“How’d your interview go with Connor?” Keller asked his daughter. “Were you able to keep him on script? I know he’s not an easy one to manage.”
“It was fine, more or less, but I found him to be rather unpleasant. Either he was overcompensating or he really does like himself. He seems to think everyone else should like him too. I pretended that I did. It helped the interview. As matters turned out, the most interesting thing was not the interview itself but what happened right after the interview.”
“What do you mean?” Keller asked.
“While I was packing up my notes, some man who came in the press room and watched the last part of the interview approached Connor,” Ashley continued. “They almost came to blows. No lie. I’m not exaggerating. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but Connor was really pissed at the other guy. Then, it was like Connor all of a sudden remembered that I was right there, and he clammed up. They went outside. Wish I knew what it was all about. It might spice up our interview piece to include it somehow.”
Keller thought about what Ashley had said. “Maybe your old man has an idea. Connor’s representatives also come to Thriller Jubilee every summer. Good for their business. Genevieve Lasko, his literary agent; James Llewellyn, the CEO of his publisher; and Arianna Simpson, his publicist. You can Google them to get their backgrounds. Why don’t you see if you can track them down here and record interviews with them. They should love the publicity. Let’s see how good that college of yours is at teaching you how to become a top-notch investigative journalist. We could become the next Woodward and Bernstein.” He laughed.
“Haha, very funny,” Ashley said. But, a chip off the old block, he could all but see the wheels already spinning behind her eyes.
LONERGAN WORKED THE LAPTOP in her room to no avail. Based on the paltry Google results, one would think Wynonna Grey was a ghost. I wonder if she might be more open with me if I was able to visit her without Jonathan—Jon—hovering all over us. She rang Grey’s room.
“EXACTLY, MS. JACKSON!” HART said, as he easily caught up to her on his much longer legs before she reached the exit. “Now we’re getting to the crux of the matter. It’s called blackmail. You are threatening to harm TITO if it doesn’t pay you off, not for your damages, but in order to protect its own reputation from being falsely maligned when the only thing it was guilty of was not wanting to create an unnecessary panic among the TJ participants when it felt the only individuals actually at risk were TITO’s board members.”
“Says you, Mr. Hart,” she bellowed. “We’ll see how TITO’s participants feel about that, and the court of public opinion as well.”
“Which brings me to my conflict, Ms. Jackson. I believe my fiduciary duty to TITO in terms of this situation is in direct opposition to my personal best financial interests. I don’t like being in that kind of a position. But I have a proposal that may resolve both of our dilemmas and be a win-win for everyone: you, TITO, and me.” He motioned to the table from which she had bolted. “Why don’t we sit back down and discuss it?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Day Four, 3:00 p.m.
LOTELLO AND CONNOR WALKED down the hallway and around the corner, away from any prying eyes.
“Okay, quit stalling, Connor,” Lotello said. “Let’s hear it. What’s with your supply of insulin and syringes? And why did you go to such extremes to hide the stuff?” After Connor’s obnoxious play minutes ago, Lotello saw no reason to back off.
“What fucking business is it of yours?” Connor growled.
“Are you kidding? Four people are missing. You have, or had, close relationships with at least three of them, maybe all four of them. How do I know that you—and your syringes and insulin—aren’t the explanation?”
“You’re fucking crazy!”
“Spare me the theatrics. Answer my questions.”
Connor scoffed, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m diabetic, you moron! I need the insulin to treat myself. Without that insulin, I die.”
“So why all the hush-hush? Tens of millions of people have diabetes.”
“I’m not tens of millions of people. And I’ve only recently become diabetic.”
“What kind of diabetes do you have?” Lotello asked.
“Why are you so damn nosy?” Connor asked.
“If you’d just answer my questions, we’ll get done a lot sooner.”
“I’m Type 2.”
Are there other types?” Lotello feigned ignorance.
“What is this, a fucking quiz? There’s the kind of diabetes kids get, Type 1. It’s less common, but older people can also get Type 1. Like I said, I’m Type 2.”
“What’s the difference between the types?” Lotello continued to quiz Connor.
“You don’t quit you pissant, do you?” Connor hissed. “Why don’t you go to med school if you’re so fucking curious?”
“Diabetics know this stuff. So do I. I want to see if you do.”
“The pancreas of those who are Type 1 don’t make insulin at all. The pancreas of those who are Type 2 do, but not as much as they need. Type 1s all have to take insulin. Most Type 2s have to as well, but some don’t. I do. Are you satisfied now? Have I passed your damn test?”
“I don’t know if you’re diabetic or not, but even if you’re not, you’ve done your homework. Kind of like research for writing a novel.”
“So, why all the questions then? What good has it done you?” Connor asked.
“It would have been useful if you didn’t know what you’ve told me,” Lotello answered. “One of my partners at work is also a Type 2. He’s told me a lot of what you’ve just said. But he uses an insulin pump. Says it’s a lot more convenient than having to carry all those syringes and constantly be poking yourself. And he’s very open about his diabetes. How come you aren’t?”
“Because he’s lucky,” Connsor replied. “He has an employer who doesn’t care. And who might be breaking all kinds of laws if it made an issue of his diabetes. That’s not true for me.”
“I don’t follow. You write novels. You’re self-employed. Diabetes doesn’t stop you from writing your books. What’s the problem?”
“It’s not the writing. It’s the films. I make more money when my books are turned into film than when they’re not. The author has to be available to consult on the film productions. Many producers won’t take on a film project when the author has a chronic life-threatening disease like diabetes.”
“You sound like you’re being overly sensitive to me, Connor. My partner doesn’t act like his life’s in jeopardy. He manages his diabetes and blood sugars, eats responsibly, gets plenty of exercise, plenty of sleep, all that good stuff. The proper lifestyle habits we would all do well to follow. Near as I can tell, he lives as well as I do. Maybe better because I’m not as disciplined as he is.”
Connor scowled at Lotello. “Yeah, well bully for your partner. You try telling that to the film producers. And to their insurers. And while they might get in trouble for openly discriminating against those who have diabetes, there’s no way to prove that’s what they’re doing. All they have to do is subjectively not feel ‘passionate’ about my manuscript. I’m then up shit’s creek without a paddle. Which is why I can’t wear a pump that can’t be concealed, and why I keep my diabetes a secret. I know what I see, and I know what I hear. And I know I have to keep my diabetes under wraps.”
“Maybe, but I still think you’re exaggerating. And besides,” Lotello measured his next words carefully, anticipating that Connor might be reaching his breaking point, “how do I know you’re not just flat out lying about all this?”
“You wouldn’t feel that way if you or someone in your family were diabetic.” Connor stopped talking. He reached into his pocket before Lotello could react. He pulled out his wallet, removed a card, and handed it to Lotello. The card bore Connor’s name and identified him as a diabetic.
“People forge passports, social security cards, driver’s licenses, other IDs,” Lotello
said. “They could forge that card, too.”
“My doctor’s contact information is on the card. Go ahead, contact him. Unless you think he’s conspiring to help me create a cover for running around killing people.” Connor paused. “With that imagination of yours, you ought to try writing a novel. But, then again, knowing you, it would be a little farfetched, wouldn’t it? … Are we done here?”
Lotello looked Connor straight in the eyes. “Not by a longshot. Unfortunately, at least for you, there’s still more.”
LONERGAN KNOCKED ON THE DOOR.
“It’s not locked, c’mon in,” Grey called out.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Lonergan said. “I know this can’t be pleasant for you.”
“No problem, but I told you I wasn’t ready to launch my website yet. Even though I do love it,” Grey added.
“You’re not ready, or Jonathan’s not ready? I would never press a client to launch before they were comfortable. It just struck me that you were ready. That is, until Jonathan discouraged it. I thought it might be productive for the two of us to talk alone. If you’d like.”
Grey blinked as tears escaped her eyes and ran onto her cheeks.
JUST THE THREE OF us, you mean, Lonergan, baby.
CONNOR STARED AT LOTELLO. “More? What more?” he asked Lotello. “What the hell does it take to get rid of you?”
Lotello thought about Connor’s particular choice of words. Get rid of you.
“For starters, what says that a diabetic can’t also be a murderer? By my rough calculations, and based on some simple homework I did online, you have more than twice the amount of insulin you could possibly require for your one-week stay in Punta Maya. How do I know you’re not simply using your diabetes as a cover.”
This asshole’s relentless. He just doesn’t quit. “You are something, Lotello,” Connor said. “Okay, asshole, I admit it. You’ve caught me.”
GREY DABBED AT THE tears with the back of her hand. “In the beginning, Jonathan was as friendly and supportive as he could possibly be. And as I could possibly want. He’s mentored me in all kinds of ways: editing my writing, giving me business advice. And more. Being … a good friend. For reasons I can’t fathom, he’s changed here at Thriller Jubilee. I have the feeling he doesn’t want me here, although I don’t know why. The more I follow his advice on my manuscript, the more he demands. He is never satisfied.”
“I don’t know why he wouldn’t want you here,” Lonergan said. “However, being tough on your manuscript, that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe it’s just, you know, tough love. Editors can be incredibly hard on a writer. So can business advisors. I hear it from my clients all the time. It almost always makes them better. What bothered me is when he didn’t want me to launch your website. There’s nothing but upside in providing you with the resulting visibility and exposure while so many people in the industry, and readers, are gathered here at TJ. And enhanced credibility as well. Even if your manuscript may not quite be ready, there’s nothing but upside in drawing attention to you, what’s on your horizon, and coming soon. It’s called promotion. My author clients do that all the time.”
“That’s exactly how I feel. I wanted to go forward now with the website you put together for me and get some attention for myself now. While we’re still here at Thriller Jubilee. But I’m reluctant to disagree with Connor, with all he’s done for me. I owe it to him to give him a chance to explain himself. I’ll speak to him this evening and let you know in the morning. Is that okay?”
“Of course it’s okay. This is all about you, Wynonna. No one else. Not me and not Connor.”
AH, YOU POOR BABY. Maybe I can help.
LOTELLO STARED AT CONNOR. “What is it you admit?”
“Not what you think,” Connor said. “Only that I have way more than the amount of insulin I need to see me through one week of Thriller Jubilee.”
“Exactly what I said. So why, then, do you carry all that extra insulin?”
“Not so I can go around killing people, that’s for sure! First of all, I always carry twice what I need because if anything goes wrong and lengthens my trip, I have to know I have enough staying power on my own without having to depend on buying more. Insulin is a prescription drug not easily obtained, especially outside the U.S. And in this case, I’m not returning home right after TJ ends. I’m staying here for a few days of R&R. You can damn well check my flight arrangements to confirm this if you want.”
“All well and good,” Lotello said, “but no matter how you slice it, this still means you have plenty of insulin you could put to illicit use. No matter. Hotel security has commandeered your insulin and will only dole it out to you as the hotel’s medical staff confirms you require to manage your blood sugars until after TJ ends, and all its participants leave the island. The remainder will be returned to you at the airport when you leave.”
Connor paced about. “Like I said, Lotello, you’re an asshole. You have no right to treat me this way. You can make book on the fact that I will talk to my lawyers about you when I get back home.”
How many times have I heard that. Never seems to happen. “I just love it when you talk dirty to me,” Lotello responded. “As the saying goes, knock yourself out. I, for one, will be very curious to see what they all have to say, especially if they’re billing you on an hourly rate. Now, if you don’t mind, and even if you do, let’s talk about something hopefully more productive.”
“More? I can hardly wait.” Connor picked up his pacing about even more.
“Wynonna Grey.”
Connor came to a complete halt. “Wynonna Grey? What about her? Has something happened to Wynonna?”
Connor was still trying to maintain his most defiant veneer. But Lotello thought he detected a slight change in Connor’s demeanor at the mention of Grey’s name.
ASHLEY KELLER’S FATHER TAUGHT her well. She always did her homework. She would show her dad she could get to the bottom of this Connor mystery just as well as he could.
First things first. As was often the case, her investigative targets—Lasko, Llewellyn, and Simpson—were complete strangers to her, but Google took care of that. In a matter of minutes, she had more background information on her three subjects than she could possibly need, or digest, in the time she had.
Next, she went to their corporate websites, which offered more specific information. Just as her father had told her, each of them attended Thriller Jubilee every year. And each was scheduled to speak on one or more TJ panels every year.
From there, Ashley logged on to TITO’s website and quickly found the TJ master program, day by day, hour by hour. Sure enough, Lasko, Llewellyn and Simpson were each listed to speak on panels. In each instance, panels that had already taken place.
The TJ program also prominently advertised, several times over, that each session was recorded, and that the tapes could be purchased in the TJ bookstore for $10 each within one hour after each session concluded. If only to thoroughly complete her research, she thought it would be helpful to hear what her targets had said in their respective presentations. She went online, purchased and downloaded the applicable tapes to her laptop in a matter of minutes.
After listening to the tapes, Ashley realized that representing Connor was not the only thing Lasko, Llewellyn, and Simpson had in common. None of them had appeared for their scheduled presentations. One no-show would not necessarily be unusual, maybe even two, but three out of three—that was unusual. And the last minute excuses offered for their absence, in each case by TJ program director Lisa Lewis, sounded vague and contrived.
Through the front desk, Ashley asked to be connected to the rooms of each of her targets. In each case, she was told that the three guests had been registered at the hotel, but had already checked out. When she asked when they had checked out, she was told that providing that kind of information was against hotel policy.
To close the loop, she called the New York headquarter offices of all three. She was told the same thing: each was at Th
riller Jubilee, due back next week, did she want to leave a message? Seeing nothing to be gained by giving any advance notice, she said no thanks, that she would call back.
It was time to make a run at Lisa Lewis.
LONERGAN HAD THOUGHT A hot soak in her bathroom tub would help. It didn’t. She liked interacting with her clients long enough to custom develop websites for them, but getting enmeshed in all of their personal problems was another matter. She hadn’t signed up for that. At least she didn’t think she had. Connor definitely was a handful, and he wasn’t even a client. He probably wasn’t worth the business he claimed he could generate for her. Then there was Grey. So nice, but so … lost. And Lonergan’s bizarre meeting with Brooks and Lotello. She felt like she was becoming a character in some kind of a whodunnit novel. She finished toweling off and slipped into a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. She stretched out on her bed and closed her eyes. Just for a few minutes.
ASHLEY TRACKED DOWN LEWIS, who she had met days earlier in the course of lining up her author interviews. “Hi Lisa,” she said. “Are you surviving your TJ week okay?”
“Hey, Ashley,” Lewis answered. “I imagine I feel the same as a CPA the last few days before tax returns are due. Lots of fires to put out.” She looked at her watch. “Just a handful of hours to go until the drinking winds down after the awards dinner tonight, but who’s counting? How are your talk show interviews going?”
“Easy sledding for me compared to everything on your plate. I’m enjoying spending time talking with a bunch of authors I’ve read. But I’ve come up against something I was hoping you might be able to help clarify for me.” She told Lewis about the run-in she had witnessed between Connor and a man she didn’t recognize right after her interview with Connor earlier that afternoon, and that her father had suggested she arrange some follow-up interviews with Connor’s representatives. “They were all scheduled to be here at TJ and to speak on various panels, but each was a last-minute no-show. The hotel tells me they’ve all checked out. All three of them. What gives?”
Brooks-Lotello Collection Page 91