by Lee Child
“Tax revenue mostly.”
“Really? That’s funny. It was my understanding that only department of revenue agents had jurisdiction to make inquiries like that. In fact, I researched a similar issue for one of our books. We had Jacob Sharpe following the money—you know, to find the ultimate bad guy. The police department couldn’t help him. He had to go to revenue.”
It was an oops moment, and Malloy realized he should have known better. Of course, the co-author would know all about police and law enforcement procedures.
“Unless what you’re really saying is that you—or somebody—think that John’s death might not have been an illness at all. That it was intentional … But how could it be?”
Malloy didn’t want to give away his theory about the crooked doctor. He said, “Let’s say I know you’re a diabetic and if you don’t get your insulin you’ll die. I keep you from getting your injection, there’s an argument that I’m guilty of murder.”
“And you think somebody was with him at the time he had the heart attack and didn’t call for help?”
“Just speculating. Probably how you write books.”
“We’re a little more organized than that. We come up with a detailed plot, all the twists and turns. Then we execute it. We know exactly how the story will end.”
“So that’s how it works.”
“Yes.”
“I wondered.”
“But, see, the problem with what you’re suggesting is that it would be a coincidence for this ‘somebody,’ who wanted him dead, to be up there in Vermont at just the moment he had the attack … We could never get away with that.”
Malloy blinked. “You—?”
Reilly lifted an eyebrow. “If we put that into a book, our editor wouldn’t let us get away with it.”
“Still. Did he have any enemies?”
“No, none that I knew about. He was a good boss and a nice man. I can’t imagine anybody’d want him dead.”
“Well, I think that’s about it,” Malloy said. “I appreciate your time.”
Reilly rose and walked the detective to the door. “Didn’t you forget the most important question.”
“What’s that?”
“The question our editor would insist we add at the end of an interrogation in one of the books: Where was I at the time he died.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything.”
“I didn’t say you were. I’m just saying that a cop in a Jacob Sharpe novel would’ve asked the question.”
“Okay. Where were you?”
“I was here in New York. And the next question?”
Malloy knew what that was: “Can anyone verify that?”
“No. I was alone all day. Writing. Sorry, but reality’s a lot tougher than fiction, isn’t it, detective?”
* * *
“Yo, listen up,” the scrawny little man said. “This is interesting.”
“I’m listening.” Malloy tried look pleasant as he sat across from Lucius the snitch. Before they’d met, Ralph DeLeon reminded him how Malloy had dissed the man earlier. So he was struggling to be nice.
“I followed Reilly to a Starbucks. And she was there, Prescott’s wife.”
“Good job,” DeLeon said.
Malloy nodded. The whole reason to talk to the co-author had been to push the man into action, not to get facts. When people are forced to act, they often get careless. While Malloy had been at Reilly’s apartment, DeLeon was arranging with a magistrate for a pen register—a record of phone calls to and from the co-author’s phones. A register won’t give you the substance of the conversation, but it will tell you whom a subject calls and who’s calling him.
The instant Malloy left the condo, Reilly had dialed a number.
It was Jane Prescott’s. Ten minutes after that, Reilly slipped out the front door and headed down, moving quickly.
And tailed by Lucius, who had accompanied Malloy to Reilly’s apartment and waited outside.
The scrawny snitch was now reporting on that surveillance.
“Now that Mrs. Prescott, she’s pretty—”
Malloy broke in with “Hot, yeah, I know. Keep going.”
“What I was going to say,” the snitch offered snippily, “before I was interrupted, is that she’s pretty tough. Kind of scary, you ask me.”
“True,” Malloy conceded.
“Reilly starts out talking about you being there.” Lucius poked a bony finger at Malloy, which seemed like a dig, but he let it go—as DeLeon’s lifted eyebrow was instructing. “And you were suspecting something. And making up shit about some police procedures and estate tax or something. He thought it was pretty stupid.”
Lucius seemed to enjoy adding that. DeLeon, too, apparently.
“And the wife said, yeah, you were making up something at her place, too. About a memorial service or something. Which she didn’t believe. And then she said—get this. Are you ready?”
Malloy refrained from glaring at Lucius, whose psyche apparently was as fragile as fine porcelain. He smiled. “I’m ready.”
“The wife says that this whole problem was Reilly’s fucking fault for coming up with the same idea he’d used in a book—bribing a doctor to fake a death certificate.”
He and DeLeon exchanged glances.
Lucius continued, “And then she said, ‘Now we’re fucked. What’re you going to do about it?’ Meaning Reilly. Not you.” Another finger at Malloy. He sat back, smugly satisfied.
“Anything else?”
“No, that was it.”
“Good job,” Malloy said with a sarcastic flourish that only DeLeon noted. He slipped an envelope to the snitch.
After Lucius left, happy at last, Malloy said, “Pretty good case.”
“Pretty good, but not great,” the partner replied slowly. “There’s the motive issue.”
“Okay, she wants to kill her husband for the insurance or the estate and a younger man. But what’s Reilly’s motive? Killing Prescott’s killing his golden goose.”
“Oh, I got that covered.” Malloy pulled out his BlackBerry and scrolled down to find something he’d discovered earlier.
He showed it to DeLeon.
Book News.
The estate of the late J.B. Prescott has announced that his co-author, Aaron Reilly, has been selected to continue the author’s series featuring the popular Jacob Sharpe character. Prescott’s widow is presently negotiating a five-book contract with the author’s long-time publisher, Hutton-Fielding. Neither party is talking about money at this point but insiders believe the deal will involve an eight-figure advance.
Ralph DeLeon said, “Looks like we got ourselves a coupla perps.”
* * *
But not quite yet.
At 11:00 P.M. Jimmy Malloy was walking from the subway stop in Queens to his house six blocks away. He was thinking of how he was going to put the case together. There were still loose ends. The big problem was the cremation thing. Burning is a bitch, one instructor at the academy had told Malloy’s class. Fire gets rid of nearly all important evidence. Like bullet holes in the head.
What he’d have to do is get wiretaps, line up witnesses, track down the ambulance drivers, the doctor in Spain.
It was discouraging, but it was also just part of the job. He laughed to himself. It was like Jacob Sharpe and his “tradecraft,” he called it. Working your ass off to do your duty.
Just then he saw some motion a hundred feet head, a person. Something about the man’s mannerism, his body language set off Malloy’s cop radar.
A man had emerged from a car and was walking along the same street that Malloy was now on. After he’d happened to glance back at the detective, he’d stiffened and changed direction fast. Malloy was reminded of the killer in Vermont, disappearing quickly after spotting the deputy.
Who was this? The pro? Aaron Reilly?
And did he have the break-down rifle or another weapon with him? Malloy had to assume he did.
The detective crossed the street
and tried to guess where the man was. Somewhere in front of him, but where? Then he heard a dog bark, and another, and he understood the guy was cutting through people’s yards, back on the other side of the street.
The detective pressed ahead, scanning the area, looking for logical place where the man had vanished. He decided it had to be an alleyway that led to the right, between two commercial buildings, both of them empty and dark at this time of night.
As he came to the alley, Malloy pulled up. He didn’t immediately look around the corner. He’d been moving fast and breathing hard, probably scuffling his feet, too. The killer would have heard him approach.
Be smart, he told himself.
Don’t be a hero.
He pulled out his phone and began to dial 9-1-1.
Which is when he heard a snap behind him. A foot on a small branch or bit of crisp leaf.
And felt the muzzle of the gun prod his back as a gloved hand reached out and lifted the phone away.
We’re a little more organized than that. We come up with a detailed plot, all the twists and turns. Then we execute it. We know exactly how the story will end.
Well, Prescott’s wife and co-author had done just that: come up with a perfect plot. Maybe the man on the street a moment ago was Reilly, acting as bait. And it was the professional killer who’d come up behind him.
Maybe even Jane Reilly herself.
She’s pretty tough …
The detective had another thought. Maybe it was none of his suspects. Maybe the former agent, Frank Lester, had been bitter about being fired by his client and killed Prescott for revenge. Malloy had never followed up on that lead.
Hell, dying because he’d been careless.…
Then the hand tugged on his shoulder slightly, indicating he should turn around.
Malloy did, slowly.
He blinked as he looked up into the eyes of the man who’d snuck up behind him.
They’d never met, but the detective knew exactly what J.B. Prescott looked like. His face was on the back jackets of a dozen books in Malloy’s living room.
* * *
“Sorry for the scare,” Prescott explained, putting away the pen he’d used as a gun muzzle—an ironic touch that Malloy noted as his heart continued to slam in his chest.
The author continued, “I wanted to intercept you before you got home. But I didn’t think you’d get here so soon. I had to come up behind you and make you think I had a weapon so you didn’t call in a ten-thirteen. That would have been a disaster.”
“Intercept?” Malloy asked. “Why?”
They were sitting in the alleyway, on the stairs of a loading dock.
“I needed to talk to you,” Prescott said. The man had a large mane of gray hair and a matching moustache that bisected his lengthy face. He looked like an author ought to look.
“You could’ve called,” Malloy snapped.
“No, I couldn’t. If somebody had overheard or if you’d told anyone I was alive, my whole plot would’ve been ruined.”
“Okay, what the hell is going on?”
Prescott lowered his head to his hands and didn’t speak for a moment. Then he said, “For the past eighteen months I’ve been planning my own death. It took that long to find a doctor, an ambulance crew, a funeral director I could bribe. And find some remote land in Spain where we could buy a place and nobody would disturb me.”
“So you were the one the police saw walking away from where you’d supposedly had the heart attack in Vermont.”
He nodded.
“What were you carrying? A suitcase?”
“Oh, my laptop. I’m never without it. I write all the time.”
“Then who was in the ambulance?”
“Nobody. It was just for show.”
“And at the cemetery, an empty urn in the plot?”
“That’s right.”
“But why on earth would you do this? Debts? Was the mob after you?”
A laugh. “I’m worth fifty million dollars. And I may write about the mob and spies and government agents, but I’ve never actually met one.… No, I’m doing this because I’ve decided to give up writing the Jacob Sharpe books.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s time for me to try something different: publish what I first started writing, years ago, poetry and literary stories.”
Malloy remembered this from the obit.
Prescott explained quickly: “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think literature’s any better than commercial fiction, not at all. People who say that are fools. But when I tried my hand at literature when I was young, I didn’t have any skill. I was self-indulgent, digressive … boring. Now I know how to write. The Jacob Sharpe books taught me how. I learned how to think about the audience’s needs, how to structure my stories, how to communicate clearly.”
“Tradecraft,” Malloy said.
The author gave a laugh. “Yes, tradecraft. I’m not a young man. I decided I wasn’t going to die without seeing if I could make a success of it.”
“Well, why fake your death? Why not just write what you wanted to?”
“For one thing, I’d get my poems published because I was J.B. Prescott. My publishers around the world would pat me on the head and say, ‘Anything you want, J.B.’ No, I want my work accepted or rejected on its own merits. But more important, if I just stopped writing the Sharpe series my fans would never forgive me. Look what happened to Sherlock Holmes.”
Malloy shook his head.
“Conan Doyle killed off Holmes. But the fans were furious. He was hounded into bringing the back the hero they loved. I’d be hounded in the same way. And my publisher wouldn’t let me rest in peace either.” He shook his head. “I knew there’d be various reactions, but I never thought anybody’d question my death.”
“Something didn’t sit right.”
He smiled sadly. “Maybe I’m a better at making plots for fiction than making them in real life.” Then his long face grew somber. Desperate, too. “I know what I did was wrong, detective, but please, can you just let it go?”
“A crime’s been committed.”
“Only falsifying a death certificate. But Luis, the doctor, is out of the jurisdiction. You’re not going to extradite somebody for that. Jane and Aaron and I didn’t actually sign anything. There’s no insurance fraud because I cashed out the policy last year for surrender value. And Jane’ll pay every penny of estate tax that’s due.… Look, I’m not doing this to hurt or cheat anybody.”
“But your fans…”
“I love them dearly. I’ll always love them and I’m grateful for every minute they’ve spent reading my books. But it’s time for me to pass the baton. Aaron will keep them happy. He’s a fine writer … Detective, I’m asking you to help me out here. You have the power to save me or destroy me.”
“I’ve never walked away from a case in my life.” Malloy looked away from the author’s eyes, staring at the cracked asphalt in front of them.
Prescott touched his arm. “Please?”
* * *
Nearly a year later Detective Jimmy Malloy received a package from England. It was addressed to him, care of the NYPD.
He’d never gotten any mail from Europe and he was mostly fascinated with the postage stamps. Only when he’d had enough of looking at a tiny Queen Elizabeth did Malloy rip the envelope open and take out the contents: a book of poems written by somebody he’d never heard of.
Not that he’d heard of many poets, of course. Robert Frost. Carl Sandburg. Dr. Seuss.
On the cover were some quotations from reviewers praising the author’s writing. He’d apparently won awards in England, Italy, and Spain.
Malloy opened the thin book and read the first poem, which was dedicated to the poet’s wife.
Walking on Air
Oblique sunlight fell in perfect crimson on your face
that winter afternoon last year.
Your departure approached and, compelled to seize
your hand, I
led you from sidewalk to trees
and beyond into a field of snow—
flakes of sky that had fallen to earth days ago.
We climbed onto the hardened crust, which held
our weight, and, suspended above the earth,
we walked in strides as angular as the light,
spending the last hour of our time together
walking on air.
Malloy gave a brief laugh, surprised. He hadn’t read a poem since school, but he actually thought this one was pretty good. He liked that idea: Walking on the snow, which had come from the sky—literally walking on air with somebody you loved.
He pictured John Prescott, sad that his wife had to return to New York, spending a little time with her in a snowy Vermont field before the drive to the train station.
Just then Ralph DeLeon stepped into the office and before Malloy could hide the book, the partner scooped it up. “Poetry.” His tone suggested that his partner was even more of a loss than he’d thought. Though he then read a few of them himself and said, “Doesn’t suck.” Then, flipping to the front, DeLeon gave a fast laugh.
“What?” Malloy asked.
“Weird. Whoever it’s dedicated to has your initials.”
“No.”
DeLeon held the book open.
“With eternal thanks to J. M.”
“But I know it can’t be you. Nobody’d thank you for shit, son. And if they did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be eternal.”
The partner dropped the book on Malloy’s desk and sat down in his chair, pulled out his phone, and called one of their snitches.
Malloy read a few more of the poems and then tossed the volume on the dusty bookshelf behind his desk.
Then he, too, grabbed his phone and placed a call to the forensic lab to ask about some test results. As he waited on hold he reflected that, true, Prescott’s poems weren’t bad at all. The man did have some skill.
But, deep down, Jimmy Malloy had to admit to himself that, given his choice? He’d rather read a Jacob Sharpe novel any day.
* * *
A former journalist, folksinger, and attorney, JEFFERY DEAVER is an international number-one bestselling author. His novels have appeared on bestseller lists around the world, including The New York Times, The Times of London, Italy’s Corriere della Sera, The Sydney Morning Herald, and the Los Angeles Times. His The Bodies Left Behind was named Novel of the Year by the International Thriller Writers Association, and his Lincoln Rhyme thriller The Broken Window was also nominated for that prize. He’s been nominated for six Edgar Awards from the Mystery Writers of America, an Anthony Award, and a Gumshoe Award. He was recently short-listed for the ITV3 Crime Thriller Award for Best International Author.