by Stuart Woods
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
DINO 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 ag
ent?”
“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.
37
DINO LOOKED THOUGHTFUL. “HAVEN’T WE RUN ACROSS One Vanderbilt Avenue as an address before? It sounds familiar.”
Stone slapped his forehead. “Mail drop! I tracked it down once, roamed around Grand Central until I found this wall of mailboxes. They’re unattended, except when somebody shows up to sort the mail. Can you call the precinct and detail a man to watch it?”
“Stone, Frederick James has committed no crime that we know of, and he’s not a suspect in any case. You trying to get me fired? Why don’t you get Bob Berman to do it?”
“That’s a thought, but I just had another one. If I were James, and I didn’t want to be located, for whatever reason, I’d rent a box at One Vanderbilt, then I’d go to the post office and have the mail forwarded to another address, and then, if I really don’t want to be found, I’d have it forwarded from that address. I might get my mail a week late, but what the hell?”
“So it would be a waste of Berman’s time.”
“Yes, it would. Mr. James has built himself a fire wall, and I can’t think of a way around it.”
“He must get paid,” Dino said.
“Yes, but the checks go to the mailbox.”
“But they have to be deposited, or the guy gets no money, right?”
“Right!” Stone said. He called Tom Jones back.
“Tom Jones.”
“This is Lieutenant Bacchetti again.”
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this. My wife will catch on.” He roared with laughter.
Once again, Stone waited. “Mr. Jones,” he said when he could get past the laughter. “How do you pay Frederick James?”
“He takes checks,” Jones said. “If I were dealing with me, I’d demand cash!” This time it was a high-pitched giggle.
“Mr. Jones, when was the last time you paid Mr. James any money?”
“Last month, when Tumult came out. His contract calls for a payment on publication.”
“All right. Dig out your most recent bank statement.”
“It’s right here in my bottom drawer, with all my bank statements,” Jones said.
Stone heard the man struggling with a desk drawer. “Got it,” Jones said.
“Now, go through the canceled checks until you find the one to James.”
“Okay, let’s see: laundry, phone bill, liquor store—hey, that’s a big one!” More laughter. “Here it is!”
“Turn the check over.”
“It’s over.”
“There is a bank’s name stamped on the back. That always happens when a check is deposited.”
“Right, there is. It’s kind of dim, though. Let me turn on a light and get my glasses.”
Stone had visions of the man sitting in a dark office strewn with empty liquor bottles.
“Okay, I can see it now. It says, ‘First Cayman Bank.’”
“Swell,” Stone said.
“You like that, do you?”
“It’s no help at all, I’m afraid. Mr. Jones, imagine for a moment that you absolutely had to get in touch with Mr. James. How would you go about it?”
“I’d e-mail him,” Jones said. “I’m not much on computers, but my nephew set it up so that I can get to my e-mail without screwing it up. You want the e-mail address?”
“Thanks, but you already gave it to me.”
“I did? Well, okay. Good luck finding him.” Jones hung up.
“What?” Dino asked.
“His bank is in the Cayman Islands, well known for banking secrecy. We’re not going to find him that way.”
“What about his e-mail address? We could call his provider. Who is it? AOL or Hotmail? One of those?”
“Nope. He’s got a domain of his own: frederickjames dot com.”
“Then it’s got to be registered somewhere.”
“Yeah, but even if we could track it down, we’d find that his address is One Vanderbilt, or some hotel where he stayed for a few days.”
“We could see if he has a phone number in New York.”
“If he does, it will be unlisted.”
“If it’s unlisted, I can find out the number.”
“I just had a thought,” Stone said. He picked up a phone and called Dan Griggs.
“Griggs.”
“It’s Stone. How’s Lundquist doing?”
“He made it through the night, and he’s stable. The doctor says we can probably ship him home in a few days.”
“Good. Listen, Dan, we’ve got another line on Paul Manning. He may be using the name Frederick James. James is a novelist with a new, bestselling book out, and he’s something of a will-o’-the-wisp. Can you check the local hotels and see if he’s registered?”
“Okay, Stone, but I have to tell you, I’m wearying of Mr. Manning, and I can’t keep putting resources into finding somebody who did nothing but trash somebody’s house.”
“I understand, Dan, and I appreciate your help.”
“I’ll get back to you.” Griggs hung up.
Stone called Bob Berman. “How you doing?”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“The hotel guest list turned up the name of one Frederick James, an author. Can you do the whole skip-trace thing—address, phone number, credit report?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a Social Security number?”
“No, but hang on.” Stone dialed Jones again.
“Tom Jones.”
“Mr. Jones, I need Frederick James’s Social Security number. I know you’ve go
t it. You can’t pay him without it.”
“Sorry. The checks are made out to a corporation.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
“You didn’t ask me.” Jones laughed loudly.
“What’s the name of the corporation?”
“Frederick James, Limited; it’s a Cayman Islands firm.”
“Thanks,” Stone said, and hung up. He punched the button for Berman. “Sorry for the delay. No SSN; he deals through a Cayman Islands corporation. I don’t suppose you can get anything on that.”
“Probably not. You have any idea where the guy lives?”
“Until recently, he lived in Easthampton, New York. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Okay, I’ll get back to you.”
Stone hung up to see Liz appear in the doorway, holding the copy of Tumult. “What do you think?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve read enough of it to say that it could be Paul’s work. But you have to understand, he was something of a chameleon as a writer. He changed styles from book to book, depending on the plot and characters.”
“Thanks for trying, Liz.”
She returned to the afterdeck, leaving Stone and Dino alone.
“What’d I tell you?” Dino said. “She’s going to be useless in finding this guy.”
“I’m feeling pretty useless myself,” Stone said.
“I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere with the Frederick James name,” Dino said. “My guess is, he’s just using it as a pen name, that he’s living his life under an entirely different name, maybe even more than one.”
“That’s a depressing thought,” Stone said.
As if on cue, Dan Griggs called back. “I’ve had a whole squad calling around to the hotels,” he said, “and there’s no Frederick James registered anywhere.”
“Thanks for your help again, Dan. I won’t bother you unless we turn up something concrete.” Stone hung up, and the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Berman.”
“Anything?”
“Mr. James has an American Express card, and that’s it—no debts, not even a bank account.”
“American Express wouldn’t give somebody a card who had no credit record,” Stone said.
“Then he must have applied under a name that does have a record, then asked them to put another name on the card. By the way, I have a friend at American Express. I called him and he looked up James’s address.”
