ort of shrug. “As if his jacket weren’t resting comfortably on his shoulders.”
“I remember his doing that in St. Marks,” Stone said. “What else?”
“That was it. I waited until he had gone on down the street, then I got into my car, made a U-turn and got out of there. You’re looking at me as though it were my imagination.”
“No, no,” Stone said. “I believe you. I just wanted the details.”
“And,” Thad said, “there is the matter of the vandalizing of Liz’s house.”
“Of course,” Stone said. “I know the threat is real, and I think Paul Manning is just as dangerous as Paul Bartlett was.”
“So,” Thad said, “where do we go from here?”
“I’ll have to give that some thought,” Stone said. “I’d feel better if we had some bit of information that would give us a basis for a search.”
“What sort of information?” Thad asked.
“Well, for instance, a man made several phone calls to my office and wouldn’t give his name, making my secretary suspicious. Caller ID told us the calls came from a Manhattan hotel.” He pointed to the stack of computer paper that rested on a deck chair nearby. “A friend of mine managed to print out the guest list, and Liz and I went through it carefully. I was hoping a name might ring some sort of bell. One name seemed plausible, but it didn’t work out, and neither of us saw another familiar name on the list.”
“I did,” Callie said.
“You did what?” Stone asked.
“I saw a familiar name on the list.” She got up, went to the stack of paper, riffled through it and ripped off a page. “Here,” she said, handing it to Stone.
Stone looked at the sheet. “Frederick James? Does that mean anything to you, Liz?”
Liz shook her head. “No.”
“It should mean something to you, Stone, and you, too, Dino,” Callie said.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Dino said.
Callie picked up the novel Dino had been reading and tossed it to him.
“Tumult, by Frederick James,” Dino read aloud.
“I’d forgotten the name,” Stone said.
“And he’s a novelist, like Paul,” Liz said.
“Why didn’t you mention this before, Callie?”
She shrugged. “I meant to, but somebody changed the subject, and I forgot about it until you mentioned the hotel guest list just now.”
Stone looked at the sheet. “His home address is on Gin Lane, in Easthampton. That’s interesting.” Stone took the book from Dino and turned it over, opened the back cover. “No photograph. All the dust jacket says is, ‘Frederick James travels widely around the world, never staying in one place for long. This is his first novel.’”
“Usually there’s some sort of biography,” Thad said. “Who published it?”
Stone looked at the book jacket. “Hot Lead Press. Linotype machines used to use hot lead to set type. Never heard of this outfit.”
“Liz,” Dino asked, “have you read this book?”
“No.”
“Read it, or at least some of it. See if you think Paul Manning wrote it.”
Stone handed her the book.