Dark in Death (In Death 46)

“Have you forgotten our wager?”

“Wager on …” She cast her mind back, a couple of weeks, vaguely remembered some silly talk about him buying crap property and turning it into gold. And betting he couldn’t do the same out in some area of Bumfuck.

“You actually …”

“The terms you set—rural area in Nebraska. I sent the details to you in a file—with photos.” He shot her a smile. “It should be fun.”

“Have you ever actually been to Nebraska?”

“A time or two, yes.”

Since he’d distracted her, she called up the file, studied photos of a dilapidated house, dilapidated outbuildings—the purpose of which remained a mystery to her—and some overgrown fields. Piles of rusted, toothy-looking equipment heaped up like dinosaur bones.

“So you’re going to set fire to it?”

“Not at all. Wait and see.”

“You’re going to lose at least a cuff of one of your tailored shirts on this one.”

He smiled again. “Wait and see.”

He’d taken off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and tied back his hair in his office. So he sat at her auxiliary in full work mode.

“And so?”

She shifted back to work mode herself. “I dumped a third on you. I’ve started with multiple communications from the same person, and am now sort of amazed at how many people write again and again. Like, what are they called—pen friends.”

“Pals. Pen pals.”

“Pen friend rhymes.”

“And so it does.”

“Plus a lot of them who write multiple times talk about the make-believe people like they’re actually people. Some of them get a little pissy when those make-believe people don’t do just what they figure those make-believe people should do. Some get more than a little pissy. A lot of the pissy is because the characters haven’t banged.”

Roarke worked his way through Eve’s roundup. “I assume you’re talking about Hightower and Dark.”

“Yeah, them. Some are getting a little pissy they’re not banging, others can wait for the banging but want them to exchange some sloppy kisses and express their feelings of love and devotion. Others don’t want either to happen ever. There’s a subset who seriously objects to the language. Like real people never say fuck you. Especially real people who’re cops.”

Eve blew out a breath. “There are some threats, but they run to the: If you do this/don’t do this, I’ll never read you again. It makes me wonder why DeLano doesn’t write back and say: Thanks for your interest. Now fuck off.”

He laughed at her over the rim of his mug. “It’s likely why you’re a cop and not a writer. I expect the complaints, as well as the kudos, are just part of it all. It does indicate an interest and attachment to the work, which would relate to how said writer earns a living.”

“I’d rather be a cop. The mother, Audrey DeLano, is really efficient. She’s attached the response to each communication to said communication. She’s also really patient and diplomatic, as she’s the one responding to the bulk, which bumps her up on the potential target list.”

“Because she’s the one who says no, however diplomatically.”

“Yeah. She’s the daughter’s voice when she responds with the Gee, thanks for your interest and whatever, but. A lot of people send in ideas, suggestions, and straight demands. This is what needs to happen. Some even wheel out elaborate story lines, to which Audrey has a kind of standard response that’s basically the Thanks, but. Most accept this, but some get puffed up or insistent, so let’s highlight that sort.”

“All right then.”

“One more thing. We’re looking for a planner, detail-oriented. It’s probable that she used different names, at least once she started thinking about that lethal plagiarizing. Once I finish my section, I’m going to run a comparison on language, syntax.”

“Writing style,” Roarke commented.

“Yeah. But that’s the next step, and means running the whole batch.”

“Then we’d best get to it.”