'No we're not, man. You're not even on the story anymore. I had the front page of the Rocky faxed to me this morning. They gave it to somebody else. Only place your name appears is in the story. No bylines, Jack. You're not on the story. You are the story. So why don't we go on the record here and let me ask you a few questions?'
'Like 'How do you feel?' Is that what you want to ask?'
'That's one of them, yeah.'
I looked at him a good long moment. No matter how much I didn't like him or what he had done, I couldn't deny the empathy I had for his position. He was doing what I had done so many times before. I looked at my watch and out at the parking circle beyond the lobby. There were none of the waiting cabs I had seen the day before.
'You got a car?'
'Yeah, a company car.'
'Give me a ride to the Chateau Marmont. We'll talk on the way.'
'On the record?'
'On the record.'
He turned on a tape recorder and put it on the dashboard. He just wanted the basics from me. He wanted to quote me about what I had done the night before rather than rely on a secondhand source like an FBI spokesman. That was too easy and he was too good a reporter to settle for a spokesman. Whenever possible he went straight to the source. I understood this. I was the same way.
Telling him the story somehow made me feel good. I enjoyed it. It wasn't anything I hadn't already given Jackson at my own paper, so it wasn't like I was revealing company secrets. But Warren had been around at almost the start of the trail and I liked being the one who told him where it had led and how it had ended.
I didn't tell him about the latest developments, about the PTL network and Gomble running it from a prison. That was too good to give away. I planned on writing that one myself, whether it was for the Rocky or one of those publishers in New York.
Finally, Warren drove up the short hill to the entrance of the Chateau Marmont. A doorman opened the door but I didn't get out. I looked at Warren.
'Anything else?'
'No, I think I got it. I have to get back to the federal building for the press conference anyway. But this is going to be great.'
'Well, you and the Rocky are the only ones that got it. I'm not planning to go to 'Hard Copy' unless it's six figures.'
He looked at me, surprised.
'Just kidding, Warren. I'd break into the records room with you at the foundation but, hey, I draw the line at selling my story to the tabs.'
'What about the publishers?'
'I'm working on it. You?'
'I gave up once your first story came out. My agent said the editors he talked to were more interested in you than me. You had the brother, you know? You were obviously on the inside. Only thing I'd be able to sell was one of those quick-and-dirty jobs. I'm not interested. I've got a reputation.'
I nodded and turned to get out of the car.
'Thanks for the ride.'
'Thanks for the story.'
I was out and about to close the door when Warren started to say something but then stopped.
'What is it?'
'I was going… ah, hell, look, Jack, about the source on that story. If-'
'Forget it, man, it doesn't matter anymore. Like I said, the guy's dead and you did what any reporter would do.'
'No, wait. That's not what I'm saying… I don't give up sources, Jack, but I can tell you who isn't a source. And Thorson wasn't my source, okay? I didn't even know the guy.'
I just nodded, saying nothing. He didn't know that I had seen the hotel phone records and that I knew he was lying. A new Jaguar pulled under the parking overhang and a couple dressed head to toe in black started getting out. I looked back at Warren, wondering what he was trying to do. What scam could he be pulling by lying now?
'That it?'
Warren turned a hand upside down and nodded.
'Yeah, that's it. Being that he's dead and you were there, I thought you might want to know.'
I looked at him for another moment.
'Okay, man,' I said. 'Thanks. I'll see you around.'
I straightened up and closed the door, then bent down to look at Warren through the window and gave a wave. He snapped off a military-style salute and drove away.
46
In my room I connected my computer to the phone line and dialed into the Rocky's computer. I had thirty-six E-mail messages waiting for me. I hadn't checked in two days. Most of the in-house messages were congratulatory, although they weren't explicitly worded as such because the senders probably hesitated to do so, wondering if it was proper to congratulate me for killing the Poet. There were two from Van Jackson asking me where I was and to call and three from Greg Glenn asking the same. The Rocky operator had also dumped my phone messages into my E-mail basket and there were several from reporters across the country and from Hollywood production companies. My mother and Riley had also called. There was no doubt I was in demand. I saved all the messages in case I wanted to call back and signed off.
Greg Glenn's direct line rang through to the operator. She said Greg was in a story meeting and she had standing orders not to ring into the conference room. I left my name and number and hung up.
After waiting fifteen minutes for Greg to return my call and trying not to think about what Warren had told me at the end of our ride, I got impatient and left the room. I started walking down the strip and eventually stopped at Book Soup, a bookstore I had noticed earlier during the ride with Warren. I went to the mystery section and found a book I had once read which I knew was dedicated to the author's agent. My theory was that this was at least the sign of a good agent. With the name in hand, I next went to the research section and looked up the agent in a book listing literary agencies, their addresses and phone numbers. I committed the phone number to memory, left the store and walked back to the hotel.
The red light on the phone was flashing when I got back to my room and I knew it was probably Greg, but I decided to call the agent first. It was five o'clock in New York and I didn't know what hours he kept. He answered after two rings. I introduced myself and quickly went into my pitch.
'I wanted to see if I could talk to you about representing me in regard to a, uh, I guess it would be called a true crime book. Do you do true crime?'
'Yes,' he said. 'But rather than discuss this on the phone I would really prefer that you send me a query letter telling me about yourself and the project. Then I can respond.'
'I would but I don't think there is time. I've got publishers and movie people calling me and I have to make some decisions quickly.'
That set the hook. I knew it would.
'Why are they calling you? What's it about?'
'Have you read or seen anything on TV about this killer out in L.A., the Poet?'
'Yes, of course.'
'I'm the one who, uh, shot him. I'm a writer-a reporter. My brother-'
'You're the one?'
'I'm the one.'
Though he was interrupted often by other calls, we talked for twenty minutes about the possible book project and the interest I'd already gotten from the movie production people. He said he worked with an agent in Los
