But Eloise was not about to give up, especially as she observed Cyrus recently exhibiting some degree of restlessness. When Cyrus was a highly renowned jurist, people listened to him, looked up to him, admired him. His confidence and self-esteem were at a high. Once he stepped down from the bench, the attention visited on him diminished considerably. Sure, he was still respected, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t as noticeable. His self-esteem understandably waned. It was only natural.
She knew what the problem was. Cyrus was overcompensating, seeking to hold onto his recognition and standing. He couldn’t say or admit that, and she couldn’t raise it to him. He was proud. It would hurt him terribly to confront any of this.
But there were other ways. It was time to strike. “Happy Anniversary, dear,” Eloise said, handing the previously concealed envelope to Cyrus.
Cyrus’s face scrunched up as he stared at the envelope in mock discomfort. “I’m afraid you caught me unawares,” he said.
“Oh, just open the envelope,” Frank said to Leah’s laughter.
“Hmm,” Cyrus responded, “now I’m as curious as I am suspicious. Why do I feel like I’m the only one at the table who doesn’t know what’s coming?”
He opened the envelope and removed a brochure announcing a one-week writers’ retreat named Thriller Jubilee to be hosted by TITO, The International Thrillers Organization, at Hotel Marisol on the “sun-bathed” island of Punta Maya off the coast of Spain. “What, pray tell, is this?” Cyrus asked.
“We’re all going, the four of us, eight weeks from today,” Eloise answered. “It’s time for you to learn how to write one of those novels you’re always been starting but never finishing.”
“In eight weeks? That’s impossible. My desk is piled high with pending chores. Besides, I’m not a writer. And my fair skin will never hold up for a week in all that sunshine.”
“Nothing on your desk that won’t keep, and who says you’re not a writer?” Eloise countered. “And you’ll use sunscreen like everyone else. Only now you’ll be able to stalk imaginary murder and mayhem instead of the real-world murder and mayhem that always seems to stalk you, and how to write about judges and lawyers instead of being one. With all the stories in your head, you’ll soon be writing with the best of them. You just need a little encouragement.”
“Well, even if we assume I agree to this boondoggle, who or what the hell is TITO, and how do our dear friends Frank and Leah fit into all this?”
Leah had the answers to Cyrus’s last two questions. “When Eloise showed me the brochures, I figured if you were in, Cyrus, so were Frank and I. We haven’t had a vacation in I don’t know how long. Besides, we have to be there to witness and support your nascent writing adventure. And Eloise will need someone to keep her company when you’re off in all your classes. Knowing you as I do, I did a little research. TITO is headquartered in New York and is the largest and most prominent thriller organization in the world. It has a membership in excess of 10,000 thriller writers, readers, promoters, and fans. It’s the real deal.”
Frank looked at Cyrus and smiled. “No point fighting it, Judge. Sometimes you just have to let go and live to fight another day.”
“Well, maybe just to accommodate the three of you. If they offer singing and dancing classes as well, I can cover my entire bucket list in one fell swoop.” Eloise ignored his attempted diversions. “It’s settled then,” she said to Cyrus victoriously. I’m so looking forward to you not getting into trouble for a change. After all, what could possibly go wrong at a writers’ conference?”
“WRITING IS JUST A thin version of doing,” Brooks said to himself, as they shared a scoop of raspberry sorbet delivered to their table with four spoons. How much harm could two small bites do to my waistline? Truth be told, genuinely learning how to write a credible novel would probably be great fun, especially if anyone might actually want to read it. Besides, he knew, how could he possibly say no to Eloise after she went to all of this trouble and got her hopes up about taking me in this safer direction? “Safer?” Pshaw! Just so long as everyone knows I’m only doing this for Eloise and not for myself.
CHAPTER 2
One Week Before
“I’M BACK,” I SAID aloud, to no one in particular. That made perfectly good sense of course—to no one in particular—because there was no one else there. Besides me. There never is anyone else there. Besides me.
“Well, let’s see now what we have here, as if I don’t know,” still speaking aloud to no one in particular, while carefully removing the contents of the grocery bag and neatly lining up each item on the table: one small orange, one large watermelon, one vial of saline solution—“just saline solution for now,” again out loud, to what end it was unclear—and, finally, one sealed package of six disposable syringes. “Amazing.” The vial and syringes did not require a doctor’s prescription. Only my fake driver’s license. The pharmacist didn’t seem the least bit interested.
“Practice, practice, practice.” What a busy little beaver I am. Because we all know that practice makes perfect, doesn’t it? Don’t you see?
CHAPTER 3
Five Days Before
JAMES LLEWELLYN, THE HEAD of Gander House Publishers, one of the “big five” publishing houses, was sitting at his regular breakfast spot across the street from his midtown Manhattan headquarter offices, all five floors of them. He was on his second cup of coffee when her lips brushed his cheek.
Those lips belonged to Arianna Simpson, owner of book publicist extraordinaire Simpson Public Relations (SPR). She wore dark red lipstick, matching the color of her well-fitted Chanel outfit. Llewellyn couldn’t decide which he liked more, her eye-catching, short, jet-black modern haircut or her provocative, musky perfume. She slipped into the seat opposite him, asking the waiter for a cup of hot water and lemon.
“And you, Mr. Llewellyn, your usual: a half grapefruit, two eggs over easy, bacon well done, and an order of wheat toast?” the waiter asked.
He nodded affirmatively, turned to Simpson and said, “That’s it, lemon-flavored water? Didn’t your mother impress upon you that breakfast is the most important meal of the day?”
“She also taught me that a girl has to watch her figure. I’m not lucky like you, tall and thin with your curly salt and pepper locks. Dressed to the nines in your navy three-piece pinstripe suit, you look almost good enough to eat.”
“Ooh, I like your thinking.”
“I said ‘almost.’”
“Tease.”
Married, but not to each other, Llewellyn and Simpson knew each other well. Publicly, they shared a number of author clients, published by Gander House and publicized by SPR. Privately, on occasion, when the opportunity presented itself, they also shared the same bed.
In high demand, they often also spoke at the same posh writing conferences, including Thriller Jubilee (TJ), hosted on Punta Maya every year by TITO. They were each members of TITO’s board of directors.
“When’s your flight to Punta Maya?” Llewellyn asked Simpson.
“Monday. My panel presentation’s not until Tuesday. I have a lot on my table here. I can barely afford the time I’m giving it, but that’s where I land new clients. When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow. I have to spend a couple of days in our London offices first. I get into Punta Maya Sunday evening.”
“‘Have to’? Poor baby. I’ve tried to put together a London office for SPR. Unfortunately, the economics just don’t pencil.”
“Too bad. Wouldn’t that be nice for us.”
Simpson didn’t take the bait. “This is your meeting, Jim. What’s on your mind? Besides, that is, what’s always on your mind.”
“Wanted to give you a heads-up. Jonathan’s not happy. Thinks he’s not getting what he should for the five thousand a month he’s paying you.”
“Jonathan” was Jonathan Connor. Author of three New York Times bestsellers over the past three years. But none of them number one. Connor thought each should have made num
ber one.
“What the hell does he expect?” Simpson asked. “The asshole’s never satisfied. I’ve got each of his last three novels on the Times bestseller list.”
“You mean we’ve got each of his last three novels on the bestseller list.”
“Is Connor unhappy with you too?” Simpson asked.
“Not that I know of. But there’s a difference. I pay him a pretty hefty guaranteed advance on his book sales. You charge him a pretty hefty monthly retainer fee. Every month. He thinks he should be receiving more media coverage than he is.”
“Connor never owns it. It’s always the other guy’s fault. What he tells me is that it’s your fault. If you didn’t set the price on his books so high, he’d have far more sales and he would be number one.”
“Yeah. Maybe. But if we hadn’t been required to pay him such a whopping advance, we could afford to set his book prices lower. Our margins on him are too damn thin as it is. Maybe you should try to get him some more publicity.”
“It’s not us. We are trying. We’re doing all the right things for him. Not to mention that I have other clients to tend to as well. Connor’s just not that appealing to the media. His interviews are just so damn boring. Frankly, so’s his writing. He’s fucking lucky to be where he’s at.”
“I agree,” Llewellyn said. “But we have a lot invested in him. Too much. Way too much. Lasko interested two other houses in Connor and was able to force us into a bidding war on his latest novel. We had to pay way too much to keep him in our catalog. I’m still pissed at her about that.”
“C’mon, you have no one to blame but yourself,” Simpson said. “You should have tied Connor down on a three-book deal at the time of his first novel when you had the chance. When you were in the driver’s seat rather than his agent.”
“You’re probably right. The problem was we weren’t sure back then that he wasn’t just a one-trick pony, a one-and-done. But, hey, it is what it is. Too late for us to cry about it now. What we do need to do is to have lunch with Connor at TJ, blow some smoke up his ass, calm him down, make him feel better, make him feel loved.”
“And also make him lower his sights. Enlighten him on today’s business realities,” Simpson added. “Unless his writing and speaking skills improve considerably, this schmuck is headed for a crash. Big time.”
GENEVIEVE LASKO SAT THERE, staring ahead at the rubble in front of her, shaking her head. Her partner-sized stainless steel and glass desk—piled high with stacks of paper, too many in number to count and each of them one to two feet high—sat in front of her, painfully reminding her of all she had on her plate.
Suddenly, her junior partner, Allison Remy, stumbled awkwardly into Lasko’s office with still more piles of papers precariously balanced across her hands and forearms. “Geez, Genevieve, I’m sorry for not knocking. Aside from the fact that I didn’t have a free hand, I also didn’t expect to see you in this early.”
“No problem, Allie, don’t sweat it. Besides, misery loves company.”
“I’m guessing all those stacks may have something to do with your glum chum look. And here I come along making things worse. When are you finally going to start delegating more of that shit? Pardon my language.”
Lasko ignored the not so subtle reminder that her life would be a lot more manageable if she would start delegating more of her work to Allie and their two other partners. “It’s not just what you see sitting here. I have to leave for Punta Maya in just a couple of days. I’m so drowning here, and I haven’t even started on all I have to do at TJ.”
Lasko’s presence every year at TJ was a must. Like all literary agents, she and her partners were compensated on a contingent fee basis. If they invested their time and money in a writer they couldn’t sell to one of the traditional publishing houses, they didn’t make a dime. In contrast to the thousands of individual query submissions they reviewed every year on an individual basis to come up with one or two possible new clients on whom to gamble, a highly visible presence at established writing conferences like TJ offered a far more efficient opportunity to meet and evaluate promising new talent in person. In one week, Lasko typically generated more worthwhile new clients than she did throughout the rest of the year.
Lasko chaired one of the most popular panel presentations at TJ every year: “What Literary Agents Want to See in an Effective Query Letter Submission Requesting Agency Representation.” Several hundred rapt writers—hungry, if not desperate, for an agent to “rep” them—hung on Lasko’s every word. And with good reason: in the literary world, Lasko’s gatekeeper influence between writer hopefuls and the publishing houses was unparalleled. Year in and year out, no literary agent negotiated more successful deals between authors and publishing houses than she and her agency, Lasko Partners Literary Agency. But with that distinction came a price: the pressure of remaining atop the heap.
Lasko also participated every year in TJ’s “Pitch Gala,” a one-afternoon-long agent querying adventure, during which authors hungry to secure an agent lined up in front of approximately fifty literary agents reportedly looking for fresh blood in a large ballroom. While some agents were just there to be seen and to maintain their image, a three-minutes, in-person speed date-style presentation of their wares to those who truly were hungry for qualified new writers offered far better odds than an impersonal one-minute possible review of a written query submission. When a typographical error, a misspelled word, a poorly crafted sentence, the smallest deviation from the agent’s website-posted submission requirements, or the absence of the coveted “Invited to Submit at Pitch Gala” often meant sudden death. The lines in front of Lasko were always the longest because of her known reputation, that she was always genuinely on the prowl for gifted new stars and knew how to land deals with the publishing houses.
This year, for the first time, Lasko was also invited to participate in TJ’s Virtuoso program, a day-long writing class—actually ten such day-long classes—held the day before TJ’s official opening date for all other TJ participants. In each class, a New York Times bestselling author is paired with ten pre-qualified, top-notch mentees to review 2,500 word samples submitted by each mentee. This year, TITO’s board decided to select a literary agent as one of the mentors. That honor—and the opportunity to identify and corral a handful of top new writers—was bestowed on Lasko, ostensibly because of her standing as a top literary agent. She knew it didn’t hurt that she also was a member of TITO’s board and an active TJ speaker and Pitch Gala participant every year.
“By the way,” Allie said to Lasko, “what’s your take on those samples? Are your mentees showing as much promise as you hoped? And justifying the time you’re spending on Virtuoso?”
Lasko pointed to the stack of samples in front of her, stifled an involuntary yawn, and grimaced. “Not based on my preliminary reviews. Hopefully, they’ll look better when I give them a closer look on my flight. This may turn out to be just some more wasted time. Still, how could I turn down the chance to be a Virtuoso mentor?”
Just then, Lasko’s interior line buzzed. “What’s up, Heidi?” she said to her secretary.
“Jonathan Connor on line one,” Heidi replied.
“Right, just what I need, Jonathan frigging pain in the ass Connor. Tell him I’m tied up and can’t possibly break away right now. Try to soften the blow by telling him I said we’ll get together on Punta Maya.” Or not.
JONATHAN CONNOR CLICKED OFF his mobile phone. And exploded! “Ms. Lasko’s tied up and can’t be interrupted right now,” he mimicked Lasko’s secretary. “She said to tell you she’d get together with you at Thriller Jubilee.”
Connor sat all alone in his home office, staring at the walls. “If she was so ‘tied up’ and ‘couldn’t possibly be interrupted,’” he fumed and shouted out loud to no one but those walls, “how was her secretary able to speak with her and relay Lasko’s message to me? Well, Ms. Lasko can bet her sweet ass that ‘we’ll get together’ on Punta Maya, a get together she won’t soon
forget!”
CHAPTER 4
Three Days Before
LISA CATE LEWIS, PROGRAM director of Thriller Jubilee, boarded the first leg of the two flights that would take her from JFK in New York to the sun-drenched island of Punta Maya, eleven miles off the coast of Spain. On either side of the ninety-minute layover in Barcelona to clear Spanish customs and immigration, her total flying time would be approximately eight hours, a little more than seven hours on the Trans-Atlantic jumbo jet into Barcelona and close to another hour aboard the small puddle-jumper that would carry her to her ultimate destination.
Every summer for as long as Lewis could remember, Hotel Marisol, the crown jewel and economic epicenter of Punta Maya, played host to Thriller Jubilee.
After nine successive years of volunteer service as TJ’s program director, Lewis continued to enjoy her annual sojourn to Hotel Marisol. What was not to like? Great climes, where the dress code favored comfortable shorts and tee-shirts, a chance to shine and be appreciated for what she brought to TJ, and the opportunity to network and develop her own budding writing career, which was advancing at a record clip, thanks in large measure to her standing in the TITO community and the many perks that came with that, including, for example, her private access to and use of TITO’s extensive membership email list. Word of mouth was the number one factor in book sales and email lists were the single most significant word of mouth vehicle.
Lewis was flying high, figuratively and literally.
Several hours into her cross-atlantic flight, Lewis suddenly found her first-class cabin a bit chilly. She zipped up the jacket of her Prada sweatsuit. In anticipation of the approaching layover, she pulled the makeup kit out of her carry-on, studied the reflection in her compact mirror, released her ponytail of long wavy blonde hair, and nodded in approval. Never know who I might bump into in the lounge.
JK's Code (Brooks/Lotello Thriller Book 4) Page 36
