Misery Loves Company

by Rene Gutteridge

  Clarice’s eyes widened as though Chris had made an indecent gesture. Walker noticed and looked back and forth between the two.

  “How do you know that name?”

  “Can’t reveal that, ma’am, but obviously you know who I’m talking about.”

  Clarice sank back into her chair, rubbing her temples. “Why am I not surprised? Of course it was leaked. Of course!”

  “Who is he?”

  “A new writer we’ve acquired through a contest we ran. We had 940 entries, Sergeant. This writer won the contest and we’re publishing the manuscript next spring. But we’re keeping the winner’s identity a secret.”

  “Why?”

  “From our angle, it’s great PR, to build up the suspense. But the author also wished to remain anonymous in a sense, choosing to use a pen name.”

  “Was Patrick Reagan involved in choosing the winner?”

  “No. The winner was chosen by our editorial board.”

  “Would there be any reason Mr. Reagan would be upset by this manuscript?”

  Clarice looked curious. “I don’t believe so. I mean . . .” She paused and both Chris and Walker stepped closer, hanging on her next word. She sighed as if this was going to require a long explanation. “We did actually send him the manuscript. We don’t typically do that. Mr. Reagan’s publishing stature gives him the right to refuse endorsements of his work and refuse to give out endorsements of other people’s work. He’s quite critical, so long ago we decided to stop sending him anything to endorse because he was rejecting everything. But . . . this manuscript, it was special. I’ve been in the publishing industry for thirty years and it’s some of the best literary writing I’ve ever seen. We thought that we might have a chance of getting his endorsement, which would be the equivalent of striking gold.”

  “Did he give you that endorsement?”

  “We haven’t heard from him. We sent it a couple of months ago to his house in Maine, unsure of whether he would read it or even see it before the spring, but we thought we’d try.”

  “What’s the book about?”

  Clarice smiled mildly. “For that information, you’re going to need a search warrant.”

  It had been a cold Tuesday in November when Chris Downey came to her door at 11 p.m. with the captain, Don Perry. And as Jules opened the door and looked at their faces, she’d known they’d not come to rush her to the hospital. He was already gone.

  Chris held her upright as she listened to the captain’s brief explanation of what had happened to Jason. “. . . shot multiple times down by the shore at Hennessey dock. Chris tried to . . . but he didn’t—he just . . . before the ambulance could get there . . .”

  She was collapsed into Chris, staring at the blood on one of his hands as it held her at the waist. She had no recollection of how she got into the house or who was there, until her father arrived. When he sat down on the couch, she literally crawled into his lap and buried her head in his neck.

  He went with her to identify Jason at the morgue. The police department said it wasn’t necessary, but Jules had to know that he was gone. The room was sterile and brightly lit. There were three tables, all cold and metal. Jason was on the third, the farthest from the door. The mortician gently pulled the sheet away from his face. He was light gray, like smoke from their chimney. His lips were purple and there were dark shadows down his cheeks and around his eyes. Her father kept his arm steady around her shoulder as she simultaneously pressed into and pulled against him. She wanted to touch Jason, to hold him, but instead she stayed still, staring at him like he was some sort of lab specimen.

  After that day, she always regretted not touching him. She knew it was pointless, but she wanted to be stronger for him. Since then, she hadn’t been strong a single day.

  “You’re wallowing. . . .”

  Jules sat up in the chair. Had she dozed off? She glanced around. Patrick sat across from her in the living area, immersed in the pages she’d returned to him.

  “What?” she asked.

  “That’s what you said here. That I’m wallowing in unremarkable details.”

  Jules held her breath, tried not to look scared. “Just an opinion.”

  Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Observant.”

  “Thank you.” She rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”

  He didn’t answer, just continued reading. She was becoming weary of the lack of schedule, the lack of purpose here. She had nothing to do but critique a man who was obviously sensitive to critique. Her stomach hurt most of the time.

  The fogginess of the sleep she’d slipped into faded, along with the sounds of her own cries that she replayed so often from that night. It was apparently only midmorning, judging from the sun, but she was exhausted. She hadn’t slept well last night. Or any night.

  Suddenly Patrick set down the pages on the coffee table and looked directly at her. “Tell me about your father.”

  Jules shifted. “Why do you want to know about my father?”

  “What else is there to do to pass the time but get to know one another? I suppose we both feel we know each other in some sense. You, from my books. Me, from your Internet writings. But we don’t really know one another, do we, Juliet?”

  “I suppose not,” she said. She picked up the hot tea he’d served her a while ago. It was now cold. “And maybe we should throw out first impressions.”

  “I realize you think I’m a madman.”

  “Worthy to be cast in one of your novels.”

  He laughed at that and she laughed too. She didn’t know why, really, because she felt in no way amused by any of it.

  “So—” he gestured to her—“your father.”

  “My father. Lt. Colonel Jim Franklin, a career Marine. Worked his way to the top. Served in three wars.”

  “A good man?”

  “A very good man.”

  “But not perfect.”

  “Who is?”

  “Go on.”

  “He retired about ten years ago. Shortly before that, my mother died. She’d battled cancer on and off for most of my childhood.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “My father took it hard. Plus he saw some gruesome action in Afghanistan. He struggles with the bottle.”

  “I see.”

  “But he loves me. I love him. We have a great relationship before noon.”

  “Interesting.”

  “After that, I let him be.” She gazed out the window. The light was brightening the room in small increments. “I know he’s worried sick about me. I can’t even imagine what he’s going through right now.”

  Patrick leaned forward, took off his reading glasses. “Juliet, you will not guilt me into anything. You’re here for a reason. You must trust me.”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry. This is too weird. If you wanted my editorial opinion, we could’ve met over coffee.”

  “So it is quite obvious you’re here for other reasons.”

  “I can’t imagine a good reason to kidnap someone and hold them hostage.”

  “That surprises me. I took you for having a good imagination.”

  “I wish I were imagining this.”

  “You don’t find my company enjoyable? From all the writing you’ve done about me, I would think this would be an opportunity of a lifetime—you and I sitting across from one another, shooting the breeze.” Shooting the breeze came out awkwardly, like he’d never used the phrase before.

  “Why am I reading your book? And why a random scene here and there? It would make much more sense to read it in order.”

  “I will share a secret about myself with you, Juliet. Nobody knows this.”

  She leaned in, noticing his eyes sparkled like a little boy’s. “I’m most useful in my writing when my thoughts are chaotic. The systematic reordering comes later. But the helter-skelter of words and thoughts and scenes—that’s where my imagination likes to dwell. When my scene is complete, if it is strong and readable out of context, then I know for cer
tain it will stand with the rest of the book. I guess I am fond of chaos. I’ve never been able to stand well in an ordered world.”

  “That is fascinating.” She was just the opposite, functioning only in a well-ordered environment. Chaos terrified her in more ways than one.

  His eyes dimmed a bit. “This book has been different, though.” His words trailed off and he stared into the air for a moment, then returned his attention to her. “So give me your impression of the scene you just read for me.”

  “I thought it was good. The tension was there.”

  “You liked the dialogue between the two police officers?”

  “Yes. I liked how there seemed to be this seething anger between them, simmering just below the surface.”

  “Good, good. You got that even though you had no context for it.”

  “And I like the main character. Kurt.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “I can tell. He . . .”

  “Reminds you of someone?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Jason.”

  Patrick nodded understandingly. He put his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together, and in the most tender voice she’d heard him use, said, “Juliet, I want you to listen to me.”

  “Okay.”

  “I am going to terrify you. But in the end, you will see that, like your husband, I am a good man.”

  “LISTEN, I’M ALL FOR LITERACY, but I’m just saying, the publishing world is filled with quirky people,” Walker said as they turned the corner from Broadway onto West Fifty-Seventh Street. “I’ll read a Grisham book. All day long. He’s in the airports. Real mainstream. And I’ve seen him on TV. He looks like a guy you’d want to talk to in a bar. But some of them, with their pale skin . . . I mean, come out of the cave. Get some sunlight.”

  “So did Reagan strike you as weird when he was hanging around the precinct?” Chris asked. “He’s in all the airports.”

  “He was all right. A little stuffy for my taste. When you talked to him, he was there but kind of wasn’t there, like things were ticking inside his head and he was distracted by it. And there’s got to be some kind of brilliance rolling around up there to write a novel. But you don’t have to be kooky. That’s all I’m saying. Take Stephen King. The guy’s books could scare the swastika right off of Charles Manson’s forehead, but he’s not walking around with crazy, bloodbath eyes, you know?”

  Chris shrugged. “I guess.”

  “And judging from Miss Priss back there, the editors are a whole other kind of kooky. Now we’ve got to go see the agent.” He groaned. “Just give me your regular thief, you know?”

  “I guarantee the agent’s going to be normal. I mean, these guys are about striking the deal, right? It’s a business venture.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I just hope he speaks our language.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  Walker stopped and sniffed the air. “You smell that? Coneys.”

  “Our reward for a long day’s work?”

  “You got it. But ten bucks, or a coney, says this agent is a wack job.”

  “You’re on.”

  They found the building and rode the elevator to the twenty-fourth floor. The receptionist, not quite as skeletal as the last one, politely guided them to a conference room, where she asked them to have a seat. Coffee and water were waiting. It seemed quiet, as an office should be on a Saturday.

  “Fancy,” Walker said, examining the coffee cup. “Real china.”

  “Hope it’s real coffee,” Chris said, pouring a cup. “I’m exhausted.”

  Within a few minutes, the door opened and in walked an early-thirtysomething man dressed in a pink sweater with a plaid button-up shirt underneath, hanging out at the bottom. He wore a blue bow tie and, of course, chunky square glasses. His hair was gelled in several different directions—the quintessential artsy look that seemed like it took way too much effort.

  “Hi,” the agent said, looking a little frazzled. He was glancing at a message on his cell phone as he shook their hands. “Bentley Marrow.”

  “Detective Walker. This is Sergeant Downey.”

  “Look,” he said, dropping into the chair across from them, “I can explain. Well, not really. I mean, the guy’s a mess. But I’m just asking that you keep this on the down low, okay? I’d so appreciate it. We’re really trying to get him into an anger management program, and we’ve not been that successful. Obviously he shouldn’t have been drinking and driving, and there’s absolutely no excuse for him hitting on that female officer like he did. But that was the alcohol. And obviously we don’t approve of this at all, but you understand what this would do to his career? Right?”

  Sweat popped up in beads on his forehead.

  “When was Mr. Reagan pulled over for a DUI?” Walker asked.

  Bentley’s eyes widened. “Patrick Reagan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh . . . oh . . .” He cursed with relief and held out his hands like he wished he could rewind what he just said. “I am so sorry. I thought you were talking about another author.” He chuckled nervously. “You’re not here about . . . Fredrick Sebastian?”

  “No. Patrick Reagan.”

  Bentley took in a deep breath. “Stellar. Okay. Sorry for the miscommunication. My secretary had just said two officers, and I assumed—we’ve been dealing with this since last night. . . .” His hands were doing most of the talking. “Okay, about Patrick. Yes. I remember. You two are from Maine. What is going on?”

  “We need to ask you a few questions pertaining to an ongoing investigation in Wissberry, Maine,” Walker said.

  “What does this have to do with Patrick?”

  “He may have been one of the last people to see a missing woman, but we can’t seem to locate him. Being his agent, we’re assuming you would know how to get ahold of him for, say, an emergency.”

  Bentley pushed his glasses up his nose. “Well, um . . .”

  “Let me guess. He disappears for the winter to some mysterious cabin in the mountains and you have no idea how to reach him.”

  “Um, yeah.”

  Walker threw his hands up. “Seriously. How can anybody just disappear for a few months? Not that I wouldn’t love it, but doesn’t this guy have any responsibilities?”

  “To finish his book,” Bentley said.

  “It’s just hard to believe,” Walker continued, “that you can’t find someone. What if there was an emergency? Doesn’t this guy have any family that might need him?”

  “His wife, Amelia, went with him to the cabin before she passed away. They had no children or other family that I’m aware of, except one distant cousin who tried to claim part of his fortune about ten years ago. It was dismissed in court.”

  “How did he take the passing of his wife?”

  “I wouldn’t really know,” Bentley said, glancing away. “The truth is that we don’t speak much. Hardly ever, in fact.”

  “But you’re his agent. Aren’t writers and agents tight?”

  “Usually, but I’m not really his agent,” Bentley said. “On paper I am. I look over contracts and that sort of thing, but that connection you’re talking about . . . well, he had that with Ike.”

  “Who is Ike?” Walker asked, taking notes.

  “You don’t know who Ike Patterson is?” Bentley looked genuinely baffled.

  Chris glanced at Walker, then said, “We’re more up on the seedy underground crime scene, so you might have to enlighten us.”

  “Sorry. It’s just that the guy is a legend. He was probably the most well-known literary agent in New York and maybe the world. He died about five years ago at the age of ninety-two, down the hall in his office that overlooks Manhattan. Right at his desk. Fell face forward onto a manuscript. The dude did what we all want to do, right? Die doing what we love?”

  Chris bit his lip. Not everybody wants to die on the job. But he kept listening.

  “He was the greatest, smart as a whip, never missed a beat, even at his age. He did
n’t even start using a cane until he was ninety. Never wore glasses. Dressed in a suit every single day.”

  “So Mr. Reagan and Mr. Patterson were good friends?”

  “Very good friends. Patrick trusted him with his life, and Ike made sure Patrick was taken care of in every single way.”

  “So did Ike know where this mysterious cabin is?”

  “If he did, he took the secret to his grave. Ike always claimed he had no idea, but I think otherwise. I don’t know that Ike ever went there, but I believe he knew where it was.”

  “So Ike died a few years ago. How did Patrick take that death?”

  Bentley’s pained expression said enough. “You have to understand their relationship. Ike . . . shielded—yes, that’s a good word—shielded Patrick from the more . . . unpleasant sides of this business.”

  “Such as?”

  “Really anything negative. Everything that went to Patrick went through Ike first. Ike was able to communicate with him in a way that made Patrick feel secure. Even if there was something uncomfortable that needed to be discussed, Ike did it in a way that worked.”

  “Pardon me for saying it,” Walker said, “but Patrick sounds like he might need some thicker skin.”

  Bentley smiled condescendingly. “Like you, maybe? Tough and manly?”

  “Well, thank you for that, but no,” Walker said. “I just mean that every profession has its positives and negatives. Why was Mr. Reagan so sensitive?”

  “It’s not necessarily sensitivity, but more like . . . balance. In order to do what Patrick does so brilliantly, he’s got to be able to go deeper and farther than most of us are capable of. Ike understood there was a balance needed to maintain that level of creativity.”

  “So we’re talking the ecosystem of the imagination.”

  “Something like that,” Bentley said. He laced his fingers. “So what is this about a girl missing?”

  Chris said, “A woman. The last place she was seen was at a grocery store, and we have a witness who said Patrick Reagan was there at the same time. We wondered if he’d seen anything.”

  “Your witness is mistaken. He never emerges until spring.”

  “So we hear,” Chris said. “After Ike’s death, what happened to Patrick?”