Cold Paradise (Stone Barrington 7)

“I understand that you edit Frederick James?”

“Edit and publish. He was our first author.”

“I take it you’re new in business?”

“That’s right. Opened our doors ten months ago, and already we’ve got a bestseller. That is, this Sunday we will. Frederick James’s novel Tumult opens at number eleven on the Times list.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. We’re very excited.”

“Who’s we?”

“Molly and me. And baby makes three. No, Molly is … Well, she does everything I don’t. And she’s my wife, and she’s pregnant.”

“Congratulations again.”

“Thanks. We’re very excited.”

Back where I started, Stone thought. “Mr. Willard, I need to get in touch with Frederick James.”

“Oh, I’ll bet you’re one of his cop sources. He has all kinds of sources.”

“Not yet,” Stone said. “I’d just like to find him.”

“Well, Mr. James is pretty reclusive,” Willard said. “I’m not supposed to give out any information.”

“This is a very serious police matter,” Stone said. “I’d rather not have to come down there with a search warrant.”

“Hey, just like on Law and Order, huh? Except they always screw up the warrant, and the judge throws out the evidence from the search.”

“I won’t screw up the warrant, Mr. Willard. And believe me, it will be much simpler for you just to give me Mr. James’s address and phone number than for us to come down there and start tearing your office apart.”

“Actually, I don’t have either an address or a phone number for him. I know it’s peculiar, but like I said, he’s reclusive.”

“How do you communicate with Mr. James?”

“E-mail,” Willard said. “And through his agent.”

“What’s his e-mail address?”

“FJ at frederickjames dot com.”

“And his agent’s name?”

“Tom Jones.”

“The singer or the novel?” Stone asked dryly.

“No kidding, that’s his name. I’ll give you his number.”

Stone wrote it down. “By the way, Mr. Willard, if Mr. James should communicate with you, please don’t tell him I called. It might make you a coconspirator.”

“Oh, jeez,” Willard said. “I won’t say a word.”

Stone hung up, laughing. “This is some kind of publishing house,” he said to Dino. “Just a kid and his pregnant wife. But I’ve got his agent’s name.” He dialed the number.

“Tom Jones,” a voice said—middle-aged, husky from booze and cigarettes. No operator, no secretary, just Jones.