Ghost writer, p.13
Ghost Writer, page 13
“Good morning, Jonathan,” she said, unusually jolly.
“Good morning.” Jonathan stopped at her desk. “Hold all my phone calls this morning, please, Edie.”
Edie nodded and said, “What about visitors?”
“I’m not expecting any appointments.”
“Yes, I know, but what about—”
“Use your discretion.”
“Yes, but—”
“Edie, I trust you.”
Edie sighed and watched Jonathan as he headed into his office. As he opened the door, which he couldn’t remember having closed on Friday when he left, he found the sight before him more than he could handle.
He froze in the doorway as Edie called, “I tried to warn you.”
“Well, it’s your office, Jonathan. Come in,” Francis Flowers said, his little mousy nose twitching with delight.
“Get out of my chair,” Jonathan demanded with irritation.
“Just keeping it warm for you, my friend,” he charmed, scooting out of it and around the desk. “Quite nippy this morning, isn’t it?”
“It just got colder,” Jonathan mumbled and sat down behind his desk. “Francis, what are you doing here?”
Zippy folded his arms together and tried to stand as straight as he could. “What do you think I’m doing here, Jonathan? Do you think I’m here to get you coffee? Or discuss why everyone in marketing should be shot? Or why gardening book sales are up on the East Coast and down on the West Coast?” Jonathan glanced up. “You think I don’t know your disrespect for my kind, Jonathan? You laugh behind closed doors. You sneer. You make jokes at my expense because I ghostwrite gardening books.”
Jonathan sighed heavily. “Francis, has there ever been a day in your life when you weren’t bitter?”
Zippy didn’t miss a beat. He pointed a finger at Jonathan’s desk. Jonathan hadn’t even noticed, but right there on top, in plain view, sat a crisp manila envelope with something inside. His heart cramped.
Jonathan could barely look up at Zippy. Zippy seemed to grow irritated. “You can’t tell me you don’t have the time. I know you do.” He pointed his finger at Jonathan’s face. “Don’t you lie to me, Jonathan Harper, big, bad editor of high-and-mighty fiction.” He paused and then quipped, “Jiminy Christmas, Jonathan. It’s not going to kill you.”
Jonathan lightly touched the manila envelope. “Did you read this?”
Zippy’s eyes scrunched together and he cocked his head to the side. “Hello? McFly? Hello? Maybe I do need to get you that cup of coffee!” Zippy grabbed the envelope off the desk and began slipping the pages out. Jonathan practically jumped over the top of the desk.
“Give me that!” he yelled at Zippy, who was so startled he dropped the envelope and the pages to the floor. Zippy stepped back a couple of feet as Jonathan dropped to the ground and scrambled to pick up all the pages as fast as he could. As he did, though, he realized something dreadful. This was not the mysterious manuscript. This was Zippy’s proposal for his novel.
Jonathan quickly snapped his head up to look at Zippy, whose eyes were wide and whose hand was moving toward the inside pocket of his jacket, presumably for a Ziploc bag.
“Francis, please, calm down. I didn’t mean to . . . I was just . . . this is a big misunder—”
Zippy’s eyes were watering and his nose was reddening, twitching and scrunching like he’d just sniffed pepper. Jonathan watched as Zippy pulled out a single tissue.
“Aaahhhchhhooo!” The velocity of the sneeze tore the tissue in two and managed to miss everything that was supposed to catch it. Zippy removed his glasses and blotted his eyes.
“Um, you okay, Francis?” Jonathan asked carefully.
“F-f-fine . . . aachhooo!” And then, one right after another, sneezes so powerful his eyes looked as if they might pop out. And unfortunately, the two small pieces of tissue were doing nothing but blowing in the breeze. Jonathan looked around for a box of tissues but didn’t see one.
“Edie! Edie! Get some Kleenex in here! Now!”
Two eternities passed before Edie came in, holding a stack of tissues. Jonathan snatched them from her hands and threw them at Zippy, who managed to catch a couple between sneezes.
“Aaaahhhhhchhhhooooo! Aaaaahhhhhchhhhoooo!” On and on it went. It was like a chain reaction. A few people had gathered in the doorway to gawk.
“Breathe, breathe, breathe,” Jonathan chanted, and Zippy seemed to calm a bit. A sneeze inadvertently slipped out here and there.
A few moments passed as Zippy continued to breathe in and out, holding a damp tissue to his bright red nose. Edie stood at a safe distance in the doorway. Jonathan was breathing in and out himself, trying to stop his racing heart and calm himself down.
Finally, everything seemed to stop and Zippy blotted his eyes, put his glasses back on, folded his Ziploc bag, and stuffed it in his shirt. He then looked at Jonathan.
Jonathan played with the edges of the manuscript, careful not to make any sudden move that would cause Zippy to feel in the least bit insecure or frightened.
“Well. You’re quite the grizzly in the morning, aren’t you?” Zippy said as he straightened his shirt and wiped off his mouth. “So the rumors are true.”
“Rum—?” Jonathan stopped himself. He didn’t want to know. Zippy was probably making it up anyway. “I’m sorry. It was a misunderstanding. I thought this was . . . was something else.”
Zippy’s eyes, the rims red and puffy, narrowed into cutting slits. “Like what?”
Jonathan tried to recover quickly. “Um . . . a proposal from an author who, um, wants to remain anonymous. She’s using a pen name, but her real name is on the, um, proposal. So that’s why I reacted like that.”
Zippy hardly bought the story but, in his crudely annoying way, changed the subject toward himself. “Well, no, that’s actually my proposal. You think you might read it without biting my head, arm, or leg off?”
Jonathan wanted to punch Zippy, but the next best thing he could do would be to get rid of him. “Sure. Of course. I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”
“Don’t give me that ‘as soon as you can’ lie, Jonathan. I’ve been in this business long enough to know an editor saying, ‘I’ll get to it as soon as I can’ is the same thing as a church member saying, ‘I’ll be praying for you.’ Neither one is true.”
Jonathan frowned and laughed a little. “Francis, how do you know about church members?”
Zippy looked at him as if he were the dumbest person on earth. “Hello? McFly? I go to church!”
“You go to church?”
Zippy crossed his arms against his chest. “Of course I do. I’m the most morally sound person in this company, Jonathan. When all you people go out for your smokes and drinks and chews and women, do you ever see me coming along?”
Jonathan bit his lip to try not to laugh as he thought, No one ever invites you, Zippy. But he remained silent.
“In fact,” he said quite snidely, “if I didn’t know better, Jonathan, I might suspect that your previous reaction to what was in that envelope was due to the fact that you read those steamy romance novels we publish and don’t want anyone to know.” Zippy tipped his head forward and lifted his eyebrows as his voice quieted to a hush, the few people who had gathered taking their cue to exit. “You know those things are as addicting as porn, don’t you, Jonathan? If you need help, I’ve got a 1-800 number for a support group that helps men—”
“Francis!” Jonathan barked. “What in the world are you talking about?!”
Zippy simply held up his hands and smiled. “I know it’s embarrassing, but if you change your mind, let me know.”
“About what?”
Zippy backed out of the office in almost a bow. “Denial is the first hump to overcome. . . .”
Jonathan was about to scream at Zippy down the hallway when Sydney suddenly appeared in the doorway.
“Sydney . . . hi. I wasn’t expecting to . . . I mean, I thought . . .” Jonathan fumbled over his words until he finally stopped himself and drew in some air. “Sorry. I’ve just had a very exhausting morning and it’s barely past eight.”
Jonathan watched as Sydney entered, dressed in a short but conservative dark skirt and a white silk shirt. Her short black hair was slicked back. She was striking.
“I can come back,” she offered.
“No—please, no,” he begged and motioned for her to sit, noticing her face was still bruised. “You’re the first good thing I’ve seen all morning.”
Sydney blushed at that statement and Jonathan did, too. His emotions swirled, suddenly, and he remembered his words to Reverend Gregory. As she took a seat and smoothed out her skirt, Jonathan wondered if he was, indeed, in love with this young woman.
“What can I do for you?” Jonathan asked, smoothing his own tie and pants as he sat down.
Sydney paused, looked at him curiously, and then said, “Aren’t we still on to see Naomi Yates today? To have lunch with her?”
Jonathan realized he had completely forgotten. “Yes, of course, of course. I’m sorry, I’ve just been a little swamped this morning. I simply forgot the day. Yes. We’ll depart at eleven-fifteen.”
Sydney nodded and stood. “I’ll meet you downstairs then.”
“Great.”
“I hope your day gets better.”
“Thank you.”
Sydney was about out the door when Jonathan said, “Sydney?” She turned. “Your face . . . how are you recovering from your . . . car wreck?”
Sydney lightly touched the bruise on her cheek, smiled sweetly, and said, “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
Jonathan nodded and watched her leave, only to be met with a disapproving scowl on Edie’s face. Jonathan ignored her by turning around and throwing Zippy’s proposal on top of his pile of unread manuscripts. He knew if he didn’t read Zippy’s proposal soon, he would pay. He vowed to give it a quick read and get the rejection over with. The longer he drew it out, the more painful it would be for everyone.
He rubbed his forehead to try to push away the headache that had suddenly crept into his brain. He was still startled by the way he’d reacted to that manila envelope sitting on his desk. All of this was certainly beginning to affect him, and if he wasn’t careful he was going to expose everything to all the wrong people.
He circled his head around on his neck and decided to distract himself by reading more of Clyde’s novel. He had tried earlier, but too many distractions kept him from reading more than a couple of chapters. Whether or not Clyde was the author of the other manuscript was yet to be seen, but Jonathan couldn’t deny that he was still very intrigued by the new story Clyde was writing, and if it ended as well as it started, he hoped to propose it to the committee soon. Nellie would be thrilled that Clyde had one last novel, and since Jonathan had presented a few bombs in the past few months, this could only help. He also hoped that while he read, his mind would clear of any thoughts he might have of Sydney. He had a forty-five-minute car ride alone with her. He was scared to even think of what feelings might make their way into that car.
He found where he had left off and began to read.
Esther Caladaras, with her big position, her big office, and her big mouth, was actually a rather small person, I assumed, when she wasn’t wearing her three-inch heels. On this morning she was dressed in a fitted two-piece gray suit that accentuated every single curve of her body. Somehow, though a feminist who believed women have gotten the short end of the stick since the beginning of time, she didn’t mind using her femininity to help her in all sorts of ways.
“You what?” she asked directly, raising her black eyebrows at me.
Esther Caladaras was famous for being a DA who was always mad about something. It made her great at her job but terrible to be around. However, I knew she was my only hope.
“Look, you were busy when I called,” I said, throwing up my hands innocently and smiling.
“I told you to talk to me first,” she said harshly.
“I know, I know,” I sighed and looked at her with sincerity. “But time is short, Esther, and I had to make a move.”
Esther pressed her lips together. “I’d be upset about this, but I just think you’re crazy. Suddenly someone on death row is innocent? Hardly a first.” She picked up a lit cigarette and tapped it against the ashtray. “Keaton, I must say, you seem to be on quite a crusade.”
I tried to hide my anxiousness, though I knew I had a tremendous battle ahead of me. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“Do you know how many hundreds of calls I get every time someone is about to be executed, Keaton?” She had the ability to smoke and talk and never miss a word or a puff. “The religious right wing calling me the spawn of Satan or a liberal—take your pick. The definition’s the same. The left wing calling me a gutless conservative and a hater of humanity. And the friends and family, you know, the people who haven’t seen him in years and are probably the reason he has ended up where he is, calling to let me know I’m about to destroy their lives.” Esther Caladaras laid her cigarette gently in the ashtray. “So, Agent Keaton Spade, I’ve got to believe you’re here to do something other than condemn me to hell for doing my job.”
Her eyes were as dark as black steel. Esther was a very hard woman. Sure, she wore lipstick and earrings and skirts and long hair, but behind all that was nothing short of a relentless machine who made it her job to convict people in their sins and make sure they got the harshest of punishments.
I finally spoke, keeping my voice low and soft. “Esther, I appreciate your seeing me about this. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think—”
“He was innocent,” she said, laughing. “Save the speech for the press, okay? Give me the facts. That’s all I care about.”
I swallowed and nodded all at once. “Yes, well, you are familiar with Dietrich Donomar—”
Esther slid off her desk to go sit in her chair. “Of course I am! I put that crazy pig behind bars. You know that.” Her hands balled up into fists all at once. “And may I remind you, Agent Spade, that it was your profiler who insisted he not sizzle. The FBI makes my stomach turn,” she said with agitation, seeming to forget I was in the room.
“Yes, well, perhaps keeping Donomar alive was ordained by some higher power,” I said, hoping to pique her interest. “Someone innocent has been blamed for one of Donomar’s murders.”
“Jerome Mitchner.”
“As I mentioned, yes.”
Esther Caladaras opened a file on her desk. “With all due respect, Keaton, I prosecuted Mitchner. I know all the facts of the case.”
“Which are . . . ?” I said, hoping to set all this up in her own words.
Esther paused but then obliged. “Which are that Mr. Mitchner killed Manuel Roberts over a faulty gun exchange. Everyone was there when they pulled Roberts out of the North Haven drainage ditch. He had the motive, three witnesses testified to Mitchner’s threats of killing Roberts,” she said, reading some piece of paper from the file, “and, oh yes . . . he confessed.”
I braced myself. “There have been cases in which innocent men have confessed to crimes they didn’t commit.”
Esther leaned forward on her desk. “Not on my watch.”
And now for my trump card. “Well, Donomar has a different version of that story.”
“Oh yeah?” she said, mildly amused.
“Yes.” I, too, leaned forward for dramatic emphasis.
“And what version does that nut job tell?”
I smiled a little. “According to Donomar, Manuel Roberts was killed in Bear Woods, not in the North Haven drainage ditch.”
Esther played along. “Really? And how does he know that?”
“Because he killed him.”
Esther paused. I had her . . . at least I had her interest. But it was going to take a lot more than interest to get this DA to budge. “As easy as it would be for me to believe Donomar is responsible for every murder in the state, this file here on my desk says otherwise.” She closed it. “And I’m not seeing any evidence of proof on your end, Agent.”
“Let me finish,” I urged.
“Please, don’t let me stop you.” She stood and began filing the folder away.
“I hadn’t seen Donomar in months. I was surprised when he called me to come see him.” Esther’s back was toward me as she filed. “Esther, I’m telling you, what happened in there was remarkable.”
She turned. “Well, don’t make me guess, Keaton.”
I hurriedly continued. “Donomar seemed regretful for what he’d done.” Esther laughed out loud, but I tried not to let that affect me. “He started saying he was remorseful, and that all the pictures and hate letters the families had sent him were starting to take effect.” She laughed again, but this time it wasn’t as harsh. “And then he started talking about trying to right a wrong.”
Esther turned around. “Right a wrong? A wrong?” Her whole body shook. “You worked the case, Keaton! You saw what he did to those people! He is a diabolical killer. He has no conscience!”
“Maybe. But he apparently has some regrets.”
Esther rolled her eyes.
“Esther, please hear me out on this. Please.” She softened a bit and I continued. “Donomar said that there was a man on death row who was innocent, who was there for a crime he committed.”
Esther cocked her head upward, her defenses high but her mind reeling.
“And then he proceeded to tell me simply this: that Manuel Roberts was killed in Bear Woods, not North Haven.”
Esther stopped me by throwing up her hands. “Keaton, this is fine and everything, but it’s not making sense to me. Roberts’s body was pulled from the drainage ditch at North Haven. I mean, so what if Donomar says differently. So what?”
