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  I went into the kitchen to start coffee. If Duffy wasn’t going to provide, I’d have to do so myself. Never rely on a man when you can rely on yourself, my father always told me. I made a mental note to call Dad the minute Duffy left so I could complain to him about Duffy.

  “It’s the weekend, Duffy,” I said, stifling a yawn. “At this time of the day, I’m generally sound asleep. But I had to get up because some lunatic was ringing my doorbell at seven on a Saturday.”

  Again the puzzled look. “That was me,” Duffy said.

  “Bingo.” There was one coffee filter left. I wrote that down on a pad I keep next to the fridge that becomes a shopping list eventually. This was the fourth page I’d started, because I always seem to need a piece of scratch paper in a hurry and I never bother to protect the sheet with my list on it. Which was probably how I got this low on coffee filters to begin with. “So now you can observe me getting coffee and reading the newspaper.”

  He did nothing else for the next forty-five minutes. I drank coffee and read the newspaper. Duffy sat by and said nothing so unobtrusively that I almost had a heart attack twice when I looked up and saw him there, having forgotten he was currently occupying my house.

  The New York Times sends some of its Sunday sections on Saturday, which technically makes them Saturday sections, but I’ll take what I can get. One thing they always include in the Saturday bag is the Sunday magazine, and that’s fabulous because it means I get an extra day to figure out the Sunday crossword puzzle. I took the magazine out of the blue plastic bag (you’d think the Times would be more into biodegradable materials) and walked from the kitchen to my office. Once there, I opened the lid on my printer/copier/fax machine and carefully folded the magazine back to reveal the puzzle. I pushed a few buttons on the copier, and it began making me facsimile crossword puzzles. I checked to make sure the copy that came out was properly folded to have both edges of the puzzle and the clues visible; you have to be careful with the Sunday puzzle.

  I was taking the second copy out of the tray when I heard that voice behind me again. “Why are you making two copies?”

  Third heart attack of the day; I spun. “Jesus, Duffy, don’t do that!” I almost crushed the paper I had in my hand and pushed the button for a new copy.

  “Do what?” He seemed genuinely confused.

  “Don’t sneak up on me like that. You scared me half to death.”

  Duffy’s eyes were slits. “You knew I was here,” he said, the truth so obvious it was practically painful to him. “Why do you make more than one copy of the crossword puzzle? Why don’t you just write the answers in the magazine?”

  “I always make two copies of the Sunday puzzle,” I said, sitting down in my desk chair and choosing my pen very carefully. There’s no writing surface on my desk, so I keep a clipboard nearby for this very purpose, and I clipped the first copy onto it for easy solving. Or at least easy writing of the letters. Solving was not the clipboard’s responsibility. “That way if I make too many mistakes, I have another copy so I can start writing again.”

  “Why not just write in pencil on the original page?” he asked. It was like having an inquisitive six-year-old in the house; they want to know everything.

  “Because I like pen better than pencil, and if I make too many mistakes on the magazine page, not only will I not be able to solve the puzzle, I won’t be able to read the article on the other side of the page. Can I ask how your knowing this is going to track down our pal in Syracuse?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Duffy answered. Well, that settled it, right?

  “I’m going to do the puzzle now. Feel free to go back to not talking.” Without awaiting a response, I started in on the Sunday. There’s always a gimmick (real solvers call it a “theme”) on Sundays, and this one was no exception. But I hadn’t yet been able to figure out what the longer clues—the ones associated with the gimmick—had in common yet. I grazed over the clues looking for real gimmes and found a few I filled in quickly. It gives one a sense of confidence.

  Once the easiest clues were out of the way (which, since the solver was me, didn’t take long), I started in on what I could glean from the letters I’d already solved. Finding the proper crosses is what saves the bacon of many a solver every day. One clue asked for an “AL MVP in ’76.” I knew enough to figure that was a baseball clue, but I know nothing about baseball. So I swiveled in my chair and turned to every writer’s favorite source of quick information. I Googled “MVP 1976” and was rewarded with two names. Unfortunately, the two names (Thurman Munson and Joe Morgan) both corresponded with the crosses I had, the M and the N. I looked at Duffy.

  “You know anything about baseball?” I asked.

  “A little,” he responded. “Why do you ask?”

  “I need to know if Thurman Munson or Joe Morgan was in the American League.” I turned back to Google and quickly got the answer: Munson.

  “That was for the crossword?” Duffy asked suddenly.

  I swiveled to face him. “Yeah.”

  His eyes showed shock. “That’s cheating,” he gasped.

  I turned back toward the puzzle. “Go back to being an observer,” I said.

  * * *

  This went on through my completion—yes, with some help—of the puzzle. Now, I don’t know where you come down on this, but I believe that the puzzle is supposed to be an avenue for information as well as entertainment. If I discover new facts through a tough clue that requires some online assistance, I believe that is in the puzzle constructor’s mission, not outside of it.

  That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

  Then Duffy followed me through my morning routine, which unbeknownst to him, did not usually include a forty-minute shower during which he was instructed to stay as far from that part of the house as possible and to take me at my word that I was indeed becoming cleaner. I also cut out my exercise regimen, which mostly consists of me doing some Wii Fit yoga and then power walking around the house, because there was no way I was doing any of that stuff in front of Duffy. So I didn’t tell him about it.

  He did watch while I revised some of the latest Duffy novel, which was disconcerting in itself. There had been enough times I’d felt the character standing over my shoulder, but now it was a literal reality, and that was more than I could take.

  “Isn’t there some investigating you should be doing?” I asked.

  “I am observing you.”

  “Yeah I get that, Artoo, but the fact is that you’re a distraction and you’re making it hard for me to do my work.” I stood and started throwing a stress ball I had on my desk into the air and catching it. It doesn’t relieve any stress, but it does give me something to think about that isn’t tied to the motivations of killers and the clues that might be dropped in to distract the reader’s suspicions. Writing a mystery is intricate enough without an existential reminder that your character is a living being right in the room.

  Duffy looked uncomfortable. “What am I doing that obstructs your working day?” he asked. “I need to see it as it would be if I weren’t here.”

  “The only way that works is if you’re not here. Don’t you get it—I’m writing Duffy Madison with Duffy Madison on my couch! That’s just too bizarre, even for me!” The stress ball hit one of the spinning arms on the ceiling fan, sending it shooting across the room and toward a pile of books I wasn’t reading.

  Duffy watched that and appeared to be debating whether to call in a psychological evaluation expert, a criminal profiler, or a SWAT team. “I can’t help being myself,” he said quietly. “How can I observe your routine if I’m not here?”

  I thought of suggesting that he rent the house across the street and buy a telescope or some surveillance equipment, but I was afraid he’d take me seriously. “I don’t know how you can,” I said gently. “I really don’t think this is going to work. I can’t behave like myself with you here.”

  “Why not?” Maybe he really was just four years old. He asked questio
ns like some of my friends’ kids.

  “Because I can’t decide if you’re really my fictional creation or if you just think you are. It’s like I’m trying to figure out which one of us is the crazy person.” There. It was out. I didn’t feel any better, but at least it wasn’t hanging over me.

  “Neither of us is crazy,” Duffy said. He stood up to pace as he talked. I’d written that for him. “It isn’t unreasonable for you to be skeptical of me; to you, my existence doesn’t make sense. And while my position on my origin is certainly unorthodox, from my point of view, having eliminated all impossible options, my conclusion is the only logical one. We have two different perspectives and therefore different ideas of what can be possible.”

  That really didn’t help much, but it made me feel better. I must have smiled at him, because he stopped pacing and his posture relaxed. “So what you’re saying is that we don’t have to agree on this; we should just both continue to act on our own view of the situation.”

  He smiled now. “That’s it,” he said.

  “Do you want to be some help to me?” I asked. The thought had just popped into my head, and suddenly it made all the sense in the world.

  “Of course, if I can observe you while I do so.”

  I was already back at my desk. “Do you have a laptop with you?” I asked.

  “No, but I have a tablet.” He produced one from a messenger bag he’d stashed on the sofa.

  “Good. I’m going to e-mail a file to you. I want you to read it and point out any inaccuracies you might find.”

  I could hear some curiosity in his voice, but I didn’t turn to face him. “What file is that?” he asked.

  “The next Duffy Madison book. Would you read it and tell me if you find any areas that aren’t consistent with your character?”

  Having sent the file, I swiveled to look at him. Duffy was all intent, already working on the tablet screen.

  “I will be happy to,” he said.

  * * *

  We proceeded that way for the next three hours. I kept revising based on my own notes and thoughts—some of my original ideas had been placeholders because I simply couldn’t think of anything better at the time—and Duffy would occasionally draw my attention to a speech he felt didn’t sound like him, but never an action he thought he wouldn’t take.

  “You really have captured me quite accurately for the most part,” he said at one point.

  “That’s because I made you up,” I reminded him.

  He smiled a little. “That’s what you say.”

  “Did you see anything that doesn’t work?” I asked. Hearing from the character himself is not something a lot of (sane) novelists get to do; there was value here.

  “There is one thing,” he began. And suddenly I was hit with conflicting emotions: Uh-oh. He found me out for the fraud I am, followed quickly by, Who the heck is this guy to tell me I don’t know how to write him?

  Neither was expressed because Duffy’s cell phone rang (he was using the theme from Mission: Impossible as a ringtone, which I thought was a little unsettling), and he pulled it out to look. “It’s Ben Preston,” he said.

  Duffy clicked the button on the phone. “Yes, Ben. Actually, I’m with her right now. No, at hers. Because I was observing her daily routine to—yes. All right. We’ll be there.” He disconnected the call and looked at me. “We need to leave now,” he said.

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “Is the killer in the vicinity?” I asked. I have no idea why I thought they could know that and still not pick the guy up.

  “No. The FBI.”

  Chapter 20

  Special Agent Eunice Rafferty could have been Clarice Starling’s older sister, I’d decided since the last time I’d seen her. No doubt having found her calling while watching Jodie Foster track down Buffalo Bill, Rafferty was dressed impeccably and was actually trying to either hide or affect a backwoods accent. In either case, she was not being entirely successful.

  She was a tall, strong woman (which I’m told is not Ms. Foster’s build, but I don’t really know), constructed to be a cop, based on the impression she gave that if the Empire State Building needed to be moved two feet to the left, she could be counted on to do the lifting. It was a marvel she had taken time out from the gym to come solve this crime.

  “This is a serial killer working in multiple states,” she was saying in the conference room at the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office, the same one in which Duffy and I had met. Her voice was husky, not masculine but close enough. “It’s clearly the work of one man but in, so far, four states. I’ve watched you boys long enough. Multiple states makes it my jurisdiction.”

  “No one is arguing that the bureau shouldn’t be involved in the investigation,” Ben Preston answered. Ben, in a T-shirt with a Yankees logo on it and a pair of khaki shorts, had obviously been doing something other than work when Rafferty called to inform him that she wanted in on the investigation of Sunny Maugham’s death. “We welcome the help on the case we’re working. What I’m saying is—”

  “We’re not offering help,” Rafferty cut him off. “I’m telling you that from this moment forward, this investigation is under the bureau’s control. We may ask you to assist, but we are not ceding responsibility to you or any other law enforcement agency, including the New Jersey State Police.” I hoped there were no troopers nearby to hear her say that. They don’t take kindly to . . . anything.

  “Fine,” Ben said with an edge. “We relinquish control to you. But I’d like to remind you that the killer has already threatened Ms. Goldman here in two separate e-mails and might very well be planning to make her his next project. We intend to take all the steps necessary to prevent that from happening.” That’s not really what you want to hear from a guy you’re thinking of dating, but these circumstances were far from the norm.

  “Acknowledged and taken under advisement,” Rafferty said. No, really.

  “Hold on,” I said. “Can I ask a question?”

  “That is a question,” I heard Duffy mumble behind me.

  Luckily, Rafferty hadn’t heard Duffy, or she might have shot him or something. “Go ahead.”

  “Will Ben and Duffy continue with me?” I asked. “I’ve gotten to know these two gentlemen, and I know they’ve been very quietly keeping an eye on me. Should I expect that to continue?” I thought that was a pretty respectful way to ask about my own interest—staying alive—in the midst of this attempted power grab among law enforcement agencies. It wasn’t that I was completely attached to Duffy and Ben—maybe one more than the other—but I did want some assurance that somebody would be looking to see if a madman carrying a deadly thesaurus or an equally witty weapon was climbing in my bedroom window.

  “We don’t believe that you will be a target, Ms. Goldman,” Rafferty said. “In fact, I’m not sure why you’re here.”

  Wait. What? “So you’re not going to offer protection?” Ben asked, sounding aghast.

  “We don’t see the need,” Rafferty said. “The killer has never struck in the same state twice, and certainly not consecutively.”

  “But there have been those two e-mails,” Ben protested. “The guy practically announced that Rachel would be his next victim.”

  “Boasting,” Rafferty said, dismissing the notion. “A terror tactic to make himself sound more potent than he really is. We’ve had a profiler working on this guy. His MO is to move somewhere else next. We’ll gather as much data as we can on the murder of Julia Bledsoe, and then we can better assess where this killer will most likely strike next.”

  “I really feel like I need the protection,” I said. My voice sounded a lot smaller and weaker than I’d intended. It was sort of in the Minnie Mouse area when I’d been trying for Wonder Woman.

  “I’m sure Mr. Preston and Mr. Madison can recommend some local firms that will be able to provide you with security,” Rafferty said. “Now, at the risk of sounding impolite, Ms. Goldman, I’d prefer you leave the room so that we can discuss t
he strategy we’re going to implement to catch this criminal.”

  I looked at her, and the anger boiled up. “At the risk of sounding impolite? That is impolite! How else could it sound?”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. Now, please.” She gestured toward the door. “Just one thing,” she added, and I stopped in my tracks. Was she reconsidering?

  “Yes?”

  “I believe I owe you an apology,” Rafferty said.

  I thought she owed me about four, but one was a start. “For what?” I asked.

  “For not knowing your name. I read your book, Olly Olly Oxen Free. You’re really good.”

  Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. “Well, thank you,” I said. “Can I stay now?”

  “No. But your character. I mean, you called him Duffy Madison.”

  “Yeah, about that—”

  “Did you base it on him?” Again, a nod toward whatever Duffy was.

  “No. He based himself on what I wrote.”

  Rafferty walked over to me, her clipboard in hand, briskly and surely. She thrust the clipboard toward me. “May I have an autograph?”

  I probably even signed it; I don’t actually remember.

  Exiled to Ben’s office, I felt more like I had during Take Your Daughter to Work Day when Dad used to shepherd me around his office collecting smiles and then park me in a safe place so he could actually get something done. He’d provide me with crayons and coloring books, and that was about it. I’m not sure it’s what Gloria Steinem had in mind.

  This time, I had a few more things at my disposal. The first thing I did was check voice mail, and there was a message from Adam Resnick. An author’s agent always jumps to the head of the priority list, but when there’s a possible movie deal in the works, he gets above the head of the priority list.

  “It sounds like it’s happening,” he said, delight practically oozing through the cell tower and through the earpiece of my phone. “Glenn Waterman wants to meet with you. He’s flying in from LA tomorrow for meetings in the city Monday and he asked about your availability.”