“It makes perfect sense,” Lindsey said. “You know the agents and publishers and you can get a good deal for the book. Plus, you’re more knowledgeable about the backlist and what to do with it.”
“The backlist?” Polly asked.
“His old titles, all in paperback,” Bruce replied.
“Will they still earn royalties?” Polly asked.
“Oh yes, especially with a new book out. The estate will earn royalties for a few more years, then they’ll trickle away, I guess.”
“What about film interest?” Lindsey asked.
“Nelson’s had that in the past, though nothing happened. Almost every bestseller gets its share of attention from film and television. But I’m not sure I want the attention from the bad guys. We’re laboring here under the assumption that Nelson was killed for a reason, right? If I’m the one pushing his books, you might find me with a gash or two in the skull.”
Lindsey waved him off. “They’re done and they’re not coming back. No way they’ll risk another job like this. It was a pretty stupid move in the first place. They wanted to stop Nelson from publishing the book, but they didn’t know that he had finished it. Now it will be published anyway.”
Polly said, “We’re assuming it’s good enough to publish, right?”
“Right,” Bruce replied.
“I’ve told you this, Bruce. I can’t read his stuff. I’ve tried many times and it just doesn’t appeal to me. I can’t imagine having to deal with his literary estate for years to come. I’m out of my league with the rest of his estate. I really want you to take the job.”
“Okay, that’s one reason,” Bruce said. “But the other reason is to attract this informant person who we think might actually exist but we’re not sure.”
“Correct,” said Lindsey. “We think it could be a crucial part of our plan.”
“And who’s ‘we’?”
“My people, Bruce. My team. This is what we do, what you’re paying for. We lay the traps, create the fiction, put the right people in place, and hope it all works. Just like three years ago. You said yourself our plan was brilliant.”
“It was, but it didn’t work.”
“What happened three years ago?” Polly asked.
Bruce smiled and said, “Let’s save it for dinner.”
A clerk walked in with three bulky manuscripts, all four inches thick. He dropped them on Bruce’s desk, handed him the thumb drive, and left the room.
Lindsey said, “Well, I guess we have our work in front of us.”
Polly said, “I really don’t want to read that. The summary was tedious enough.”
Bruce said, “I’m afraid you have no choice. You are both welcome to retire to my home and read on the porch, the veranda, in a hammock, or wherever. Noelle is there and she would enjoy having you around.”
“Where are you going to read?” Polly asked.
“Right here. I’m fast and I need to keep an eye on the store just in case a lost customer stumbles in.”
Early reviews for Pulse were mixed. When they gathered for cocktails at dark on the veranda, the three weary readers compared notes. Bruce claimed to be almost finished, though he admitted he often skimmed as he blitzed through books. He was enjoying the story, said he was hooked. Lindsey professed to be no literary critic and her tastes ran to nonfiction and biography, but she was enjoying the story. The writing wasn’t that great. Polly was hardly halfway through the pile of five hundred typewritten pages and seriously doubted if she could finish.
“Can you sell it?” she asked.
“Of course,” Bruce replied. “Given Nelson’s track record, some publisher somewhere will give us a contract. It’s very commercial and the pages turn.” Bruce did not miss Polly’s use of the word “you,” as if the probate court had already substituted him as Nelson’s literary executor. He waited for her to ask “How much?” but she did not.
Noelle appeared with a bottle of white wine and refilled the glasses. She was certainly welcome to sit and join the conversation. Bruce had made it clear that he told her everything, but she left to check on dinner.
Bruce said, “I keep asking myself as I read how much of this can really be true. Is there really a drug that can prolong life in the sickest of old people? A drug whose true side effects are really unknown because the patients are comatose and dying anyway?”
Lindsey said, “It’s bizarre, but right now we have to assume it’s real. Nelson was murdered for a reason and until we know otherwise, we are assuming it’s because of this novel.”
“Which makes the informant all the more plausible,” Polly said. “Because there was no way Nelson knew anything about this story. I’ve been on the Internet for two months and have found nothing even remotely similar to this scenario.”
“Same here,” Lindsey said. “If it’s true, it’s a deeply guarded secret.”
“With billions on the line,” Bruce said.
“So let’s speculate,” Polly said. “You’re Nelson Kerr and you’ve written three bestsellers, none dealing with drugs, healthcare, the like. You’re approached by an informant, probably someone working for the drugmaker or the nursing homes, and this informant wants to talk. He wants to expose the bad guys.”
Bruce said, “And he also wants some money. He’s sticking his neck out and he wants to be compensated.”
“Why not just go to the FBI?” Polly asked.
“Because he’s not sure it’s a crime,” Lindsey said. “The drug is prolonging lives, not killing people.”
“But it’s fraud, right?”
“Don’t know. It’s never been litigated, never been heard of. The informant isn’t sure he’ll get anything for blowing the whistle. He has a conscience. He’s frightened. He needs his job. So he decides to approach Nelson Kerr, an author he admires.”
Bruce said, “And Nelson started digging and asked too many questions. The bad guys realized they might have a problem, and they were probably watching him. When they realized what he was doing, they panicked and decided to take him out.”
“A really stupid move,” Lindsey said. “Think about it. It has already been reported that he died under suspicious circumstances during a hurricane. He had just finished a novel, his last one, and it’s about to be published. Can you imagine the media frenzy when word leaks that the author was murdered? If you’re the guy who ordered the hit, publicity is the last thing you want. There will be more people digging into the murder while the book is flying off the shelves. A really stupid move by someone.”
“Agreed. But who?” Polly asked.
“We’ll find out,” Lindsey said.
“I’d like to hear your plan,” Bruce said.
“We are paying for it,” Polly added.
Lindsey relaxed in her chair and kicked off her sandals. She took a sip of wine and seemed to savor it. Noelle appeared in the doorway and said dinner would be ready in five minutes if anyone wanted to wash up.
Lindsey finally said, “Initially, we’re moving on two fronts. The first one we’ve discussed and it calls for Bruce to become the literary executor, sell the book, and generate as much buzz as possible over the author’s death. We hope that this will attract Nelson’s informant. The second front involves the infiltration of the industry. There are eight companies that control ninety-five percent of all nursing home beds. Six are publicly traded, and because they answer to shareholders they generally comply with regulations and stay out of trouble. The other two are privately owned and both are bad actors. They get sued all the time and are notorious for health violations, shoddy recordkeeping, pathetic facilities, it’s a long sad list. You wouldn’t want anyone you know staying in one of their homes. Both are billion-dollar corporations. So, we go in.”
Bruce and Polly were left hanging and waited for more. Finally, Bruce said, “You used the word ‘infiltrate.’ ”
“Yes. We have methods. We’re not the government, Bruce, and, as you know, we have ways of gathering information that some might consider in the gray areas. We never break laws, but we’re also not bound by such legal niceties as probable cause and valid warrants.”
Polly said, “Excuse me, but what are we talking about?”
“I’ll explain it over dinner,” Bruce said. “But you’re working for us, Lindsey, and it’s fair for us to ask if you operate outside the law.”
“No. We know the gray areas. As do you, Bruce.”
Noelle was an excellent cook and her lobster ravioli was well received. The conversation was about flood insurance, or lack thereof, and how many people on the island were realizing that their losses were not covered. As with all storms, the early responders and aid groups were crucial and much appreciated, but with time they had moved on to the next disaster.
Bruce filled his wineglass and shoved his plate a few inches away. “So, Polly, I don’t know if you recall, but three or four years ago some valuable manuscripts were stolen from the Firestone Library at Princeton. Though they were considered priceless, they were insured for twenty-five million. Princeton didn’t want the money. It wanted the manuscripts. The insurance company didn’t want to write a check, so it decided to track down the manuscripts. It hired Lindsey’s firm.”
Lindsey smiled and went along like a good sport.
“At the time, I was a pretty serious dealer in the rare book trade, a dark and murky world on the best of days, and I was even suspected at times of handling stolen rare books. Don’t ask if I did that because I will not answer, and if I do answer I have been known to dabble in fiction, like my favorite writers.”
Noelle said, “I’m not sure you should tell this story, Bruce.”
“I will not tell everything. So, in the course of events, some people came to suspect me of having possession of the Princeton manuscripts. Again, don’t ask. A very talented operative working for Lindsey’s firm set up this elaborate plan to infiltrate my home, business, and circle of friends. The plan was to get really close to me, and snoop. They zeroed in on Mercer Mann and offered her enough money. She was broke and a good target. She also had a history with the island. Mercer showed up at her grandmother’s cottage on the beach, said she would be here for six months to finish her novel. It was a great story, a great cover, and it worked perfectly. Until it didn’t. She became a delightful friend of ours and she sat at this table many times. We adored Mercer, still do. A writer with enormous talent.”
“Did she find the manuscripts?” Polly asked.
“No, but she got close enough to send in the FBI. They were a bit late. Barely. Some money changed hands and the manuscripts eventually made it back to Princeton. In the end, everybody was happy.”
“And that’s enough of that story,” Noelle said.
“Indeed it is.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed, or comforted?” Polly asked.
“Impressed,” Bruce said. “Lindsey’s firm is not cheap and it’s worth the money we’re paying.”
Jean-Luc finally died the week before Thanksgiving. Noelle seemed to take it well, though Bruce left her alone. If she was grieving he certainly didn’t want to know about it. She was subdued for several days but put on her game face and did not mention her longtime boyfriend. Bruce had some business in New York and left the island for a week.
The more he left home, the more he thought about escaping. The island was frazzled and his neighbors were weary. Leo hit three and a half months earlier and with time it was becoming apparent that the recovery would take years. It was there every day, staring you in the face. A stretch of fence to mend or replace. An old tree with debris still stuck in the limbs. A leaky roof that no contractor had time to fix. An abandoned house too damaged to repair. A drainage ditch choked with garbage. A city park filled with FEMA trailers and desperate people sitting in lawn chairs around them, waiting for something. In the woods nearby, people even more desperate still living in tents.
For a spell, Bruce considered closing the store, taking a year off, running away to some exotic place with Noelle and doing nothing but reading all the great books he had neglected. He had no debts, plenty of money in the bank. He could call it a sabbatical or whatever and reopen at some time in the future when the island was whole again and the tourists were back. But the moment passed. Bay Books was too important to the island, and Bruce could not imagine life without it. That, plus he was loyal to his employees and customers.
The Christmas season was at hand, and one-third of all book sales took place during the holidays. He and his staff decided to decorate the store even more than usual, and keep longer hours, and offer more discounts and giveaways, and throw some parties. The island needed its bookstore to hold things together and remind everyone that life was returning to normal.
Bruce spent most of December at his desk reworking Pulse. He had always enjoyed editing the works of other writers, and he read so many popular novels that he could always tweak here and there and improve them. For the first and perhaps only time in his life, he now had the chance to fiddle with an entire manuscript. Bruce paid a typist to produce a clean draft, and when it was finished he coerced Bob Cobb into reading it. Bob was not that impressed with the writing or the story, but then he was often too critical of other writers. Nick was home from Venice, and Bruce shipped him a hard copy in Nashville. He read it in two days and said it would sell.
The first week in January, Bruce went to court with the probate lawyer and got himself appointed as the executor of Nelson’s literary estate. The old judge had never heard of such a position, but was happy to sign the order nonetheless.
The following day, he sent the book to Nelson’s former editor at Simon & Schuster. They had been discussing it for a month and its arrival was no surprise. Nelson had become unhappy with the editor for some vague reason that no longer mattered. Bruce, on behalf of the estate, was not looking for a fat contract. The book did not deserve one, and no publisher would be willing to overpay a dead writer who couldn’t promote the book, let alone follow it with a sequel. And money was not an issue. Nelson’s estate would eventually be a windfall to Polly and her parents, and they were not greedy people.
Left unsaid was the fact that Bruce didn’t want a big contract. More money meant more publicity, especially when the word “murder” got tossed around, and Bruce was not looking forward to the attention. Ingrid was out there somewhere, and if not her then probably someone else. Lindsey Wheat was adamant in her belief that those responsible for Nelson’s murder were not that smart and would not strike again, but then she worked in the shadows and few knew her name. Mr. Cable had been appointed by the court, with all the details available online.
A week later, the editor called and offered $250,000 for all rights—hardback, e-book, paperback, and foreign. The money was about half of what the book was worth, and had Bruce been a tough literary agent he would have stormed off and threatened an auction. But he was not, and since he was earning nothing from the transaction he pondered it for a day, pushed for $300,000 and got it.
In fact, the contract was perfect. It was generous enough to be fair to the estate but low enough not to raise eyebrows. Bruce emailed the editor a press release he had worked on for hours. It read:
THE LAST NOVEL OF POPULAR SUSPENSE WRITER NELSON KERR HAS BEEN PURCHASED BY SIMON & SCHUSTER, HIS LONGTIME PUBLISHER. THE NOVEL, PULSE, WILL BE RELEASED NEXT YEAR WITH AN ANTICIPATED FIRST RUN OF 100,000 COPIES. MR. KERR’S THREE PREVIOUS NOVELS—SWAN CITY, THE LAUNDRY, AND HARD WATER—WERE ALL PUBLISHED BY SIMON & SCHUSTER AND BECAME BESTSELLERS. HIS EDITOR, TOM DOWDY, SAID: “WE ARE DELIGHTED TO RECEIVE NELSON’S LATEST, THOUGH WE ARE STILL DEVASTATED BY HIS DEATH. HE TALKED ABOUT THIS NOVEL FOR YEARS AND WE ARE CERTAIN HIS MANY FANS WILL ENJOY IT.”
MR. KERR WAS A RESIDENT OF CAMINO ISLAND, FLORIDA, AND DIED UNDER MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES LAST AUGUST DURING HURRICANE LEO. HIS DEATH IS STILL BEING INVESTIGATED BY THE FLORIDA STATE POLICE. HIS FRIEND AND BOOKSTORE OWNER BRUCE CABLE HAS BEEN APPOINTED AS HIS LITERARY EXECUTOR AND HANDLED THE SALE TO SIMON & SCHUSTER. MR. CABLE WAS NOT AVAILABLE FOR COMMENT.
THE ESTATE IS OFFERING A SIZABLE REWARD FOR INFORMATION REGARDING MR. KERR’S DEATH.