Written Off Page 16

  There was a third motive for inviting Brian over, but it’s one I don’t really like to admit to myself: he was willing to stop at Adamstown Pizza on the way and bring me dinner.

  He got to my door, edible Frisbee in hand, before Duffy, who was presumably coming from farther away, perhaps as far as the Andromeda Galaxy. “Cathy’s starting to worry about us,” Brian said as we settled our carbohydrate-rich dinner in my kitchen. “I wish you’d let her come over too.”

  “Next time for sure,” I said, aware that Cathy had never actually set foot in my house. I like her well enough, but when a real friend gets romantically involved, there is a strain on the friendship. Brian had been hurt a number of times before, so I tend to see every woman he meets as a potential late-night decompression session after the inevitable breakup. Cathy had lasted ten months so far, a new record, but I wasn’t letting her off the hook that easy.

  Besides, there was no way I was letting her meet the lunatic who was on his way here even as we spoke.

  “All right, but I’m holding you to next time,” Brian said. “Now get me up to date on the Duffy impersonator.”

  I told him what I knew based on the research Paula had done so far. Brian already knew about the horrific day, about Sunny Maugham and the not-so-veiled threats sent in my direction. I had left out the Duffy stuff because in the shadow of everything else that had happened, it didn’t seem especially important.

  “So there’s physical evidence that this guy existed before four years ago,” Brian said, chewing on a piece of crust. I had gotten some Trader José beer from the fridge (don’t knock it until you try it) so he washed down what he was eating with that. “But nobody she can find from that time remembers ever seeing him or even knowing he existed, is that about the size of it?”

  “That’s what it looks like,” I said. “And I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “Confront him,” Brian suggested. “Tell him what you’ve found out and defy him to explain it.”

  “I’ve done that. He looks me in the face and tells me that there is no explanation other than he sprung to life the minute I configured pixels just the right way on my word processor. And since I don’t actually have evidence that he suffered some mental trauma or was hit on the head by a heavy object, I don’t have anything to refute what he says.”

  That, naturally, is when the doorbell rang. Even in my kitchen, with (literally) every light in the house turned on, with Brian in the room and a couple of slices of pizza still left in the box, I jumped a little at the sound.

  Let’s just agree that my nerves were a touch on the brittle side that night.

  “That’s him,” I told Brian. “I’m dealing with him as if he really is Duffy Madison. I’d like you to follow my lead, but watch him closely. We can compare notes later, okay?”

  That was a stupid plan, so I didn’t give Brian time to protest and headed directly to the front door. And you’d better believe I looked through that peephole to make sure (1) that Duffy was the man outside the door and (2) that there was only one man outside the door. Both those things appeared to be true, so I opened up and let him in.

  “There’s been a breakthrough,” he said even before I could lock the door behind him. “It’s not a huge breakthrough, but it definitely is more than we had before. I think we can start triangulating a position.”

  “It’s nice to see you too, Duffy. I’m a little shaky, but I’ll get by. Thanks for asking.” I started walking back toward the kitchen.

  “I didn’t ask,” Duffy noted. Honestly, he was pointing out that he hadn’t asked me about my state of mind, wondering why I would suggest that he had. Luckily, I speak fluent Duffy Madison, having invented the language all by myself. “I was telling you about—” He stopped short when we reached the kitchen door and he saw Brian standing there.

  “Duffy, this is Brian Coltrane,” I said before my creation could make some uncomfortable comment. “Brian’s a very good friend, and I asked him over. He brought pizza; would you like some?”

  Brian held out his hand. “Mr. Madison,” he said.

  Duffy looked at the hand as if wondering whether it was loaded. He took it, gingerly, perhaps trying to keep it from going off. “We met at the bookstore,” he reminded Brian. “You told me to leave.”

  Brian nodded in agreement. “Yes, I did,” he said. No note of apology.

  “Okay, guys, no need to mark our territory. I just had the floor washed,” I said. “Duffy, do you want some pizza?”

  “No, thank you,” he answered, sitting down on a barstool on the outside of the pass-through. You could see his eyes recording everything he saw, storing each detail for future reference and analysis. No doubt when the killer came and did me in with a sheaf of copy paper, Duffy would be able to pick out the one misplaced fork in the utensil drawer that would crack the case.

  I’d still be dead, but Duffy would have his man. Right at the moment, it was small comfort.

  “You said there’d been a breakthrough,” I reminded him.

  “Yes. I believe our quarry has finally made his first mistake.” There are few things—no, there’s nothing—Duffy Madison likes better than showing off how smart he is. “At my request, the crime scene team did a spectral analysis of the utility closet in which you found Ms. Bledsoe’s body. There was some DNA evidence that did not match the small amount of blood found from Ms. Bledsoe. Specifically, some fingernail residue that did not belong to Ms. Bledsoe.”

  “Great. The DNA test tells us who the killer is, right?” Brian said. “So who is it?”

  I couldn’t get there fast enough because Duffy was busy showing off. “We won’t know even if it’s possible to identify the originator of the residue for some weeks, Mr. Coltrane,” he said. “This is not crime fiction. The lab is overworked and the tests take time.” He looked over at me. “But the key is that in finding the residue, the technicians also discovered something the killer left behind that might be useful in determining his place of origin.”

  Again, I speak Duffy, so I could follow. Brian, who doesn’t read my books, needed the Rosetta Stone version. “You think you can figure out where this guy is from?” Brian nodded now; he got it. “What did they find?”

  “A candy wrapper,” Duffy answered.

  I waited, but nothing else came. “A candy wrapper?” Sometimes it’s best to provide a little prodding.

  “Indeed.” Duffy could have said yes, but why do that when you can sound more like a pompous know-it-all? Sometimes I wasn’t crazy about this guy, and then I remember everything he does comes from my brain. Because even if he was just emulating the character I write, he was doing a really masterful job. It’s disconcerting. “A cellophane wrapper from a hard candy, probably a caramel flavor. It was not a national brand, available only in the store where it was created. The wrapper bore the legend of K. Moore’s Confections, a local candy shop in Syracuse, New York.”

  Maybe it was the impact of the day’s events. Maybe it was the relative lack of sleep, or the disorientation, or the impending death threat, but I wasn’t firing on all cylinders just at that moment. “What’s the big deal about a candy wrapper from Syracuse?” I asked Duffy.

  To be fair, I knew that I was inviting a lecture. Asking Duffy anything is inviting a lecture. But Brian, who had shown no interest in his beer or more pizza since Duffy arrived, was practically immobile now. He’d been listening to every word and was processing. Brian is a good thinker—I actually based some of Duffy’s methods on him, although he doesn’t know it—but he requires time to process the data coming in and uses logic to reach a conclusion.

  “Where did the other crimes take place?” he asked before Duffy could begin his PowerPoint presentation that would undoubtedly accompany his answer to my question about the candy wrapper.

  Duffy pointed at him like a proud teacher whose student had just mastered the times tables. “You’ve got it,” he said. “The three other authors were taken from their homes in Philadelphia; Manhattan, Ka
nsas; and Nashua, New Hampshire.”

  Brian, trying to set a record for clichéd gestures, snapped his fingers. It was a wonder a light bulb didn’t appear right over his head. “And Sunny Maugham lived in Upper Saddle River, here in Jersey,” he said.

  “Precisely.”

  “It’s not that the geography lesson isn’t fascinating,” I broke in, “but I don’t really see what that has to do with the amazing tale of the caramel hard candy and why it helps us with the guy who killed Sunny.”

  “Think, Rachel.” Brian was playing a very Duffy game, forcing me to reach the conclusion myself instead of simply telling me what it all meant like he was supposed to. Maybe I’d based more of Duffy on him than I’d initially realized. “We know all the places this guy committed his crimes, and not one of them is Syracuse.”

  “Yeah, and none of them is Paris,” I noted. “Wouldn’t it be more fun if he left a clue from there?”

  “So far, the perpetrator has left us with no clues to his identity or his location,” Duffy said, undoubtedly perturbed at having to concede the role of professor to someone else for even a few seconds. “But now he has indicated that in addition to his recent trips to Kansas, Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, and here in New Jersey, he has been to Syracuse, New York. And since no crime fiction writers from Syracuse have been reported missing, we know that he did no ‘business’ in that area. That leaves open the possibility that we’re seeking a man from Syracuse.”

  Maybe he was waiting for the applause he must have heard in his head after that display of brilliance, but it was not forthcoming. Not from me, anyway.

  Brian stared at Duffy with something like awe in his eyes. “It’s brilliant,” he said. “You can pinpoint his location through a candy wrapper.”

  “No, I can’t,” Duffy said, shaking his head negatively. “I wish it were that easy. But the fact is, there are too few facts and too many possible scenarios to make that true. The killer could have been passing through Syracuse while traveling from New Hampshire to Philadelphia. He might have ordered the candy through K. Moore’s website. Someone might have sent it to him as a gift. It might not even be his candy wrapper. And those are just the most obvious possibilities. There are hundreds more.”

  For a guy who wanted to be brilliant, he was coming across as simply annoying. “So we’re back where we started,” I said and sat down heavily on one of the barstools. Brian, looking dejected, eyed one of the remaining slices of pizza but did not grab for it. Brian is more disciplined than I am. But I did take a swig of my now-tepid beer. The English are crazy. Warm beer.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” Duffy said.

  “Make up your mind,” I muttered. Alcohol, trauma, and fatigue: a classic combination.

  “This is a breakthrough,” he reiterated. “I told you it was not a huge breakthrough, but it is a beginning. There is no reason to think that this won’t lead us to something very valuable indeed. I think there’s a very good chance that even if we do not find the killer himself through the revelation of the candy wrapper, we will find someone who can lead us in the proper direction. I think the road to this killer goes through Syracuse, New York.”

  Suddenly, fatigue was winning over alcohol and trauma in my weary head. I needed to go to bed, and I mean soon. “That’s nice for you,” I told Duffy. “Now let’s make sure that I lock the front door thoroughly after you leave. I wouldn’t want to screw up your investigation by being the next victim.”

  “I was not planning on leaving just yet,” Duffy said.

  “Yes, you were.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” he went on. “Plans need to be made.” I’m sure Duffy was a fantastic student in school, but I guarantee you he failed Hint Taking.

  “I’m tired, Duffy. If I don’t sleep soon, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

  He stopped and looked at me. He seemed to be processing what I’d said, like a computer that had been fed contradictory data. “Of course,” he breathed out finally. “It has been a long day.”

  Brian came with me as I ushered Duffy toward the front door. “I think I’ll take off too, Rache,” he said. “Cathy’s going to think we’re a thing.” He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed, then slipped out the door and left Duffy standing there even as I was trying to politely shove him out of my house.

  If I could rewind back to five days before, I’d have cancelled the signing at BooksBooksBooks, disconnected my phone, and booked a vacation in Tahiti complete with my laptop to do revisions. I’d never have met Duffy Madison in the flesh, would be blissfully unaware of the rash of mystery author killings, and would have nothing but fond memories of Sunny Maugham, whom I would miss but not have to think of with a pen sticking out of her neck for the rest of my life.

  Yes, things had been better back in the good old days, like this past Monday.

  “Thank you for coming, Duffy.” I opened the door a touch wider. But not too much. You never know who’s lurking in the bushes.

  “It wasn’t a favor,” he said, Mr. Spock persona solidly intact. “I was here to deliver news of the investigation.”

  “Yeah, I got that. Well, good night, now.” An inch or two wider. No more. If a killer wasn’t out there, mosquitoes definitely were. And they sucked blood.

  Duffy did, thankfully, turn and walk out the door. Just as I was closing it, he looked back at me. “What time shall I come by tomorrow?” he asked.

  The world kept getting darker and lighter. I must have been blinking. “Tomorrow?”

  “Certainly. We have work to do.” Duffy seemed to be trying to see me through fog, although there was none. The fog was in one of our minds, but don’t ask me which one.

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?” I said. “You have work to do. You have to go find out who kidnapped and killed Sunny Maugham and those other three women. I have to revise the next book with you in it and worry every time my e-mail program makes a noise that indicates I’ve gotten a message. We have our assigned tasks. You go do yours. You don’t need me for that.”

  Duffy Madison regarded me with what I’m sure he thought of as a kind and professorial demeanor but actually came across as unctuous and condescending. “You have the knowledge I’ve needed on this case. I’ve told you that from the start.”

  “Yeah, and how’s it working out so far?”

  He winced just a little. Duffy hates failing, especially when he doesn’t get to the kidnap victim in time. I’m guessing, because this was the first time in my experience that had ever happened in my world.

  “We have not done well,” he admitted. “But that is not a function of your expertise. It’s my failure to act quickly enough and the perpetrator’s superior ability in concealing his identity and location. If we’re going to find and stop this madman, it will be because you can anticipate your own acts and we can anticipate ways in which he might therefore try to strike.”

  There was something about the word “strike” that sent a shiver up my spine, and in this weather, any shiver was a significant achievement. “I don’t know that I can help anymore,” I said. “What is it you expect me to do with you tomorrow?”

  “We need to research the modus operandi of this perpetrator. That can be done through the prosecutor’s office and the police. But if we assume that you are his next target—and I’m afraid that is an assumption we must make at this point—I will need a complete understanding of your every movement, your thoughts, your intentions. With that knowledge, it might be possible to stay a step ahead this time. You present a unique opportunity. Before this, we had never known who the killer was targeting before she was abducted.”

  “Do you ever hear yourself talk?”

  Duffy seemed puzzled. “All the time,” he said.

  “You don’t try very hard to make the person you’re talking to feel better,” I pointed out.

  “I deal in facts, and they help me to do what I do,” he countered. “With facts, I can help keep you safe.”

  I closed my eye
s in weariness and frustration. “Fine. What is it you want to do tomorrow?”

  “Follow you through the day. Observe. Take notes. I want to be sure of everything you do and every person with whom you come into contact. There is not one aspect of your routine that should be hidden from me. Do you understand?”

  “I’m really afraid that I do.”

  He went on as if I had not spoken. This was not unusual with Duffy. “Also, we’ll be putting together a portrait of the man who has committed these crimes. I need to know where in Syracuse to start, and we’ll begin with the candy company. But we also need to figure out how old he is, when he went to school, and the people who might have known him. It is impossibly difficult to put together a profile of a man who has no name and doesn’t seem to have a past.”

  I looked at him. There was no irony in his voice. “Tell me about it,” I said.

  At least he had the good grace to smile.

  Chapter 19

  Duffy Madison arrived at my house the next morning at seven AM. It was a Saturday. He didn’t even bring coffee. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

  “If I had brought you something, it would have interfered with your routine, and that is what I’m here to observe,” he said, defending himself. “You should go through your day interacting with me as little as possible.” I looked at him, sifting through the thousands of possible retorts to that suggestion. “I mean, pretend I’m not here.”

  “With a great deal of pleasure,” I said.

  He studied me with an intensity that was at once flattering and disconcerting. “I am here to observe your routine,” he said, apparently under the impression that I hadn’t understood that the six other times he’d said it. “What do you usually do at this time of day?”