A Dangerous Fiction (19 page)

Jean-Paul bent his head toward mine. My eyes were closed, but I felt his breath on my face.

Mingus growled.

I
sat in Hugo's office, which I was determined to colonize, and tried to read the texting novel. Jumping into someone else's story is usually a surefire way to escape my own, but not today. When I realized I had read the same page three times, I put the manuscript away. I kept thinking about Jean-Paul, the way his body felt against mine, and my own internal meltdown. Over the years since Hugo died, quite a few men had tried their luck. Some were attractive, yet I never felt even a twinge of answering desire. I'd thought that part of my life was buried with Hugo. Jean-Paul's move took me by surprise but shouldn't have. Max had warned me, and Molly, too, yet I blundered on, blinders firmly attached. If I'd seen this thing coming, I could have averted it. But I only see what I want to see.

Even when I tore my thoughts away from Jean-Paul, they found no safe landing place. The home strip, strafed by Teddy's revelations, had been torn to pieces. Though I sat in a comfortable cage in a fortress high above the city, I felt assailed on all sides.

Searching for a distraction, I turned to the package the doorman had sent up. It was wrapped in brown paper, addressed in block letters to “Jo Donovan”; no address, no stamp, and no return address. I tore off the paper and found a standard-size manuscript box with an envelope taped to the lid, addressed to me. I opened it up and read:

My dear Jo,

The recent death of Ms. Rowena Blair was tragic on many levels. While not a great writer, I'm sure she was a fine person and a lucrative client. I'm very sorry for your loss.

The good news is, I'm here to make it up to you.

You need a major writer to take the place of Ms. Rowena Blair. I need a top agent to represent my work—and not just any top agent, as you'll understand once you read the enclosed. We each have what the other needs.

I've taken the liberty of delivering my manuscript to your home, because when I followed the conventional submission routine, my work was summarily and, I'm sorry to say, rudely rejected by someone on your staff. You never had the chance to read the novel that you yourself inspired. I know you'll love it, Jo. I just wish I could watch your face as you read it, but that will come in time. For now I must content myself with imagining it. I told you the first time we met: just as you were Hugo's muse, so shall you be mine.

Take your time; read carefully. I will call you in a few days, and we'll make plans to meet. I look forward to a long, cozy chat. Until then, my dear Jo, happy reading.

Your devoted,

Sam Spade

•   •   •

“What did you touch?” Tommy Cullen asked.

I felt a Pavlovian twinge of dread, for when I was a child, those words often preceded a beating. “Nothing,” I said, though the evidence was right between us on the desk. “Just the wrapping paper when I tore it, and the letter.”

“Was the envelope sealed?”

“No, the flap was tucked under.”

“Did you open the manuscript?”

“I wanted to, but I didn't.”

“You
wanted
to? After reading that?” He jerked his head toward the letter, now encased in a plastic bag as if it were a body part.

“I have to read it,” I said. “You need to get the manuscript back to me as soon as you're done with it.”

“You really want to let this guy into your head?”

“I want to get into his. People reveal themselves in their writing. I'm a good reader.”

“Reveal themselves how? I thought he writes fiction.”

Teddy Pendragon's quote came back to me then, and it seemed apt, though I hadn't much liked it at the time. “‘The lies we tell are part of the truth we live.'”

Tommy didn't answer at once, but studied my face. I'd called him the moment I'd finished reading the letter, and fifteen minutes later he'd been at my door, dressed not in a suit this time, but jeans and a forest-green sweater, the color of his eyes. Maybe he was off duty; I'd called his cell. Max would disapprove. But how could I get through this without trusting the people I felt I could trust?

“Look, Jo,” Tommy said, “if we don't catch this guy before he contacts you, I'm going to need you to talk to him, set up an appointment. You think you could do that?”

“I've got to read the manuscript first. I'll need to say something about it.”

“Wouldn't ‘I love it' suffice?”

I smiled. “It never does. They always need to know why.”

“Fine; I'll see you get a copy, if not the original. Now, tell me again how the manuscript reached you.”

“Jean-Paul got it from the doorman. I don't know who Ray got it from. You should ask him.”

“I talked to him before I came up. He said a teenage Latino kid dropped it off. Not a regular courier; no paperwork. We're looking, but it's probably just some random kid paid to deliver it. Why was Jean-Paul here?”

“I was working at home today. He brought me a manuscript from the office.”

“Did you ask him to do that?”

“I told Lorna to send it. Jean-Paul volunteered. What's your point? Sam Spade has crawled out of the woodwork again, still obsessed. He practically admits killing Rowena; at least, he gives us his motive on a platter.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Clearing the decks? Making room for the next big thing?”

“Exactly. It's him; it was always him.” The corollary was that it wasn't anyone else, which was very good news indeed and a great weight off my heart. Yet my detective friend seemed curiously unconvinced.

“Maybe. Until we know for sure, I'm interested in everyone who's interested in you, including Pretty Boy.”

“Pretty Boy,” I scoffed. “You've been watching too many old gangster movies.”

“Is it mutual, the attraction? Is Jean-Paul your lover?”

I stared at him but couldn't penetrate the surface. Whatever became of the old exuberant Tommy, who wore his heart on his face?

“No,” I said coolly. “Is this still business, Tommy?”

His voice was colder yet. “What else would it be? Jean-Paul's obviously smitten. If there's a relationship, we need to know.”

“We have a relationship. It's called boss-employee.” I glanced at Mingus as I said this.
Thank God dogs can't talk
. I owed this one a big debt. That growl had worked as well as a bucket of cold water, on me at least. We'd jumped apart like guilty teenagers. “Put him away,” Jean-Paul had pleaded, but by then my fit of madness had passed. I gave the kid a lecture on appropriate behavior and sent him away, praying he didn't know how close he'd come—how close
I'd
come to doing something cruel and stupid. I owed Gordon Hayes more than he'd ever know. He said the dog could save me; I'd just never imagined how.

“No one would blame you,” Tommy said. “He's a good-looking kid.”

“
‘Kid'
being the operative word. If I wanted someone, it wouldn't be a boy.” I held his eyes as I said this. Tommy started to answer and thought better of it.
What am I doing?
I wondered in the sudden quiet.
Flirting while Rome burns? Jean-Paul had loosed something in me, which maybe wasn't such a bad thing in itself, but Tommy was a hopeless case.
Once bitten, twice shy,
he'd said.
Ancient history.
Those bridges were burnt.

“An unrequited lover, then,” he said. “Our favorite kind.”

“Where are you getting this? Surely not Jean-Paul.”

Tommy snorted. “According to him, he sees you purely as a mentor, which I guess is why he can't take his eyes off you. When I asked you to imagine a motive for everyone in your office, remember what you came up with for Jean-Paul?”

“That was before Rowena died. I wouldn't have played your stupid game after.”

“You said he was secretly in love with you and wanted to play the rescuer.”

“I also said Lorna was an anarchist out to kill all bosses. Did you believe that, too?”

He smacked his forehead. “You are such a fucking Pollyanna!”

“
You're
such a cynic. You've changed, you know. You used to see the best in people. Now you see their worst potential.”

“Comes with the territory. You've changed too.”

“How?” I asked.

“Stronger,” he said, studying me with that sleepy-eyed, hooded look that could fool you into thinking he wasn't paying attention. “Sadder.”

•   •   •

Even though the police hadn't yet captured or even identified Sam Spade, his reappearance buoyed the spirits of everyone in the office. There were still unanswered questions, as Max was at pains to point out. We had no idea how the stalker had accessed my clients' submissions histories in the first cyber-attack, or how he'd put together the distribution list for the second, or how he'd persuaded Rowena to open her door. Nevertheless, my staff took his return the same way I did: as a sign that we could stop looking askance at one another and focus our anger on the outsider.

Fate, or the goodwill of my publishing colleagues, seemed determined to support us with daily infusions of good news. Max's novel clung tenaciously to the bestseller list, while Rowena's last novel reoccupied the top spot. The brilliant Sikha Mehruta, whom I'd met in Santa Fe, called to ask if I would take her on, as her current agent was retiring. I said I'd be proud to represent her, but felt obliged to ask if she'd heard about the agency's troubles; Sikha said she had and it didn't matter.

We sold British rights to dear old Alice Duckworth's novel on the same day our film subagent optioned rights to a small but prestigious studio. Keyshawn Grimes's first novel was tapped by one of the major bookstore chains for its “New Voices” program, which meant a larger print run and guaranteed front-of-the-store placement. And the best news of all: an offer for Edwina Lavelle's Haitian-American first novel. A small but respectable Chicago publisher offered an advance of $3,000, which Edwina would have accepted in a heartbeat if I'd told her about it; I managed to get it up to $5,000 before the publisher dug in his heels. Fifteen percent of $5,000 was petty cash, but it wasn't about the money. For Edwina, the offer would be a life-changing validation.

I summoned Jean-Paul into my office before calling Edwina on speakerphone. She had to hear the news from me, or she might have suspected another hoax, but I wanted my assistant, who'd done all the work, to share in the joy of telling her. Her reaction was everything I could have hoped for. Jean-Paul was beaming by the time I hung up.

“I feel like I should be handing out cigars,” he said, and I laughed. There'd been no repetition of Jean-Paul's declaration in my apartment. If anything, he seemed anxious to reestablish our old footing—afraid, perhaps, that I'd fire him after all. It suited me, too, to pretend the incident never happened; but I did not allow myself to forget it. I was done playing ostrich.

Harriet reacted to the news about Sam Spade by abandoning the unnatural deference she'd assumed ever since the phony press release came out. I took it as a sign of progress when she started disagreeing with me again. At our monthly submissions meeting, I announced that, after reading the Vigne manuscript,
I Luv U Baby, but WTF?,
I agreed with Chloe and Jean-Paul. The novel was clever, well-written, and potentially salable. It needed work, but if the author was amenable to that, I was willing to take it on. Chloe beamed, and Jean-Paul reached across the table to high-five her, but Harriet scowled. “At least make her change that repulsive title,” she grumbled.

Our assistants rolled their eyes at this but refrained from answering. The two of them seemed to have settled their differences; at least they'd quit sniping at each other, and Chloe was her perky self again. Only Lorna, of all my staff, seemed untouched by the general zeitgeist. She remained on high alert, bristling each time the door buzzer sounded, fussing needlessly over me. This wasn't surprising. Lorna, though bright enough, was a stolid, deliberate soul, as slow to change course as an ocean liner. But it was worrisome, because she answered the phones. When Sam Spade called, it would be Lorna's job to keep him on the line as long as possible before passing him on to me. The longer we kept him, Tommy had stressed, the better their chances of tracing the call. Lorna would have to be friendly and encouraging, apologetic for the delay but insistent that he hold on because I really, really wanted to talk to him. Was she up to it? She insisted she was, but I had my doubts. With Lorna, what you see is what you get, and charm was not among her many estimable qualities. Lying was, though; she did it every day on my behalf. All I could do was wait and hope for the best.

Personally, I was as prepared as I could be for that call. True to his word, Tommy had sent over a copy of Sam Spade's manuscript, entitled
The Hand-Me-Down Muse
. It was the same story he'd pitched in Santa Fe. A poor but brilliant painter soars to greatness when the widow of a famous painter becomes his muse and lover. It was the worst sort of wish-fulfillment crap, but as awful as the story was, the style was even worse, full of info dumps, head-hopping, and cringe-making sex scenes. Manuscripts like these are the reason agents need assistants and the reason assistants burn out so quickly: for just as great writing elevates the soul, so does bad writing depress it.

I'd forced myself to finish, skimming the last few chapters, looking for something to praise if I actually had to talk to this sicko. There was nothing. I would have to fall back on empty adjectives like “heartfelt,” always useful because it was usually true; writers can pour as much of themselves into bad books as good ones.

Tommy called a few days after sending the manuscript. “What can you tell me about this mope?” he asked, assuming correctly that I'd read the novel.

“The main character's what we call a Mary Sue: an idealized projection of the author, perfect in every way. He's a brilliant artist and an incredible stud. Even his poverty is presented as confirmation of his artistic purity. I would expect the author to be the opposite of his character. He's not an artist. He has a boring, routine sort of job, which is OK with him because he knows his true vocation is writing, and pretty soon the world will discover him and he'll be able to quit the grind. He's probably college educated, not stupid but not half as smart as he thinks he is. He has zero writing talent: no ear, no taste. Also, my guess is he's impotent, or at least unsuccessful with women.”