Law & Order Dead Line

by J. Madison Davis

  “So your dad’s book was never published?”

  “I made copies for the family.” Her anger subsided into unsteady words. “I buried the original with him 97

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  in an archive box. Somebody will appreciate it in the future.”

  “Maybe he meant the book mostly for the family to remember him by,” said Briscoe. “That’s a good thing.” Mrs. Berman said something inaudible. Briscoe thought she was crying. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Mrs. Berman,” he said, hanging up.

  “I’m beginning to suspect Rosserman’s a prick,” he said, then summarized his conversation with Mrs.

  Berman. “He got this guy Rauch as worked up as Barbara Chesko.”

  “And,” said Green, “recommended him to the same people who edited Chesko.” He held up a letter from Chesko’s apartment.

  Briscoe held it at arm’s length under the desk lamp.

  “Redux Incorporated. Avery and Monica McDonald.

  Of Princeton, no less.” He skimmed the letter. “‘If you avail yourself of our services, we cannot guarantee publication. However, we do sincerely believe Shafted: A Memoir of a Failed Marriage has the potential to be a best-seller.’ Wasn’t it just Shafted: The Story of a Marriage?”

  “She must have changed the title.”

  “Maybe it was the McDonalds’ idea. That commercial touch that makes it a best-seller.”

  “There are about fifteen letters from either Avery or Monica McDonald. In the first couple, it seems like they are trying to persuade her to hire them.” He handed one to Briscoe.

  “‘Dear Ms. Chesko,’” he read, “‘I was chatting the other day with my good friend Bob Rosserman at Kirstner and Strawn and he mentioned your novel.

  He was quite impressed with the manuscript, but, as I am sure he explained, in these tough days in publish-98

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  ing, even the finest raw talent can be rejected simply because it lacks the sheen of professional editing. Here at Redux Incorporated, we provide those professional services.’ Et cetera, et cetera.” Briscoe pointed to the logos at the bottom of the letter. “And they take MasterCard and Visa.”

  “So of course they like the book, Lennie. They’d like any book whose writer has a credit line.”

  “Shafted has raw talent, you notice.”

  “It’s groceries and a new carpet to the McDonalds,”

  said Green. “But that doesn’t explain why Rosserman liked it.”

  “Wouldn’t the publisher hire the editor? I mean, someone sends in a manuscript, My Life as Madonna’s Boy Toy. The boy toy wouldn’t have it edited or ghost written or whatever, would he?”

  “Maybe they take it out of your fees. The record companies charge their own bands for the studio time, hotels and all. They deduct it from sales. That’s why one-hit wonders end up cutting the ribbons at car dealerships.”

  “But this is ‘we take MasterCard.’ There’s nothing in here about Rosserman fronting the money, or anything like that.”

  Briscoe looked for Ralph Chesko’s American Express statements, the ones that had the Waterloo Hotel charge and a couple of others. “There was no charge for Redux on these.”

  “The letter’s older than those statements right? And, anyway, they don’t take Amex,” Green said. “Chesko kept everything in her files. “We can see—” He fumbled for a folder.

  “If she paid them,” said Briscoe, “what does that prove?”

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  Green put down the folder marked “Visa” without opening it.

  “It proved Rosserman thought the book needed it and Barbara was willing to pay for it.”

  “So what’s worth killing Barbara Chesko for?”

  “You’re right. No.” Green thought. “But I still don’t like the Rosserman guy lying to us. Why?”

  “Everybody lies,” shrugged Briscoe. “He didn’t want to be involved. He hasn’t got a motive.”

  “Well, I say we go scare him, get him to admit he screwed her in more ways than one, then either he confesses to pushing her—those odds are ninety-nine point nine to one.”

  “Or he faces up to making her suicidal.”

  “I would like to rattle the guy.”

  “If we did that to all the guys who jerk us around, we’d never get anything done,” said Briscoe.

  “We get things done?” said Green.

  “But this must happen a lot, don’t you think?

  Artistic temperament and all that? How many books does he turn down?”

  “But how many does he recommend get edited?

  Mrs. Berman thinks he did that deliberately.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Briscoe.

  “So that these people, the McDonalds, can get a fee.”

  They thought for a moment. Briscoe spoke first.

  “Hell, maybe they’re just friends. Professional courtesy or something.”

  Green turned to his computer monitor. “Let’s Google them.” He typed “Redux” into the search engine. There was some material on a weight-loss medicine called Redux, a review of the re-release of Apocalypse Now Redux. Redux Incorporated appeared 100

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  at the bottom of the search page. He went to the web site.

  “The publishing world is tough,” Green said, “and so on, and so on. You can’t get anywhere without that professional touch.”

  “Yadda, yadda,” said Briscoe. “When do we get to the convenient payments?”

  “You click to the next page.” Green scanned it.

  “They don’t get specific. They say they follow publishing norms.”

  “Are you getting the feeling we don’t know enough about ‘publishing norms’?”

  “I thought people wrote books and sent them to a publisher and the publisher printed them. Who knows? Who thought about it?” Green clicked another link. “‘Avery McDonald has published books with several major publishers,’ it says. He’s the coauthor of a diet book, a Mack Bolan mystery under the name of Don Pendleton, a Star Invaders novel, and The Man’s Guide to Studliness.”

  “‘Studliness’! A book about me. It tears away the veil over my style,” said Briscoe.

  “Some thrillers— Death March, Death Watch and Death Mask, and a Happy Hours novelization called Be-Bop Bennie.”

  “Happy Hours?”

  “That’s that old situation comedy. A retired nun raising a Chinese kid, a Mexican kid, and a short African-American kid. He was Bennie.”

  Briscoe blinked. “No wonder the nun retired.”

  “They weren’t her kids. They were orphans. They form a rock band. You never saw this? It’s on cable.”

  “Ah, the wonders of the electronic civilization.”

  Briscoe shook his head.

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  “Be-Bop Bennie isn’t the only book the guy wrote.”

  “Maybe it ended his career.”

  “Monica McDonald worked as a literary agent, a magazine editor, and published a dozen romances before writing Insider Secrets for Publishing YOUR

  Book.” Green flipped open the Visa folder still lying on top of Barbara Chesko’s papers. “Bergdorf’s, cash advance. Several cash advances. Five thousand.”

  “Maybe she was paying the rent by credit card,”

  said Briscoe. “The ex had cut her off.”

  “Nothing like that the month before. The month before. Look there: seven thousand six hundred and forty-five. Redux!”

  Briscoe whistled. “This would have been the last time. April, right?”

  Green flipped several more statements. “Four months before that, forty-five hundred.”

  “That’s what Rauch paid.”

  “And here’s another a year ago. Sixty-seven hundred!”

  Briscoe whistled again. “Added up, it’s real money.”

  “Ralph Chesko’s money.” Green toted it up with a pencil. “Eighteen thousand eight hundred and forty-five.”

&n
bsp; They thought for several seconds. How did this connect to what happened to Barbara Chesko in the Waterloo Hotel? Did it?

  “All right,” said Briscoe. “Let’s go a little further with this on Monday. I’ll call Dennis Gross in Fraud.

  You see if you can get hold of this guy McDonald.”

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  STARBUCKS COFFEE

  575 FIFTH AVENUE

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 10:30 A.M.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you gentlemen something?” said Avery McDonald, setting his large latte on the tiny table.

  “Too rich for my blood,” said Briscoe, sizing McDonald up. He wore a tweed jacket, even though it was at least eighty that day, and carried a black cane with a brass knob at the top. His wild eyebrows and narrow goatee were flecked with silver.

  McDonald grinned. “When they test my cholesterol, they have to strain out the arabica. I’m a total junkie for this. Total.”

  The Princeton, New Jersey address for Redux had turned out to be a mail drop only. The phone number was in Peekskill. They had left a message on his answering machine and McDonald had called back early that morning from his cell phone. It was he who suggested the coffee shop. Briscoe was thinking the same thing that had blipped his radar on Rosserman: McDonald was a bit too cheerful, a bit too uncurious about why detectives would want to talk to him, and maybe too sure he could handle them.

  “So,” said Green, “you come down to the city often?”

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  “Thank God for the trains when they’re running.

  The business is here, but day-to-day life is better up there. Peekskill is my retreat from the hurly-burly. It’s a happy coincidence I am here today. Monica and I are pitching a new concept in horror fiction. It’s very on, very—” he made quotation marks with his fingers

  “— happening, as we used to say. It could be the next big thing.”

  “Barbara Chesko,” said Green.

  McDonald sighed. “Oh, yes, I heard about that.”

  Briscoe and Green waited.

  “Bob Rosserman mentioned it. Have you found a reason yet?”

  “Reason for what?” asked Briscoe.

  “The poor dear’s suicide.”

  “That’s why we’re talking to you,” said Green. “She made some rather large payments to you over the past couple of years.”

  “And? They were for editorial services.” He said it as if protesting. “I did a lot of work with her novel.

  It was really in shape when we were through. It’s a shame she didn’t hang in,” he sighed. “Unfortunately, creative persons are not always stable.”

  “Are you saying Barbara Chesko was unstable?”

  “De mortuis…” he said dryly. “Not much more than most writers. On the other hand, she did kill herself, didn’t she?”

  “Her book wasn’t good enough to be published?”

  asked Briscoe.

  “Even after all the work?” added Green.

  “Who says?” said McDonald. “It’s not a dichotomy.

  That it isn’t published yet doesn’t mean it isn’t publishable. Do you know how many times John Kennedy Toole tried to sell A Confederacy of Dunces?

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  He gave up and killed himself, and the novel won the Pulitzer Prize! A publishable book, even a brilliant book, may take considerable time to find a publisher.

  Did you know there are only half a dozen major publishers these days? It’s a tough market. But all anyone needs is a good manuscript on the desk of the right editor on the right day. Shazam! It’s a bestseller.”

  “Shazam,” said Briscoe flatly.

  McDonald shot him a sharp glance. “Who is complaining?” he said. “She never complained, so what is it? Her ex-husband?”

  “Is it normal to get complaints?” asked Green, earning the same sharp glance. McDonald calmed himself and leaned forward.

  “Look, gentlemen, people come to us with their manuscripts. Monica and I read them over and if we feel there is a realistic possibility it could be published, we offer to give it the polishing that might make it stand out on an editor’s desk. That’s all we promise.

  We can’t promise it will be published. We can’t promise it will be a bestseller. If we had the ability to do that, we would knock out bestsellers ourselves and retire. Some of our clients refuse to understand that.

  Even the best manuscript can go overlooked. Like John Kennedy Toole’s!”

  “And you edited this book?” asked Briscoe.

  This time McDonald’s glance narrowed to a glare.

  “No. It’s just an example. The point is, we never promise anything other than the best editing money can buy.”

  Briscoe eased into his question. “You know, Mr.

  McDonald, I checked with a friend of mine in the Fraud Division.”

  “Oh?”

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  “Detective Gross? There have been several complaints.”

  “Then I’m sure the detective explained there wasn’t anything fraudulent going on. Monica and I deliver exactly what we promise. We give our clients every opportunity, but we cannot guarantee a book contract.” He tapped the table with his index finger. “Our contract is very specific about that. Very.”

  “Eighteen thousand ought to buy quite a job,” said Green.

  “We don’t charge eighteen thousand!” said McDonald.

  “When you add up Barbara Chesko’s payments, they come to over eighteen thousand,” said Green.

  “That wasn’t one job. It was several. We did everything we could for her. Once I spent three eight-hour days with Barbara going over that manuscript.

  Normally we don’t do that. Normally we don’t meet our clients face-to-face.”

  “And that’s why she paid you that much?” asked Green.

  “I’m a professional. I’ve got twenty-five years of experience. It’s peanuts compared to what consultants get in other fields!” He shot his hand up, nearly upsetting his latte.

  “Don’t get excited, Mr. McDonald,” said Briscoe.

  “We’re trying to understand the ins and outs, if you know what I mean. On a policeman’s salary, it seems like a lot of money.”

  “It just burns me! Books are so important. But the guy who designs a logo for a hamburger chain gets millions!”

  “Uh-huh,” said Briscoe.

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  “Do many people pay you as much as she did?”

  asked Green.

  “Some.” He crossed his arms. “You’re aware we gave her a discount? We had great faith in her manuscript. Normally, a line edit ought to come up to twenty dollars a page, and wouldn’t have included the face-to-face time I spent with her.”

  “Mr. McDonald,” said Briscoe, “do you remember a man named Herman Rauch?”

  “Rauch? Is he the editor at HarperCollins?”

  “He was one of your dissatisfied customers,” said Green.

  McDonald shrugged. “I don’t have many dissatisfied customers, but I do not recall him. People want to blame me for their luck. I give them all they pay for.

  That’s all I can do.”

  “You charged Rauch forty-five hundred.”

  McDonald shrugged. “I must have liked his book.”

  “But you don’t remember him? He sued you.”

  “I know he sued me. All right, yes, I remember him.

  I just don’t remember his book. He was the one who tried to kill Bob Rosserman.”

  “He whacked him on the head,” said Briscoe.

  “Aren’t you unhappy when somebody turns down a book you’ve worked on?” asked Green.

  “This is a profession. Editors have their own factors.”

  “But didn’t Rauch’s book meet the highest professional standard? Didn’t Barbara Chesko’s?”

  “Look,” said McDonald, “we gave the man half of his money back just to calm him down. We didn’t have to do t
hat. The contract says we don’t have to do that. But you know what attorneys charge.”

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  “Did Barbara Chesko ask for her money back?” said Briscoe.

  “No! She was happy with the job! Very! Maybe that’s why she was so disappointed when Bob turned her down.”

  “He told us a committee turned the book down.”

  “The editorial board, then.” He raised his watch. “I have an appointment at twelve.”

  “We just thought you’d want to clear this up,” said Green.

  “Well?” demanded McDonald. “She killed herself.

  What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Maybe nothing, but I’d think you’d want to clear it up.”

  “That’s just being a good citizen,” said Briscoe.

  McDonald opened his mouth to say something, but Green spoke before he had a chance. “You and Rosserman are good friends?”

  “We’re business acquaintances. We’re on good terms.”

  “So he sends you clients?”

  “If he thinks it will help the manuscript. If he sees something in the manuscript that might be improved.”

  “And what does he get out of this?”

  McDonald glanced at them both. “We usually give him a finder’s fee. It’s a gesture, an appreciation.”

  “And how much would that be?”

  “Oh, just a consideration.”

  “How much is a consideration? A bottle of scotch?”

  “Why don’t you ask him? I don’t like to…”

  “So, just for an example, what did he get each of the three times you went to work on Barbara Chesko’s manuscript?”

  “I don’t remember the amounts. Something like a 108

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  couple of hundred dollars. We give the same fee an agent would get, about fifteen percent. There’s absolutely nothing illegal about this, nothing at all. People don’t have to hire us if they don’t want to, and if they do, we do exactly what we promise to do.”

  “But don’t your clients think this editing of yours is going to get their books into print?” said Briscoe.

  “I am totally up front with them. I can’t be responsible for how they misinterpret it.”