The three of them had set a trap in the hopes of outfoxing the fox. Lotello had told Brooks he was certain their predator was using spyware on his victims’ smartphones to keep tabs on where and when to strike. Brooks found it astonishing that such spyware existed, but he and Lotello had nevertheless been using the anonymous smartphones the hotel had provided to them to communicate securely just in case.
The killer had already made a brazen attempt on the Brookses. It was foreseeable that he would try to take down Lotello as well if the opportunity presented itself. Sitting in the infirmary, it occurred to Brooks that if he and Lotello instead now sent some text messages back and forth to one another on their original smartphones, they might be able to lull the perpetrator out of hiding in pursuit of Lotello. Ramirez had assured them he would follow Lotello and intercept the killer before any actual threat to Lotello.
“What in the hell went wrong?” Brooks asked Ramirez.
Ramirez was cowed by Brooks’s stare. “I knew, of course, where Señor Lotello was going. My assigned security officer was following right behind him.”
“Then I have to ask you again because you haven’t answered my question, what went wrong? Why was Lotello at risk? How was the killer able to sneak up on Lotello undetected?”
Ramirez looked down at this feet, as if he might somehow find the answer on the floor. “You Americans have a saying, ‘the best laid plans of mice and men …’ Unfortunately, Robin Donnelly’s room happens to be adjacent to a laundry room. The killer hid there and attacked Señor Lotello before my man could intervene.”
“And how in the world did the assailant possibly manage to escape as well?” Brooks asked.
“Our security officer scared the attacker off with his shouts, but he had to choose between chasing the killer and coming to Señor Lotello’s aid. Señor Lotello was down. Our security officer chose to go to Señor Lotello.”
“Can you describe the assailant?”
“I am afraid not. It happened muy rapido. The attacker was wearing a hooded jacket.”
Lotello interceded. “Judge, we are both frustrated and upset. I appreciate your concern, but the fact is if Diego’s man had not acted as quickly as he did, I’d probably be a lot worse off than I am, maybe even dead.”
“So, Detective, we are still looking for our unknown killer,” Brooks said, “but now you have a goose egg and a headache on top of everything else. I think you referred to this a moment ago as making ‘progress.’ I don’t know about you, but I certainly would not call that progress.”
As usual, Brooks had the last word.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Day Three, 6:15 p.m.
BROOKS STOOD OFF TO the side of the room observing all of the goings on; another evening at Thriller Jubilee, another cocktail party. The large ballroom was swamped with people having a good time. Or perhaps simply pretending to have a good time. Just working the room, networking as it were.
He might enjoy writing a few novels, but he wasn’t sure he was cut out for all of this socializing and traipsing around the country from one bookstore to the next trying to convince people to buy his books, the ones he had yet to write. And the key word was trying. Trying to persuade anyone that actually showed up to buy a copy of one of those books he had yet to spend the hundreds of hours it would take to write, edit, rewrite, and proofread.
His and Eloise’s love of bookstores was the adventure of looking for worthwhile books written by others. He didn’t think he could ever handle the business of writing, the seemingly endless need to market, brazenly or otherwise. Maybe the branded authors such as Ryan Hart didn’t have to prostitute themselves, but they were apparently the rarest of exceptions. And even those few weren’t entirely exempt. Even they had to show up when and where their publishers dictated.
Speaking of Hart, there he was, drink in hand, zeroing in on Brooks.
“Et tu, Mr. Hart?” Brooks said.
“I’m afraid you lost me, Judge,” Hart answered.
“Forgive me, Mr. Hart, I was just daydreaming out loud, I’m afraid.”
Hart looked at Brooks quizzically. “No apologies necessary,” he added. “However, I was wondering if I might ask you a question?”
At just that moment, Brooks was distracted by the oddity of two images out of the corner of his eye, Connor and Lonergan enjoying each other’s company, in close proximity to Lotello engaged in conversation with Robin Donnelly. “Say again, please,” Brooks said to Hart.
“A question for you,” Hart repeated. “I have a question for you. If I may?”
“Yes, of course.” Hart had Brooks’s undivided attention.
“This afternoon, when we were speaking, you remarked that the motive for presumably killing Lasko, Llewellyn, and Simpson might have been something unrelated to the three of them. We were interrupted and you weren’t able to finish your thought. Would you please mind doing so now?”
“Certainly, but I don’t think I meant to say ‘unrelated.’ Our assumption has been that there is an assailant among us who has a grudge against Lasko, Llewellyn, and Simpson. For this reason, we have been looking for someone who has had unpleasant dealings with the three of them and wanted to execute some personal vendetta, some personal form of …” Brooks hesitated. “Payback. Some personal form of payback. However, even were that the case, it may be that the culprit’s motive is broader—to also bring about the downfall of TITO, all the while extracting some personal revenge against our three missing individuals as well. The disappearance of Enright today might give credence to this different or additional motive. Unless this was simply for some collateral purpose, such as our killer now setting his sights on Detective Lotello and me.”
“You know, that thought had fleetingly occurred to me, but I hadn’t taken it seriously,” Hart responded. “You mean that our assailant might actually have it in for the literary world as a whole and not merely Lasko, Llewellyn, and Simpson? Killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. Or, in this case, more than just two birds.”
“Exactly. And may I now ask you a question, Mr. Hart? Are you aware of any reasons why Mr. Connor might have an assembly of anonymous syringes and vials in his room?”
Hart seemed caught off guard by the inquiry—and piece of information—about Connor. “Not at all,” he answered. He looked at Brooks as if he were now expecting Brooks to share some further insight. “Do you?”
“I’m afraid not. But it is a discomforting development isn’t it, at least for the moment.”
It was now Hart’s turn to appear lost in thought. “Are you and Detective Lotello still available to meet with the board at eight o’clock this evening?”
Brooks tipped his head affirmatively. “We are. Perhaps we’ll have some further information by then.”
“That would certainly be nice,” Hart said.
THAT BROOKS DOESN’T MISS a beat. Neither does Lotello. I can’t believe he found those syringes and vials. Gonna be an interesting meeting with the board. Can’t wait to see how it plays out.
CONNOR INTRODUCED HIMSELF TO the hotel infirmary nurse. “Is the doctor-patient privilege recognized here on the island?” he asked her.
“Yes, of course,” she answered.
“So, if I ask you to refrigerate some medical supplies for me here in the infirmary, you can’t reveal anything about this to anyone without my consent?”
“What kind of supplies?” the nurse asked, a suspicious look on her face.
“Syringes and vials of medicine to be injected using the syringes,” Connor answered.
“May I ask if you have prescriptions for the drugs?”
“Yes, but the prescriptions are at the issuing pharmacy back at home, in the U.S.”
“That’s no problem, as long as you can give me the contact information for the pharmacy.”
Connor gave her the pharmacy information, opened his shoulder bag, and gently spilled out the syringes and vials onto the adjacent counter. The nurse counted out the number of syringes and
vials, put them in a container, and put the container into the nearby refrigerator. She filled out a receipt and gave it to Connor.
Connor slid it into his wallet. He thanked the nurse and left.
DONNELLY, DRINK IN HAND, cornered Lotello. “Good evening. Frank, isn’t it? I’m Robin Donnelly. We met briefly at the party last night. You and your friend, Cyrus, were in serious discussions with Lisa Lewis and a few of the other TITO hotshots.”
“Right. How are you, Robin?” Lotello asked. “Enjoying Thriller Jubilee?”
“Oh, yes. I always enjoy TJ. Come every year. I don’t think I’ve seen you and Cyrus here before. Are you newbie authors or just reader fans?” Donnelly inquired.
“Just fans, although Cyrus is thinking about taking a crack at writing a novel. How about you? Are you a novelist? Have I perhaps read anything you’ve written?”
“I am a novelist. But nothing published yet. This is a tough industry. You need an agent to land a deal with one of the larger publishing houses, but it’s difficult to get an agent these days. Seems as if they only want to represent writers who’ve already made it. And even if you manage to get a publishing house, you still need to hire a publicist to generate attention for whatever you’ve written.”
“That sounds like a catch-22,” Lotello said, “trying to land an agent. How do you pay the bills while you’re waiting for your ship to come in?”
“Oh, I do a little of this and a little of that. If you’re not a writer, Frank, what is it you do for a living, if I might ask?”
“Kind of like you, a little of this, a little of that,” Lotello mimicked. “Wife’s a lawyer, so that helps pay the bills. Even here, I’ve been able to meet some writers like you by doing some volunteer work for TITO, surveying writers to find out how they feel about the Thriller Jubilee program. How do you like the program?”
“Hmm, that’s a good question. Guess my feelings are mixed. I don’t come to TJ to learn how to write. I pretty much have a handle on that. I come here each year to network and to pitch my manuscripts at Pitch Gala. However, I am running out of patience. This might very well be my last year if I don’t seriously interest one or more of these so-called power brokers. Speaking of which, I see someone I’ve been trying to cozy up to. How ‘bout I catch ya later, Frank?”
“You bet, Robin. Good luck with it all. Hope to be reading you soon.”
FUN WATCHING LOTELLO TRYING to scope out another one of his suspects. Who did he think he was kidding? Did he really think he was all that subtle?
LONERGAN WAS PEOPLE GAZING when Connor walked up to her and said hello.
She returned his smile. “Hello, Jonathan.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret. My mother used to call me Jonathan. It kind of stuck. But my real friends call me ‘Jon.’”
“But all of the literature here at Thriller Jubilee and all of the lecturers and people here refer to you as ‘Jonathan.’”
“Two reasons for that. One, that’s the name on my birth certificate and, therefore, on all of my novels. Two, who said any of the people around here are my friends, my real friends?”
“Hmm. Okay, then … Jon.”
“What are you drinking? Can I freshen it up for you?” Connor asked her.
“Gin and tonic, but I’m content just nursing this one.”
“Cheap date,” he laughed. He motioned the waiter, handed him a drink ticket, and asked for a gin and tonic. “I mentioned this afternoon that we might be able to help each other out. I’ve been mentoring an unestablished writer. She hasn’t had any success yet, but she writes well. I think she needs a website and some PR help. If you can do right by her, I might then ask you to redo my website. If that turns out well, I can probably steer a handful of additional authors your way.”
“Wow, that would be wonderful. I’d be happy to take a look at your friend’s work and offer some suggestions. What’s her name? Maybe I’ve read some of her work. If not, I certainly could. That would help me fashion some ideas for an effective website.”
“I doubt that you’ve read her—yet—but you will. Her name’s Wynonna Grey.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Day Three, 7:45 p.m.
AS BROOKS AND LOTELLO made their way to the board’s suite, Lotello described his visit with Donnelly at the cocktail party: “Weird duck. Seems to love all things Donnelly. However, I went to Amazon and couldn’t find any books under the name Robin Donnelly. Not sure what to make of that.”
“Maybe Donnelly writes under an alias or a pseudonym,” Brooks said. “I gather that lots of authors do that, although I’m not sure why. Meanwhile, we’ve now preliminarily vetted all five names on our short list. Although there’s still Connor and his needles and mysterious vials. I was chatting with Hart the same time I saw you talking to Donnelly. Hart claims to have no idea why Connor would have any syringes and vials in his room. So where does that leave us? What are we going to say to the board, particularly assuming Connor will be right there in the room?”
“My instincts are that Donnelly and Connor are our only two serious candidates at this point,” Lotello said. “I really don’t have anything tangible in terms of Donnelly, just kind of a feeling. We do have to confront Connor about his stash, but as a matter of courtesy and respect for his privacy, I do think we should try, if at all possible, to give him a chance to explain himself in private first. He may just be a druggie; it doesn’t feel right to blindside him on this in front of the board. We can expand our investigation to our longer lists of suspects, but we’re running out of time. Frankly, my greater concern is whether the board is going to reconsider its decision not to be forthcoming. They’re absolutely playing with dynamite. If any other TJ participant not a TITO insider goes missing, TITO will be toast. With the apparent disappearance of Enright, it may already be toast.”
Brooks agreed. “We have nothing else meaningful to report. I’ll emphasize to the directors—again—the risk you and I fear they’re taking. Whether they change their behavior is up to them.”
BROOKS AND LOTELLO WERE sitting at the conference table. Everyone was present and accounted for. That is, except for Lasko, Lewellyn, and Simpson. And one more who also was absent: Jonathan Connor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Day Three, 8:15 p.m.
BROOKS FOUND IT ODD that Connor would not be at this meeting. He listened as Lewis reported that there was no answer in Connor’s room or on his cell phone.
“Let’s give him fifteen minutes more to arrive,” Hart suggested.
Brooks reflected on Lotello’s sense of fairness, not to expose the syringes and vials found in Connor’s room without first at least giving him a chance to explain himself in private. However, given the urgency confronting TITO, if not all of the Thriller Jubilee participants, he concluded that neither Connor, nor his own sense of civility, could be obliged any longer. That didn’t mean he had to like it. Nor did it escape Brooks that Connor’s failure to attend could simply mean that he had become the assailant’s next victim. If that is the unfortunate explanation, our discourtesy to Connor will be the least of his problems!
“Ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to take advantage of Mr. Connor’s absence to raise a rather delicate issue,” Brooks began, fully aware that their enemy might be listening in on every word about to be spoken—not only by him, but also by everyone else visibly present.
Brooks’s ominous beginning no doubt commanded the attention of everyone in the room, including any outwardly uninvited guest. He thus chose what he was about to say with particular care. “As you all know, Detective Lotello has been investigating the five writers present at Thriller Jubilee who were previously declined representation by each of Ms. Lasko, Mr. Llewellyn, and Ms. Simpson. What only Mr. Hart and Ms. Lewis among you have also known is that Detective Lotello and I regrettably were compelled to add a sixth name to our list: Mr. Connor.”
Aware of the likely reaction to his announcement, both by those he could see and any he could not, Broo
ks paused to allow the statement to sink in. Before he could resume, Remington interrupted aggressively: “You’ve been investigating one of our own officers and directors? One of our founders no less. How dare you?! Especially when the underlying rationale of rejection obviously has no application to Jonathan. He was represented—not rejected—by Genevieve, Jim, and Arianna, for God’s sake.” Remington picked at his upper lip.
A veteran of countless courtroom battles, Brooks was not easily intimidated, especially by one who he assumed was projecting and actually defending his own honor. Not yet having heard why he and Lotello had been investigating Connor, Remington no doubt believed they must have been investigating him, too, and each of the other officers and directors as well. “Precisely, Mr. Remington,” Brooks continued. “While the rejection rationale, as you so aptly put it, does not apply to Mr. Connor, indeed the coincidence of his relationship with Ms. Lasko, Mr. Llewellyn, and Ms. Simpson does. And, it is well that we did not overlook this alternative rationale.
“As a result of Detective Lotello’s thoroughness, he found a horde of syringes and vials of unlabeled clear liquid hidden in the rear of the bar refrigerator in Mr. Connor’s room, behind the routine hotel goods contained therein. Does anyone here have any idea what those items might be, or why Mr. Connor would have them in his possession?”
Chaos turned to silence. No one said a word. Except—again—for Remington, whose outrage continued unabated. “Have you not had the decency to first inquire of Jonathan about this?”
“We have not, but not for lack of trying,” Brooks replied. “We wanted to. However, as you know, time is of the essence, and the occasion has simply not presented itself, in spite of our best efforts. We had hoped to take Mr. Connor aside this evening before we got underway, but as you can see he is not here.
“There are but three possible explanations for this. One, Mr. Connor may have blood on his hands. Forgive my theatrics. Two, Mr. Connor may now have joined the list of our unidentified assailant’s victims. Three, Mr. Connor may simply have found something more important to do this evening than attending our meeting. No matter the explanation, Detective Lotello and I felt obligated to proceed without further delay.”
Brooks-Lotello Collection Page 85
