Icy Clutches

handle on the closet, and Tremaine's boots, and a few other things. The killer was careful.” He finished the piece of chicken and wiped his fingers with a napkin. “Guess what else they didn't find.'

Gideon shook his head. “I have no idea.'

'Tremaine's book,” John said. “The manuscript.'

Gideon put down the piece of roll he was buttering. “Maybe he kept it in the hotel safe.'

'Nope, “I checked.'

'Well, there must be other copies somewhere, John. He wouldn't have just one. Maybe he left one at home. Maybe his publisher has a draft.'

'No good.” John told him about two telephone calls he'd made to Los Angeles. He'd spoken to Valerie Kaufman, Tremaine's editor at Javelin Press, and to Talia Lundquist, his agent. Both said they didn't have copies of the manuscript and hadn't ever seen it. More than that, neither of them knew exactly what was in it.

John shook his head. “Do you buy that? Javelin was paying him half a million bucks without knowing what the book was about?'

'I don't think it's that unusual, John, especially with a celebrity author.'

'You're kidding. Is that the way it is when you write something?'

Gideon laughed. Having published one extremely esoteric graduate textbook and several dozen scholarly articles and monographs, he knew little about half-million-dollar advances. Or any other kind of advances.

'Not in my kind of writing,” he said. “The American Journal of Physical Anthropology lures its contributors with glory, not gold. And I have to send in detailed abstracts first. But I'd think someone like Tremaine would be in a different league. Anything he wrote would be as near to a guaranteed best-seller as you could come.'

'Yeah. Well, Javelin knows it's about the expedition and that there's some sensational stuff that hasn't ever come out before.” He took out his notebook and flipped it open. “'Dissension and jealousy among crew, open conflict...'” He glanced up. “'...and murder.’”

Gideon put down his fork. “Murder? So they do know—'

John shook his head. “All they know is that there was a murder. That was all he told them.'

Not who had been murdered, or by whom, or how, or why. Those little matters he'd preferred to keep to himself. But it had been enough for Javelin. Now, of course, with Tremaine dead—sensationally dead—they were desperate for a copy themselves.

'There has to be one somewhere,” Gideon said. “I can't believe he wouldn't have a backup copy.'

'If he did, no one's seen it. From what I hear he was a little paranoid about copies.'

There was an agitated barrage of knocks on the door. “Inspector! Inspector!'

John looked at Gideon. “Jesus, what now?'

'It sounds like Elliott Fisk,” Gideon said.

It was. “I want to report a crime,” the dentist blurted as John yanked the door open.

'What happened?'

'My diary's been stolen! Well, not my diary, my journal. Well, not my journal—'

John stepped back from the door. “Why don't you come in and sit down, Dr. Fisk?'

'I don't want to sit down,” Fisk said petulantly, but he came in anyway and took the chair John had been using to prop up his feet. He glanced at Gideon and looked with distaste at the half-eaten lunches. “I want you to do something,” he told John. “It was my uncle's journal.'

'Your uncle was Steven Fisk?” John turned the other chair backwards and sat down, forearms crossed on top of the back.

'Yes, of course.'

'And this was a personal journal he kept?'

'Yes, yes, of course.” He was wiggling with impatience. “At the time of the expedition. It went to my father with his belongings when he died. My father was his brother.'

'Uh-huh. What makes you think it was stolen?'

'I don't think it was stolen; it was stolen. A blue, diary- type notebook. I had it with me in the dining room this morning when I was having breakfast with the others. I left it on my chair when I went to get Professor Tremaine. That was when...” His eyelids flickered. “Well, you remember.'

John nodded.

'When I realized I'd left it and came back later it wasn't there.'

'Did you check with—'

'I checked with the help. They hadn't seen it. And with the others. They all claimed they hadn't seen it.'

'Are you sure you had it with you? Did you look in your room?'

'I had it with me. I brought it for the session we were supposed to have.” He shook his head decisively. “Oh, it was stolen, all right.'

'Uh-huh. Who would want to steal your uncle's journal?'