A Dangerous Fiction (25 page)

“No—
you
must understand that I can't go on waiting and hoping for you to do the right thing. I know this is a bad time; it's a bad time for me, too, in case you haven't noticed. But this should be a no-brainer. I've earned this. I deserve it.”

She had a point. She'd paid her dues and then some. But a partnership is a bond almost as profound as marriage, and as I looked at Harriet's haughty, pinched mouth and censorious eyes, I felt the dawning of something like dread. It was one thing to work with her, but the agency would be different with Harriet as a partner, and not, I feared, in a good way.

And yet I didn't want her to leave, either. Prickly though she was, I respected both her taste and her toughness. Her clients were a reliable bunch who brought in a steady stream of revenue and added heft to the agency. If she left, she would take them with her; I could not and would not do to her what I'd done to Charlie. If it was simply a matter of money, if she wanted a larger share of the pie, I could accommodate her. But how could I submit to a shotgun wedding?

I told her I needed time to think. Harriet didn't soften at all, which, under different circumstances, was one of the things I liked about her.

“Think fast, then, because I do have other options. I love this agency and it would break my heart to leave it. But I won't go on as before.”

I wondered then if she knew about Molly's bequest. “If you're thinking of going solo, that's your right, of course. But I'm sure we can come up with a less risky solution.”

“That is
not
my only option,” she said testily.

Mingus didn't like her tone. He sat up and gave her a hard stare, which she ignored. I nudged him with my foot and motioned him down. The trouble with a German shepherd for an ally is that you can't actually deploy him. What was Harriet talking about? Where would she go if she left me? She wouldn't leave just to go work for another agent; someone must have offered her a partnership, but who? No sooner did I ask the question than the answer came to me. I gasped. “Not Charlie Malvino!”

“Never you mind,” Harriet said, but a blush broke through her pale skin and I knew I was right.

“No, really, Harriet? How could—I mean, the two of you are so different.”

“You and I are different; that never stopped us working together.”

“Yes, but you and Charlie are at opposite ends of the spectrum.”

“Which some people might say makes us perfect for each other.”

“Some people meaning Charlie?” It explained so much: their lunch, her indignation on his behalf, even the whispering at Molly's funeral. And yet I could hardly wrap my mind around it. When they were both on the agency staff, they used to squabble incessantly in staff meetings. Harriet was nearly twenty years older and far more experienced, but Charlie, always a cheeky devil, had no respect. He used to imitate her accent and manner right to her face. “Queen Harriet,” he'd called her, and “Your Ladyship.” If Charlie was courting her now, it could only be to hurt me.

I looked closely at Harriet, who now wore a smug, secretive little smile, and a dark thought struck me. Could Charlie have gone so far in his malice as to actually seduce her? I tried to banish that thought to the pit from which it had escaped, but it left its traces, which mingled with those left by Lieutenant Rosenbaum into a noxious brew.

“Class and crass, he calls it,” Harriet said, dropping all pretense now. “I'm the class, he's the crass. We balance each other out.”

“Or cancel each other out. Harriet, be careful.”

“
You
be careful.” It sounded like a threat. We stared at each other. The room was so quiet I could hear Mingus breathing.

Harriet composed her features. “I meant you should consider the matter carefully. I belong here. We both do. But things have to change.”

I thought about that, disliking both my options. Losing Harriet now would leave a big hole in the agency. I'd never replaced Charlie; so I'd have to find another agent or two. Jean-Paul was too green for promotion, and Lorna wasn't agent material. Chloe was, but she was Harriet's assistant and would probably go with her. I'd lose all those clients, too.

Maybe I could I live with Harriet as a partner, I thought. Would it really be so different from the way things were presently? Maybe if she got what she'd wanted for so long, she'd be less abrasive. Still, something in me recoiled from the thought of giving in to her. Why now of all times? Was Charlie pressuring her, or had Harriet herself decided to strike when I was most vulnerable? I wished I could talk it over with Molly.

“I'll think about it,” I said.

The door had barely closed behind her when Lorna staggered in under the weight of an enormous vase of lilies. She set it down on my desk.

“What's this?” I said.

“No idea. There's a card.”

I opened the card.

F
or the next two days I subsisted on black coffee and aspirin, sleeping in fits. When I wasn't obsessing over Sam Spade, I was dithering over Harriet's ultimatum. On the second night I dreamed that Molly called me from Frankfurt. There was static on the line, other conversations bleeding through, but I knew it was her. “Molly?” I called, pressing my ear to the receiver. “Molly, I can't hear you.” Men were shouting in the background, and a woman cried out in pain or fear. There came another burst of static, then, in a sudden patch of clarity, Molly said, “Can you hear me now?”

After that I quit my bed and trudged into the kitchen. By the time the coffee had brewed, the sun was rising over Central Park; beyond it, the spectral city glowed. I carried my cup onto the terrace. A film crew was setting up across the street for an early-morning shoot. The morning air was chilly, but I was warm, wrapped in Hugo's cashmere robe. I breathed the textured city air and let the bitter brew revive me.

•   •   •

Later Wednesday morning I was sitting in my office reviewing contracts when the door burst open and Lorna hurtled in, holding a phone to her ear in one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. “Can you hold on a moment, Mr. Spade? She's on the other line, but I know she wants to talk to you.”

My whole body jerked. Coffee sloshed onto the contract I'd been reading, but I didn't stop to wipe it up. I speed-dialed Tommy on my cell. He answered immediately.

“It's him, Sam Spade,” I whispered. “He's on the office line now.”

“You know what to do,” Tommy said, as calmly as if discussing the weather. “Keep him on as long as you can. Make an appointment to meet, preferably in your office.”

I hung up and nodded at Lorna. “Mr. Spade?” she said. “I slipped her a note. She said don't hang up, she'll get off as soon as she can. She's very anxious to talk to you. Was it you who sent those beautiful flowers?”

She was supposed to stall him at least three minutes before I picked up, then I would stall some more. If all went optimally, we'd hear him arrested. Lorna's words were right, but the music was all wrong. She sounded like a bad actress reciting lines. If this guy was half as antsy as he ought to be, she'd scare him off for sure.

I made an executive decision and picked up the phone. “Is this really the elusive Mr. Spade?” The words came out in a flirtatious Southern drawl. I don't know why. Maybe it was easier to play a part with a voice other than my own.

“Jo, is that you?” His voice was deep and raspy, as if he, too, were playing a part.

“It's me. Thanks, Lorna, I've got it now.”

Lorna hung up but didn't leave the room. Harriet, Jean-Paul, and Chloe hurried in, drawn no doubt by Lorna's unprecedented scramble. I signaled for silence and put the call on speakerphone.

“Sam,” I said, “I have to tell you, I loved the novel.”

There was a pause so long I feared I'd lost him. Then he said, in a voice crackling with emotion, “You don't know how long I've waited to hear you say those words.”

“Well, you've kept me waiting too. Quite a tease, sending a manuscript like that with no contact information. I started reading the day you delivered it and couldn't stop till I'd finished. I've been hoping you'd call ever since.”

Was I laying it on too thick? But there is no “too thick” for writers. They're all gluttons for praise.

“I knew you'd feel that way,” Sam Spade said, proving the point, “if I could only get your attention.”

“You've got it now.”

“I'd have called sooner if it weren't for recent tragic events.”

I squeezed the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. I wanted to reach down the line and shove it down his throat. Instead I picked up my letter-opener, a short dagger with a mother-of-pearl hasp that Hugo bought me in Marrakesh, and started jabbing my mouse pad.

“Thank you for the lilies,” I said.

“You're welcome. Sorry to cut this short, Jo, but I can't talk now. We should meet.”

I glanced at my watch. What felt like the longest conversation of my life had lasted less than a minute. “Absolutely, as soon as possible. Just a few questions first, while I have you on the line. Do any other agents have the manuscript?”

He sounded hurt. “Of course not. You're the only agent I ever considered.”

Lucky me.
“Have any publishers seen it?”

“No, that's your job.”

“I know half a dozen who'll be interested. We may even get an auction going, though I'm not one to count my chickens before they're hatched. Is this really your first novel?”

“The first of many, now that we're together.”

“I find that amazing, considering the level of maturity and sophistication in the writing. How long did you work on it?”

“Twelve weeks,” he said proudly. “I was on fire. It felt like the story was being dictated, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” I said, avoiding the eyes of my staffers. “Many great writers have described that feeling. What's your real name, by the way? I can't keep calling you Sam Spade.”

“Why not? You christened me; I've adopted the name.”

“You can publish under any pen name you like, but as your representative, I need to know who you really are.”

“When we meet, I promise you'll find out all you need to know about me.”

“Then let's meet soon. When can you come in?”

“To your office? No, I think not. Sam Spade, like many writers, is an intensely private person, as tongue-tied in person as he is eloquent on paper.”

Pompous asshole, talking about himself in the third person, reciting from some imagined biography. I looked at my watch. Only two minutes had passed.

“Lunch, then,” I said, “or a drink. I know some quiet places where we can talk. Before we get together, though, I'd like to do a little preliminary planning, maybe put out a feeler or two. Have you given any thought to who you'd like to publish you?”

“We can talk about it when we meet.”

“Of course. Can I take you to lunch? Michael's, maybe, or the Four Seasons? Or would you rather meet for a drink?”

“Columbus Circle,” he said, “in the entrance to the park. We'll take a carriage ride.”

Jean-Paul was shaking his head violently.

“Not a fan of carriage rides,” I said. “Unlike you, I'm an intensely public person.”

Chloe had to clap a hand over her mouth to mute a nervous titter, but from Sam Spade I got only a reproachful pause. “Indulge me, if you will,” he said. “I've been planning this for a long time. Six o'clock this evening, Columbus Circle. Till then, my dear Jo.” At once, as if to stave off a refusal, he hung up.

“Wait,” I said uselessly, then dropped the phone into its cradle and scrubbed my hand on my skirt.

The others stared at me. “Well, hello there, Scarlett O'Hara,” Harriet said, mimicking my drawl. “If you're not just full of surprises.”

I ran past them to the bathroom, slammed the door, and spewed black coffee into the sink.

•   •   •

“You don't have to do this.” Tommy Cullen turned away as the female tech positioned a tiny transmitter inside my bra. “We have an officer on standby, your height, your shape. Slap on a wig and a pair of dark glasses and your own mother would mistake her for you.”

“She might,” I said, “but this guy knows what I look like.” The three of us were alone. I'd sent the others home for the day. Jean-Paul left last, under protest, to take Mingus back to my apartment. Neither he nor the dog could come with me tonight, lest they spook our quarry.

“You'll be fine,” the tech said, snipping a piece of tape. “There'll be more cops than pigeons in the park. Just try not to sweat.”

“How?” I asked, sweating already. Sam Spade wouldn't show, I told myself. He'd been smart enough to call from a prepaid cell phone and keep the conversation short enough to evade capture, so why would he walk into an obvious trap? This was just another torment, another game for him. No doubt he'd be watching from a distance, laughing.

But in my gut I didn't believe it. I know writers' fantasies, and during our brief conversation, I'd played into every one of Spade's. I'd hooked him good, with the help of his monstrous ego, which told him he was a genius who deserved every word I said. There was another reason why I knew he'd come too, one closer to the heart of his obsession. Every story needs an ending. Everything Sam Spade did, he did to get at me. He'd invented a fantasy; then he sabotaged my business, tormented my clients, and finally murdered my friends just to bring it about. If he wasn't building toward a personal encounter, none of it made sense.

The tech finished and left, shutting my office door behind her. Tommy and I were alone. I tapped the transmitter. “Is this thing on?”

“Not yet,” he said.

“That Westchester detective asked me about you.”

“Figured he would,” he said dismissively.

“About our history. I said we were casual acquaintances.”

“Figured that, too, since I'm still on the case. Look, Jo, are you sure you're up—”

“Positive.”

“OK. There'll be plainclothes police all around you. Don't look for them. Chances are this skell won't show, but if he does, try to engage him in conversation. Don't interrogate him, but if he's inclined to boast, encourage it. Whatever happens, you do not get into a carriage or any other vehicle with him. If he tries to force you, if he shows a weapon, we will take him down. If he walks away from you, we will take him down. Do you understand?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“You have to act normal. Let's see a smile.”

I flashed one. A corner of his mouth twitched in response. “Atta girl. I heard tape of the phone call. You'll do fine.”

“I'm sweating like a pig.”

He came toward me, took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and dabbed my brow. When he finished, he didn't step away. My back was to the desk. I couldn't have backed up if I'd wanted to, but I didn't want to. I held his eyes and raised my face.

He kissed me.

He was a great kisser, always was. How could I have forgotten? All his nature was in his kiss, the sweet and the hard of it. What started as a question ended as a statement. My body recognized the smell and feel of his body pressed against mine, and I responded. For a moment all the fear and sorrow were gone, and I thought, If this isn't great, what is?

It was Tommy who pulled away. We stared at each other, both of us breathing hard.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “That was totally inappropriate.”

“But nice.”

“Nice?”
he said, pretending outrage—or was he pretending?

“Timing's a bit iffy,” I said.

“There's always something. Are you ready?”

“Give me a moment, will you?”

After he left, I took the Moroccan dagger from my desk and slipped it into my jacket pocket.

•   •   •

I was the tethered goat in
Jurassic Park.
For months I'd been living in purdah, unapproachable. Now, sitting alone on a bench just inside Central Park, I felt as exposed as if I were naked. I knew there were police around but couldn't identify them. That canoodling couple on the bench across from me? His hand kneaded her thigh; would cops do that? Those tourists studying a city map? The chestnut seller? The maintenance man? The girl in horn-rimmed glasses reading a book and munching an apple?

I'd arrived alone by taxi, fifteen minutes early, and taken possession of an empty bench just inside the park entrance, beside the horse carriages. The air smelled of horse sweat and roasted chestnuts. I spread out my bag and book carrier beside me to discourage casual loiterers and waited. Normally I'd have brought a book or manuscript to pass the time, but to an egomaniac like Sam Spade, that would be like arriving for a date with another man in tow. Just as I was the only agent for him, so must he be the only writer in my life. I'd been tempted, though, to bring along the book I was currently rereading:
The Wolves Among Us,
by a client of mine, Dr. Avery Broome. Sam Spade, I'd concluded, fit squarely into Avery's definition of a psychopath. He was utterly self-centered, shallow, and manipulative; lacked empathy and shame; and was willing to mow down anyone who stood between him and his goal. For Spade, I was an object to be cajoled, terrorized, and coerced into playing the role he'd determined for me.

There was logic in this concept of my tormenter, but no possible satisfaction. According to Avery, psychopaths are human in appearance and intelligence only. Their physiological responses are different from those of normal people, and their social orientation is that of a solitary predator, a lone wolf or grizzly bear; so labeling Spade a psychopath took human causality out of the picture and rendered my most pressing question—Why?—as irrelevant as if my friends had died in a tsunami.

Six o'clock came and went. The streetlights came on. A brisk breeze cycloned leaves through the park; the carriage horses tossed their plumed heads and clanked their bits. I shivered. A young man in a trench coat strode in under the park arches and looked around him, smiling with anticipation. I froze, but his eyes slid past me and fastened on the girl in the horn-rimmed glasses. She snapped her book shut and flew into his arms.
Young love,
I thought, and it was only then I remembered that I, too, had once waited there for a man. In my case, though, it hadn't been to run to him, but to break up with him.

The rising wind seemed to penetrate my pores and swirl around inside me.
Another coincidence?
I heard Max ask. But what else could it be? Sam Spade was real, corporeal. I'd whacked him with an umbrella, I'd spoken to him on the phone, and any moment now he was going to appear. This had nothing to do with me and Tommy.