Part 13 (1/2)
Alex was already at the computer, as J.P. had left the search engine on the page where she'd demonstrated how easy it was to get anyone's home address. ”He's real enough,” he said a few moments later. ”And here's a coincidence-his address also, I believe, is in Greenwich Village.”
”Oh, wait a minute,” Bernie said, holding up a hand. ”Valentino Gates, I know that name. He's a writer-well, he thinks he's a writer. The truth is that if every published author in the known world suddenly was vaporized by a Martian death ray, Valentino Gates still couldn't get published. But what he's got to do with Jonathan West, I don't know. Just a dedicated fan, I guess. Very dedicated.”
Maggie rubbed her hands together. ”Okay, but now at least we're getting somewhere.” Then she frowned. ”Where are we getting?”
J.P. returned her pile of letters to the coffee table. ”Maggie's right. This is nothing more than a fis.h.i.+ng exhibition. So far, none of these letters are about Francis Oakes, and he's our stiff. You've got nothing, Steve, no grounds for warrants. Zilch. Speaking as a defense attorney, it's my opinion that-”
”Don't, J.P., please,” Steve said, pulling the plastic bag from his jacket pocket. ”Let's work on this a while. What's all over this, Blakely? Oh, wait, never mind, I think I know. And it's just another stupid poem, like the one we found in Oakes's apartment, and signed the same way. Nevus.”
”Nevus? You didn't tell me that, Alex.”
”A thousand apologies, my dear,” Alex said, handing Maggie a gla.s.s of wine. ”Our miscreant, it would seem, mails dead rats and thinks of himself as a mole.”
”But that makes no sense, Alex,” Maggie said, getting to her feet and going over to Steve, keeping her hands behind her back as she looked at the note. ”And yet, there it is. Nevus. Maybe it's some sort of personal thing only the guy knows, you know? Maybe he's got a lot of moles?”
”Or one great big one on his nose, like the Wicked Witch of the West,” Bernie offered, toasting Maggie with her s.h.i.+rley Temple. ”Try saying it backwards, Mags. I know you can say supercalifragilisticexpealadocious backwards.”
”It's not backwards letter-for-letter the way Mary Poppins sang it. Docious-ali-expe-istic-fragi-cali-rupus. Just another of my enormous and completely useless talents,” Maggie said absently, already mentally reversing the letters in nevus. ”S-U-Suven? That makes no sense. How about Never Ever Violate US-no, sorry.”
”Yes, well, not that this hasn't been fun,” Steve said, checking his wrist.w.a.tch as he got to his feet.
”Do you have an appointment, left-tenant?”
”No, Blakely, I've got a murder to solve. Here's the deal, folks. Terrific as this has been, we're not getting anywhere. Bernie, thanks for the letters. Mr. McCrae, I suggest you exercise vigilance but do not panic.”
”We're good there, Steve,” J.P. said, opening her huge purse and pulling out a gun that looked to be about a foot long.
Maggie ducked behind Steve, because he was closest.
J.P. waved the nasty-looking weapon in the air. ”I've got him covered. Don't I, sugar? Any way you want to take that one.”
”Jeez. You have a permit for that cannon, J.P.?”
”Everything I need to carry concealed, Steve, and I know how to use this baby, too.”
”You were a cop, yeah, I know. But you worked in the mayor's office, J.P. When was the last time you were at the range?”
”Details,” J.P. grumbled as the weapon disappeared back into her purse.
Steve looked at Maggie. ”Where the h.e.l.l was I with you guys before I lost what's left of my mind? Oh, okay. There's still the very real possibility that the packages you and some other writers received were nothing more than a coincidence of timing, and that there's no killer loose at CUNY, and that Oakes's is an isolated crime. I already said that, I think. Right now we're taking a second look at the former boyfriend, although, personally, I'm pretty sure that's a waste, unless Oakes had a new boyfriend and we're dealing with the jealousy card.”
”Is that how you're treating it, Wendell, even after reading these letters-as true love gone wrong?” Alex asked, walking Steve to the door.
”I'm not treating it any way at all, Blakely. We're considering all the angles and, statistically, the spurned-lover motive is usually pretty high on the list. No forced entry-Oakes knew his killer. I'm not saying you guys aren't close to being on to something, but I need another twenty-four hours to chase down these other leads. So just keep an eye on Maggie,” he added quietly.
”It will be my pleasure, left-tenant,” Alex said with a polite inclination of his head. ”Do have a pleasant evening with your young lady.”
”She's not-I gotta go.”
”What was all that about, Alex?” Maggie asked, picking up Steve's empty beer can. Steve hadn't kissed her good-bye, had he? ”He didn't even take the letters with him. This was a real bust, wasn't it?”
”Not entirely. We do have this fellow Bryon and Mr. Gates to drop in on, evaluate.”
”Why? Neither of them threatened Francis, or any of us.”
”True, but they both live here and the packages were postmarked here. When you have nothing, Maggie, you rake whatever small crumbs you've been handed. That is the nature of detection.”
”Maggie, Alex? Look at this,” Bernie said, holding up several sheets of paper. ”I've got two more letters from Valentino Gates and another from Lord Bryon-all about how we were so mean to Jonathan West, and all in the folder for last year. You think that's a coincidence? Oh, and something else I forgot to give to Steve. The lawyers sent over photocopies of the letters we forwarded to them. You know, the ones from the real nuts. I didn't look at them yet. Maggie-they're in my purse.”
”Scott Imhoff,” Maggie said as she handed the letters to Alex after quickly looking through them. ”Remember him, Bernie? One of those celebrity stalkers. He was trailing after Faith for a while. Man, she really freaked out, didn't she? Not that I wouldn't have-this guy showing up outside her building, snapping her picture, giving her flowers. She finally got a restraining order, right?”
Bernie pulled the cherry stem out of her mouth. ”She's not the only one. Imhoff was after Jonathan West, too.” She blinked, looked at Alex. ”Did I say Jonathan West? Aren't we all saying Jonathan West here?”
Alex took the letter from Maggie. ”Mr. Imhoff, it would appear, also resides in Manhattan. Does anyone else have letters they'd like us all to look at?”
Bruce McCrae tossed two letters onto the coffee table. ”So we're going on even without the lieutenant? Good. Those were a bit flaky, but one's from California, and I'm getting the idea we're trying to stay local. And the other one is six years old. So, no, sorry, I've got nothing. J.P.?”
”I've got one here from this Valentino Gates guy, about another author,” J.P. said, sorting through the letters she'd been reading and pulling out one of them. ”Told her she's no Jonathan West-so there's that name again. We're are seeing a lot of him, aren't we?”
”He was one of our top-selling authors for a few years, so that's really no surprise,” Bernie explained. ”The bigger you get, the more you manage to bring out the weirdos. I'm surprised there aren't more, beginning when he started writing those stinkers, but I guess they weren't threatening, and we threw them out.”
”But this one isn't just about West, remember? Who knows Sylvia Piedmonte?” J.P. asked, waving the letter. ”Anybody?”
”Maggie,” McCrae said, ”Sylvia Piedmonte. Remember? She's the one who called me, told me about her rat, the rats that went to Buzz Noonan, to Freddie Brandyce?”
”Oh, right,” Maggie said, nodding. ”I'm sorry. I'm lousy with names.”
”Names, faces, places,” Bernie said as she returned from a quick trip to the kitchen, the open jar of cherries in her hand. ”If Maggie had her way, the whole world would wear nametags. You know all of them, Maggie, because you met them all at one time or another at one of our dinners. But let me help you out-Buzz Noonan writes as Garth Ransom. Ringing any bells now, honey?”
”Maggie?” Alex prompted as Maggie stared into the middle distance, and then began counting on her fingers.
”That's it!” she said at last, grabbing Alex by the shoulders and kissing him square on the mouth ... which was as good as screaming eureka any day of the week. ”It's that stupid book I wrote!”
”I beg your pardon. My books are not stupid.”
”My books, and I didn't really write it. Not all of it. Don't move, anybody, I'll be right back!”
Her hands trembling with excitement, Maggie ran into the spare bedroom and skidded to a halt in front of one of the many bookcases she had placed in every room of the condo. She kept stuff in this room that she really couldn't in good conscience throw away, but didn't want to look at every day.
What was the matter with her? She should have thought of this sooner, much sooner. It was Alex's fault, obviously. He'd distracted her, made her lose her focus. No wonder athletes didn't have s.e.x before a big game ...
”Let it be here, let it be here, let it be-ah, it's here!”
Taking the book from the shelf, she ran back into the living room, holding it over her head. ”This is it-I've found the connection!”
”My G.o.d,” McCrae said, shaking his head. ”Of course it is. It's so obvious. Why didn't I think of it?”
Maggie looked at him. Yeah. Why didn't he if it was so obvious? ”I didn't, either, Bruce. It's no big deal.”
”In all fairness to both of you, nothing hit me, either. But you're right, Maggie. That has to be it,” Bernie said, chewing on another cherry. ”Well, I'm glad that's settled. Anybody else want a cherry? Please say no, they're all I've got.”