Part 1 (1/2)
THE JAMES.
DEANS.
by Reed Farrel Coleman.
FOREWORD.
by Michael Connelly.
The request came in the way most of them do. Email. It was simple enough; would I be willing to write a foreword for a book about to be republished. The request was from a bookseller and publisher I admire and the book happened to be one I had already read and even liked quite a bit. So this was a no-brainer. I could knock off a 500-word appreciation in an hour tops and everybody would be happy. I quickly answered yes.
The book is called The James Deans and it was written by Reed Farrel Coleman (I thought only serial killers were publicly known by all three names). It was originally published a few years back to wide acclaim and subsequent award notices. So far so good. I read it back then, liked it, enjoyed it and then put it on the shelf. When David Thompson dropped me a line to ask for a new foreword I said no problem. I would reread the book and go right to work.
So here's the rub. In rereading the book I relearned why I liked it so much and why it absolutely deserves this second tour of duty. The problem is that I liked the book mostly for its ending and the risk the author took in arriving there. How do I write about the end of a book at the beginning of it? I mean, sure the voice of private eye Moses Prager is purely original in a world where you rarely find that. And yes the book's evocation of New York neighborhoods-rich and poor-have that you-know-it-when-you-see-it feel of the truth about them. The story is solid and full of what I call the right stuff-the seamless integration of the protagonist with the case and the world around him. This book has it in spades. It's not really a story about a missing persons case. It's about Moe Prager, and I'm here to tell you that it takes an expert hand to pull that off in the way Reed Farrel Coleman does.
But it's the end of the story where this book and Coleman s.h.i.+ne brightest. So here's the deal. Stop reading this foreword here. Right now. Go on and read the book and enjoy the story. Then check back here after. I will have more to say upon your return.
I mean it. Go! I will put in a convenient s.p.a.ce below this line so you will know just where to pick this up after you're finished the book. Enjoy the read and we'll talk soon.
Okay, so you're back. Good read, huh? Let's talk about the ending and I will try not to give too much away because most of you probably can't be trusted. You act like you went off and read the book, but I wonder.
So, what can you say about an author so daring that he would kill his own protagonist on the last page?
See? I got you! Now go read the G.o.dd.a.m.n book. Get out of here and come back after. I mean it.
That's better. I'm glad you have read the full book. Now we can talk about it. Let me start by talking about writing and the writer. There are no hard and fast rules when it comes to writing. You can do whatever you want and n.o.body is going to stop you. You might have an editor or an agent make suggestions about something or have opinions, but at the end of the day it's all on the writer. You make your choices based on instinct and experience. And you live or die with the results.
Now, we're talking about crime fiction here. In fact, what is a more intrinsic form of crime fiction than the private eye novel? It's the cla.s.sic form of the entire genre. And with that form come expectations. Not rules, but expectations. Expectations that justice will be served, that good triumphs over evil and loose details are tied up in bows in the end. Perhaps, the highest expectation of all is the idea that a bad man will pay for his crime.
That's not what happens here. What happens is that Reed Farrel Coleman turns the cla.s.sic expectations upside down and in doing so creates his own cla.s.sic. Call it an anti-cla.s.sic. Call it gray fiction, a story caught between black and white.
To be sure, Moe Prager succeeds in figuring out the essential mystery. He knows what happened to the missing person even if he doesn't find her. He even figures out the essential manipulation of the case. His own manipulation. But it is a testament to the author that he broke free of expectations and common form to write his own unique tale. I once said that Moe Prager was my kind of private eye. I should add to that at this point and say Reed Farrel Coleman is my kind of author.
Michael Connelly.
Los Angeles.
October 2008.
for Rosanne.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.
I'd like to thank David and McKenna and my friends the Schares, but none of it would be worth anything without Rosanne, Kaitlin, and Dylan.
Chapter One.
THE RECEPTION WAS at the Lonesome Piper Country Club. The piper was so lonely because no one could afford the members.h.i.+p dues. Situated on a twenty-four-karat parcel of Long Island's Gold Coast, the clubhouse, the former manse of a railroad robber baron, sat on a tree-lined bluff overlooking the Sound and Connecticut beyond. One peek at the place and you immediately understood why Old New York money had claimed this piece of the island as its enclave.
I had to admit that even if the marriage didn't last the honeymoon, Craig and Constance would have a h.e.l.l of a wedding alb.u.m. As the photographer clicked away-”That's right. That's right. Groom, turn a little more to your left. Good. Smile. Perfect. Perfect. Hold it. Just one more ...”-I couldn't help but be curious how Aaron and I had wound up on the guest list. Considering the social status of our fellow invitees, my brother and I had a lot more in common with the help.
Constance had worked for us for about six months while she was finis.h.i.+ng up at Juilliard. That was over a year ago, and it wasn't like she was employee of the century or anything. True, we liked her well enough, as did our customers, but we never fooled ourselves that she'd stay on. Constance was a wealthy, handsome, and talented young woman who was more playing at work than working. It was as if she were fulfilling some sort of missionary obligation to teach the children of the Third World how to read.
Frankly, I didn't care why we were invited. All I knew was that Katy, my wife, was in better spirits today. Smiling, even dancing with me a little, she seemed almost her old self. She had taken time with her makeup, fussed with her hair, worn a dress that accentuated her curves. She had kissed me hard on the mouth for the first time in months, making a show of wiping her lipstick off my lips with her fingers. It was as if she had awoken from a coma.
”Excuse me, sir,” a red-jacketed waiter said, just touching my shoulder. ”Mr. Geary, the bride's father, would like a word. He's waiting for you in the East Egg Room.”
It wasn't up for discussion, and I was curious anyway.
The East Egg Room was a private s.p.a.ce on the other side of the clubhouse, away from the dining area and close to the men's locker room. It was all walnut paneling, green gla.s.s ashtrays, and nailhead chairs, and smelled like the ghosts of my father's cigars. This was the place where members played poker, drank scotch or cognac, made private deals. Mr. Geary smiled at my entrance, but with proper restraint. Six feet tall and square shouldered, he was a man of sixty with the weathered good looks of a cowboy. A cowboy with a North Sh.o.r.e dentist and a personal trainer. He looked perfectly at ease in his surroundings and gray morning coat.
”Mr. Prager,” Geary said, offering me his firm hand. ”A pleasure to meet you. Connie tells me you and your brother treated her very well during the time of her employment. I trust you and Mrs. Prager are enjoying yourselves.”
”Very much so. Thank you.”
He cleared his throat. The prepared text or pretext out of the way, he was ready to move on to the real business of the day.
”Do you know Steven Brightman?” my host asked, picking up his Manhattan off a green-felt-covered card table.
”Should I?”
”Come, take a stroll with me, Mr. Prager.”
We stepped through the pro shop, toward the practice putting green and along the driving range. Several of the members nodded to Geary; a few took a moment to congratulate him. They regarded me with suspicion, some scowling as if I were one rung up the evolutionary ladder from silverfish.
”Do you follow politics, Moe? May I call you Moe?”
”No and yes. I'm an ex-cop, Mr. Geary. Cops don't have much use for politicians, though politicians got lots of uses for cops. None of 'em any good as far as I can tell. And yeah, you can call me Moe.”
”Though I sometimes find them as distasteful as you do, a man in my position inevitably makes the acquaintance of several politicians.”
”No doubt.”
He pointed out to the first-hole tee box. ”Do you play?”