It's One of Us(42)

A pause. “Three manuscripts?”

“Yes. I’ve been crashing hard all summer. It’s actually a trilogy, but they’re just drafts, not even full-length. Just the bones, really.”

“Trilogy?”

“Yes. But I had a break-in last night, and they were stolen. The police are aware of the situation—”

This snaps Neil to attention, away from the dreamy idea of work completed ahead of deadline and fresh new stories to reinvigorate the series. “Police? You told them who you’re writing for?”

“No. I only said I was a ghost, but that’s it. The drives were in my safe along with some paperwork and personal documents. The police are looking for the intruder.”

The frost comes in clear through the phone. “Well, this is not good, Park. Not good at all. At least you didn’t tell them everything. Though anyone who sees the manuscript will know—”

“Actually, no. Here’s the upshot. It’s a new character. A spin-off from one of the early books. Like I said, it’s just drafted work, so there’s a chance that even if it does come out, it won’t be tied to him immediately. It would take a true connoisseur of his work to put it together. The odds are incredibly slim.”

“I don’t recall us discussing you going off piste, Park.”

“Don’t go all schoolmarm on me yet, Neil. There’s more.”

When he’s done explaining the situation, he can practically feel Neil vibrating through the phone. “Not to be a venal asshole, but you realize memoir is a huge category for us now. Promise me you’ll let me take this out when you’re done writing it.”

“You’re being a venal asshole. A woman is dead. My life has been upended. Someone’s broken into my house. My wife is devastated, and... Listen, Neil. Let’s focus. I need an advance on the next Barty book. I’ll get started on a straight series title now, send you an outline next week, and have the book to you by the end of November.”

“Two months? The next one’s not due until March. You don’t have to rush it.”

“It’s not a problem. I already know what the story is. I’ll grind it out. But I need some cash now. I don’t know where things are headed here, and—”

The genial gentleman’s deal with a handshake three-martini-lunch agent he knows and loves is back. “No problem, buddy. I trust you. Barty trusts you. But if it gets out that you’ve been ghosting for him all these years, the spigot will run dry, you realize that. Your NDA is ironclad.”

“The police need—”

“What part of ironclad did you miss? No way you can tell anyone, Park. Police included.”

“I understand.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re clear. You think about the memoir, and I’ll go run some damage control. Twenty-eight kids. Jesus. Hope you don’t have to put them all through college.”

Park doesn’t even deign the joke with an answer, just clicks off and drops the phone onto the counter with a clunk. He is rewarded with a small crack in the screen.

“Great.”

“Mr. Bender?”

Osley is back.

“Do you want more coffee, Detective?” Edgy, edgy, Park.

“Naw, I’m fine. Just letting you know we’re wrapped up in the shed. It’s a bit of a mess, but some wipes will take that dust away. How ya doing? You look wrecked.”

“I am wrecked, Detective,” he says, running a hand across his jaw. He hasn’t showered, he hasn’t shaved. He is rumpled and dirty and sad. “Tell me, what are the next steps?”

“Well, first, I gotta get your prints, for elimination.” He pops open a small case and sets it on the table. “Just press the pads of your fingers here, if you don’t mind.”

Park has the sudden urge to say no, I want my lawyer, but he complies. He always complies. When you have nothing to hide...

But you do, Park. You do have something to hide.

He presses the pads of his fingers, then his thumbs, watches the loops and whorls assemble into a marker almost as specific to his body as his DNA. Good thing they don’t have a way to measure the soul. His would be spilling everywhere right now like blood from a cut.

“Great. Thanks. So now we put everything in the system and see if we get a match. I hear your wife had some excitement this morning, too. With the sketch of the dude, and prints from both places, we might be able to wrap this case quickly. I sure do hope so. Makes me jumpy, having a killer roaming around. You take all the precautions you can, okay? Keep your doors locked and alarms on, just in case. And keep an eye on your wife.”

Osley’s phone dings with a text, and he glances down at it. The bonhomie cowboy is gone, and Park sees the sharpness inside the man, the face suddenly tense and wary. It’s an act, Park realizes. The steady stream of good old boy I’m your buddy we’re just havin’ a chat patter is just a way to get people to open up, to say something that can be used against them later.

Osley is on the move. “Gotta go. We’ll be in touch.” And he’s out the door, the car whipping away from the curb with a squeal.

Something has happened, that’s clear enough. Probably another case. Park knows the cops work on more than one at a time.

As Osley promised, the shed is a mess. Park takes it all in, sighs, then starts cleaning up, stacking paper, wiping off the pens, the doorknob, his phone, the safe. Something bad is happening, something out of his control.