“All right,” she said. “God knows I’ve read all of Paul’s earlier novels; I ought to know his work.”
“Well,” Stone said, “now we’ve got some information—James’s home address and his publisher’s name. We couldn’t ask for a better start. Dino, while Liz reads the book, let’s you and I make some phone calls.”
They went into the saloon, where there were two extensions. Stone was about to pick up a phone, but Dino stopped him.
“Listen, want to make a little bet?”
“About what?”
“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that after Liz reads the novel she won’t be sure of whether Manning wrote it.”
“I’m not sure I’d take that bet,” Stone said. “She’s been equivocal every time she was in a position to nail something down. I mean, you’d have thought she could tell us right away that Bartlett wasn’t Manning.”
“Yeah, I would have thought that,” Dino agreed. “Of course, there could be a really strong resemblance. I mean, you knew Manning, and you weren’t much help.”
“You knew him, too, and you were no help at all, until shooting was required.”
“You saying I’m trigger happy?”
“Dino, as far as I’m concerned, you can shoot anybody anytime you feel like it, because usually, when you shoot somebody, he’s trying to shoot me.”
“I’m glad you noticed.”
“So, you suspect Liz of something?”
Dino shrugged. “Not yet. I’d just like to have a straight answer from her now and then.”
“So would I,” Stone said, half to himself.
36
DINO PICKED UP A PHONE. “I KNOW A GUY ON THE Easthampton force; let’s start with the home address. Maybe we won’t have to go any further.” Dino made the call and waited. “I’m on hold,” he said, then waited patiently. “Hey, yeah, I’m here.” Dino listened and asked a couple of questions, then hung up and turned to Stone. “Frederick James rented a house on Gin Lane up until a week ago. He spoke to the real estate agent, and they didn’t have a forwarding address. His address when he rented the place was a Manhattan hotel, the Brooke.”
“Dead end,” Stone said. “I’ll call the publisher.” He called New York information and was connected.
“Good morning, Hot Lead Press,” a young woman’s voice said.
“Good morning,” Stone said. “This is Lieutenant Bacchetti, NYPD. I’d like to speak to the editor of Frederick James. Can you find out for me which of your editors that is?”
“That’s easy,” she replied. “We’ve only got one editor. I’ll connect you.”
This time, a man, also young: “Pete Willard.”
“Good morning, Mr. Willard. This is Lieutenant Bacchetti of the NYPD. I’d—”
“No kidding? A real live cop?”
“That’s right. I’d—”
“Listen, I’ll bet you’ve got some great stories to tell. Have you got an agent?”
“No, and—”
“Great. And no publisher, either?”
“Mr. Willard, I’m calling on police business.”
“Oh, okay, shoot. Not really. I mean, go ahead.”