never even saw it.”
“Why not?”
“He didn’t want me to. Told me it was a dump.”
“Well, he wasn’t lying to you about that. We tossed it yesterday.”
“Is that routine procedure?”
“Pretty much. Plus we were looking for Tulsa.”
“Did you have any luck?”
“Afraid not. You don’t have it, do you?”
Norma looked at him surprised. “You think I hired someone to steal Tulsa?”
He looked around at the heaps of manuscripts in her office. “This would be a perfect place to hide it—in plain sight. Am I right, dude?”
“Yes, you are. We could be staring directly at it.”
“Except you’re not,” she insisted. “Besides, why would I want to steal Tulsa?”
“To hose Sylvia James, who I understand you once nearly blinded with a Stanley Bostitch stapler,” Very said. “And to get Tommy fired so you could hire him to take on a more lucrative project for you.”
“Well, I don’t have it,” she stated defensively. “And I have no idea where it is. But you’re right. I was hoping to sign Tommy. Addison and Sylvia treated him very shabbily. He deserved better. He was a talented writer and a good man.” She paused, her mouth tightening. “He told me that he and his wife were talking about getting a divorce. That’s not something I’m very proud of. I’ve never broken up a marriage.”
“You didn’t break up this one,” Very assured her. “Unless, that is, you’re the one who shoved him off Hoagy’s roof.”
Norma blinked at him in surprise. “You’re kidding, right? I’m an editor, not a killer.”
“Real world? All kinds of people are killers. Doctors, lawyers, certified public accountants, notary publics . . .”
“How would I have done it?”
“Done what?”
“Shoved Tommy off of that roof. I’m not strong enough.”
“So you had a helper. Your assistant, Bart, looks strong.”
“Very,” I agreed, nodding.
He frowned at me. “Yeah, dude?”
“He looks very strong.”
“You got that right.”
“Next I suppose you’re going to tell me I drove out to Willoughby and ran Sylvia over,” Norma said to him coldly.
“Did you?”
“Of course not. I don’t even own a car.”
“That’s why God invented car rental agencies.”
“I didn’t rent a car.”
“We can check all of the rental agencies.”
“Go right ahead,” she dared him.
“Then again, maybe you’ve got a friend who has one.” Very stepped away from the door, swung it open and gestured to Bart, who came loping in, instantly filling the office with his giant frame. Very closed the door, gazing up at him. “Own a car, dude?”
“Yeah, I do, Lieutenant. A BMW 325i.”
“Nice car.”
“It’s not brand-new or anything. It’s an ’89.”
“Still a nice car. Where were you last evening, Bart?”
“Home.”
“Where’s home?”
“I have a floor-through in a brownstone on East 73rd.”
Very let out a low whistle, impressed. “You can afford that on what they pay you around here?”
“I, um, have some family money,” Bart said uncomfortably.
“You live alone?”
“I have for the past month or so, yeah.”
“Meaning you just broke up with someone?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“What’d you do last evening?”
“I read a submission for Norma that a top agent at ICM had sent over.”
“Were you alone all evening?”
“Yes.”
“Did you go out to eat?”
“No, I picked up a pizza on my way home from work.”
“Talk to anyone on the phone?”
“Yes, I talked to Norma.”
“What about?”
“The submission, after I finished reading it.”
“Did you like it?”
“I thought it was pretentious crap.”
Very turned to Norma. “So I guess that means you were home, too.”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. The man I’ve been seeing was murdered yesterday, remember?”
“Trust me, I haven’t forgotten.” Very swung the door back open. “Thanks, Bart. We’re good.”
Bart returned to his cubicle, Very closing the door behind him.
“Is there anything you want to tell us about him?” I asked Norma.
She arched an eyebrow at me curiously. “Such as what?”
“Well, his full name is Bart Shackleford.”
“Already know that,” I said. “And . . . ?”
“Where are you going with this?”
“You know exactly where I’m going with this, Norma. And . . . ?”
She heaved a sigh. “And his father was Gerrard Shackleford.”
“As in the Gerrard Shackleford?”
“As in the Gerrard Shackleford,” she confirmed with a nod of her head.
“Okay, help me out here,” Very said. “Who was Gerrard Shackleford?”
“One of the true giants of the hard-boiled detective fiction world, Lieutenant. He wrote with genuine depth, wit and style. His name doesn’t ring a bell because in real life he was a federal appellate court judge in Trenton, so he published under the pseudonym of Tucker Maxwell.”
Very’s eyes widened. “Tucker Maxwell? I’ve read him. He was great.”
“You’re right, he was,” I said. “And guess what? His editor was none other than Sylvia James at Guilford House. He must have written a dozen books for her.”
“Fourteen,” Norma said softly.
“Until, that is, his sales started to dip a bit. This was, when, four years ago? You were still working there, weren’t you, Norma?”
“I was,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“Instead of offering Judge Shackleford a new contract for a tad less money, which would have been the classy thing to do given his elite status in the crime fiction world, what did Sylvia do?”
“She dropped him.”
“You may remember what happened next, Lieutenant. It made the newspapers. Bart’s dad drove his car to a rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike, parked and downed a fifth of vodka with a Drano chaser.”
“I do remember,” Very said quietly. “Ugly way to die.”
“Is that why you hired Bart as your assistant?” I asked Norma. “Because of what Sylvia did to his father?”
“It’s certainly one of the reasons. He’s also good at his job. Smart, talented, works hard.”
“Does he have the writing bug himself?”
“Every editorial assistant in this place does. They all want to grow up to become you.”
“They wouldn’t if they knew me better. Did Sylvia know you hired him?”
“Naturally. This is publishing. Everybody knows everybody’s business.”
Very popped a fresh piece of bubble gum in his mouth and stood there chewing it, his head nodding, nodding. “So Bart owns a car and has a motive of his own for murdering Sylvia. Interesting. Do you know anyone else who owns a car?” he asked Norma.
“My cousin Meg does.”
“Where does she live?”
“In a high-rise on First Avenue.”
“I’ll need her contact info.”
“Whatever for?”
“So we can check to find out whether you borrowed her car last night.”
Norma glared at him. “You’re being adversarial and accusatory, Lieutenant, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I don’t mind. That’s my job. It’s what I do.”
“It’s true, it is,” I told her. “I’ve seen him in action several times. Lieutenant Very happens to be the NYPD’s top homicide investigator. He also has a BA from Columbia in astrophysics.”
She shook her head at me. “And you’re telling me this because . . . ?”
“I sensed you were curious.”
“You should take your sensor in and get it recalibrated. I wasn’t.”
Lulu was done sniffing her way around the office. Went over and put her head on Norma’s knee.
Norma was taken aback. “Why is she doing that?”
“She wants you to pet her.”
“Oh.” Norma patted her gingerly on the head. “We never had pets when I was growing up. My parents didn’t believe in them.”
“What a shame,” I said. “A house without a pet is a home without a soul.”
“That sounds familiar. Who said that?”
“The Dalai Lama, I believe. Either the Dalai Lama or Soupy Sales.”
Lulu moved away and curled up at my feet with a grunt.
Very crossed his arms in front of his chest again, narrowing his gaze at Norma. “Why did you hurl a Bostitch stapler across a conference table at Sylvia?”
“Because she humiliated me in front of the entire editorial department and I couldn’t take it anymore. I snapped.”
“You were lucky, you know. She could have filed criminal assault charges against you. Instead she just fired you.”
“She didn’t fire me, I quit. But you’re right. I was very lucky. I’ve always been lucky. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you just how incredibly damned lucky I am,” Norma said, gazing morosely out the window at the traffic on Sixth.
“Were you in love with Tommy O’Brien?” Very asked her.
She turned and studied him. “Why is that important?”
“It may not be. Then again, it may be the linchpin of the entire case. I merely collect information. That’s what an investigator does.”
“I don’t know if loved him, Lieutenant. I’m not sure if I’ve ever been in love. I’ve had my share of boyfriends. We’ve talked literature, consumed tremendous quantities of wine, had sex that ranged from unexciting to awkward to just plain awful. But I’ve never experienced that ‘running barefoot through the park with balloons’ kind of love. Maybe there is no such thing. Maybe that’s just movie love.” She paused, considering her next words carefully. “Tommy made me feel safe. I had feelings of affection for him. But he wasn’t my soul mate. Maybe there is no such thing as one of those either. Maybe that’s movie love, too.”
Very nodded. “Fair enough. Where were you when he was getting thrown off Hoagy’s roof?”
“What time did it happen?”
“Around five.”
“I was having drinks at the Algonquin with one of our romance authors. I need someone to write the follow-up to The Girl Under the Bed. I’d been hoping it would be Tommy, but I had to have a Plan B in case he couldn’t get out of his contract with Addison.”
“And this author’s name is . . . ?”
“Morris Needleman. He writes under the name Madeira Corso.”
“And how about when Sylvia was run over? Where were you then?”
Norma let out an exasperated sigh. “I just told you. I was home.”
“Doing what?”
“Drinking a bottle of Sancerre and crying my eyes out. I spoke to Bart, as you already know. I called my sister, Lauren, in Santa Cruz. I called my college roommate, Andrea Lorenz, who now lives in Minnesota, has three kids and is married to a metallurgist named Pete. I called my first boyfriend from high school, Steve Portigal, who works in the art department at Sports Illustrated and lives in Park Slope with a woman from Ecuador.”
“We can run a trace on all of those calls, you know.”
“Go right ahead. You don’t actually consider me a suspect, do you?”
“I consider you a person of interest.”
She frowned at him. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“If you need a lawyer, I’ll be the first to tell you,” he said, easing himself away from the door. “Well, okay then . . .”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means we’re done here,” I translated, getting up out of my chair.
“Thanks for your time,” Very said. “Oh, hey, I almost forgot to give you my card.” He plucked one from the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans and handed it across the desk to her.
She took it, peering at it. “Do you want one of mine?”
“I wouldn’t say no.”
She reached into the top drawer of her desk for one and gave it to him.
“Your hands are ice cold,” he pointed out.
“They keep the AC in this place cranked up for the men, who are never cold.”
“You should be wearing
a sweater. You got a sweater?”
“There’s one around here somewhere . . .”
Lulu found it—tossed carelessly over a box of books. Very grabbed it for her. Not surprisingly, it was a shapeless cotton cardigan that was the color of Malt-O-Meal.
Very held it open for her. “Here, put this on. You’ll catch cold. You’re under a lot of stress, and you look like you haven’t eaten a decent meal in a year.”
“Who are you, my long-lost Jewish mother? Because you’re not exactly what I was picturing.”
“Put it on, will you?”
“I’m perfectly comfortable, Lieutenant. And I’ve always been this thin. But thanks for your concern.”
“Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not leaving until you put this sweater on. Now stand up, will you?”
She stood up, coloring ever so slightly, and slid her skinny arms into the boxy sleeves. “I do know how to button it myself,” she assured him as he started to work on the buttons.
“Suit yourself,” Very said. “You may hear from me again. Then again, you may not. Depends on how it all shakes out. But you have my card. If you think of anything that slipped your mind, don’t hesitate to call.”
“I won’t. Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I really need to get back to work. Bart will escort you to the elevators.”
Very closed her door behind us and said, “I’ll run you home, dude.”
“No need. I can catch a cab.”
“Nah, I’ll drive you home.”
“Okay, thanks. There may be a couple of Bass ales in the refrigerator, if that’s of any interest.”
“A great deal of interest, now that you mention it.”
Bart got his towering self up from behind his desk and said, “Let me show you gentlemen how to get back to the elevators.”
“Did he just call us gentlemen?” Very said to me.
“Must have us confused with a different pair of guys.”
As we started from Bart’s cubicle his phone rang. He stopped to answer it. “Naomi Fives’s office . . . Why, yes, he’s right here. You just caught him.” He held the phone out to Very. “It’s for you, Lieutenant.”
He took the phone from Bart and said, “It’s Very. What’s up?” He face fell. “Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh . . . Okay, I’m on it.” Then he handed Bart the phone, thanked him and went charging down the corridor.
“Where’s he going?” Bart wondered.
The Man in the White Linen Suit Page 17
