First Thrills - Lee Child [50]
“Well, why fake your death? Why not just write what you wanted to?”
“For one thing, I’d get my poems published because I was J.B. Prescott. My publishers around the world would pat me on the head and say, ‘Anything you want, J.B.’ No, I want my work accepted or rejected on its own merits. But more important, if I just stopped writing the Sharpe series my fans would never forgive me. Look what happened to Sherlock Holmes.”
Malloy shook his head.
“Conan Doyle killed off Holmes. But the fans were furious. He was hounded into bringing the back the hero they loved. I’d be hounded in the same way. And my publisher wouldn’t let me rest in peace either.” He shook his head. “I knew there’d be various reactions, but I never thought anybody’d question my death.”
“Something didn’t sit right.”
He smiled sadly. “Maybe I’m a better at making plots for fiction than making them in real life.” Then his long face grew somber. Desperate, too. “I know what I did was wrong, detective, but please, can you just let it go?”
“A crime’s been committed.”
“Only falsifying a death certificate. But Luis, the doctor, is out of the jurisdiction. You’re not going to extradite somebody for that. Jane and Aaron and I didn’t actually sign anything. There’s no insurance fraud because I cashed out the policy last year for surrender value. And Jane’ll pay every penny of estate tax that’s due. . . . Look, I’m not doing this to hurt or cheat anybody.”
“But your fans . . .”
“I love them dearly. I’ll always love them and I’m grateful for every minute they’ve spent reading my books. But it’s time for me to pass the baton. Aaron will keep them happy. He’s a fine writer . . . Detective, I’m asking you to help me out here. You have the power to save me or destroy me.”
“I’ve never walked away from a case in my life.” Malloy looked away from the author’s eyes, staring at the cracked asphalt in front of them.
Prescott touched his arm. “Please?”
Nearly a year later Detective Jimmy Malloy received a package from England. It was addressed to him, care of the NYPD.
He’d never gotten any mail from Europe and he was mostly fascinated with the postage stamps. Only when he’d had enough of looking at a tiny Queen Elizabeth did Malloy rip the envelope open and take out the contents: a book of poems written by somebody he’d never heard of.
Not that he’d heard of many poets, of course. Robert Frost. Carl Sandburg. Dr. Seuss.
On the cover were some quotations from reviewers praising the author’s writing. He’d apparently won awards in England, Italy, and Spain.
Malloy opened the thin book and read the first poem, which was dedicated to the poet’s wife.
Walking on Air
Oblique sunlight fell in perfect crimson on your face
that winter afternoon last year.
Your departure approached and, compelled to seize
your hand, I led you from sidewalk to trees
and beyond into a field of snow—
flakes of sky that had fallen to earth days ago.
We climbed onto the hardened crust, which held
our weight, and, suspended above the earth,
we walked in strides as angular as the light,
spending the last hour of our time together
walking on air.
Malloy gave a brief laugh, surprised. He hadn’t read a poem since school, but he actually thought this one was pretty good. He liked that idea: Walking on the snow, which had come from the sky—literally walking on air with somebody you loved.
He pictured John Prescott, sad that his wife had to return to New York, spending a little time with her in a snowy Vermont field before the drive to the train station.
Just then Ralph DeLeon stepped into the office and before Malloy could hide the book, the partner scooped it up. “Poetry.” His tone suggested that his partner was even more of a loss than he’d thought. Though he then read a few of them himself and said, “Doesn’t suck.” Then, flipping to the front, DeLeon gave a fast laugh.
“What?” Malloy asked.
“Weird. Whoever it’s dedicated to has your initials.”
“No.”
DeLeon held the book