Swimsuit - James Patterson [55]
Leonard Zagami had moved up as well. He was now the CEO and president, the crème de la cheese, and the new house brought out two hundred books a year.
Like their competition, the bulk of RW’s list either lost money or broke even, but three authors — and I wasn’t one of them — brought in more revenue than the other 197 combined.
Leonard Zagami didn’t see me as a moneymaker anymore, but he liked me and it cost him nothing to keep me on board. I hoped that after our meeting he’d see me another way, that he’d hear cash registers ringing from Bangor to Yakima.
And that Henri would remove his death threat.
I had my pitch ready when I arrived in RW’s spiffy modern waiting room at nine. At noon, Leonard’s assistant came across the jaguar-print carpet to say that Mr. Zagami had fifteen minutes for me, to please follow her.
When I crossed his threshold, Leonard got to his feet, shook my hand, patted my back, and told me it was good to see me but that I looked like crap.
I thanked him, told him I’d aged a couple of years while waiting for our nine o’clock meeting.
Len laughed, apologized, said he’d done his best to squeeze me in, and offered me a chair across from his desk. At five feet six, almost child-sized behind the huge desk, Leonard Zagami still radiated power and a no-bullshit canniness.
I took my seat.
“What’s this book about, Ben? When last we spoke, you had nothing cooking.”
“Have you been following the Kim McDaniels case?”
“The Sporting Life model? Sure. She and some other people were killed in Hawaii a few… Hey. You were covering that story? Oh. I see.”
“I was very close to some of the victims —”
“Look, Ben,” Zagami interrupted me. “Until the killer is caught, this is still tabloid fodder. It’s not a book, not yet.”
“It’s not what you’re thinking, Len. This is a first-person tell-all.”
“Who’s the first person? You?”
I made my pitch like my life depended on it.
“The killer approached me incognito,” I said. “He’s a very cool and clever maniac who wants to do a book about the murders, and he wants me to write it. He won’t reveal his identity, but he’ll tell how he did the killings and why.”
I expected Zagami to say something, but his expression was flat. I crossed my arms over his leather-topped desk, made sure my old friend was looking me in the eyes.
“Len, did you hear me? This guy could be the most-wanted man in America. He’s smart. He’s at liberty. And he kills with his hands. He says he wants me to write about what he’s done because he wants the money and the notoriety. Yeah. He wants some kind of credit for a job well done. And if I won’t write the book, he’ll kill me. Might kill Amanda, too.
“So I need a simple yes or no, Len. Are you interested or not?”
Chapter 72
LEONARD ZAGAMI LEANED back in his chair, rocked a couple of times, smoothed back what remained of his white hair, then turned to face me. When he spoke, it was with heartbreaking sincerity, and that’s what really hurt.
“You know how much I like you, Ben. We’ve been together for what, twelve years?”
“Almost fifteen.”
“Fifteen good years. So, as your friend, I’m not going to bullshit you. You deserve the truth.”
“Agreed,” I said, but my pulse was booming so loudly that I could hardly hear what Len said.
“I’m verbalizing what any good businessman would be thinking, so don’t take this wrong, Ben. You’ve had a promising but quiet career. So now you think you’ve got a breakout book that’ll raise your profile here at RW and in the industry. Am I right?”
“You think this is a stunt? You think I’m that desperate? Are you kidding?”
“Let me finish. You know what happened when Fritz Keller brought out Randolph Graham’s so-called true story.”
“It blew up, yeah.”
“First the ‘startling reviews,’ then Matt Lauer and Larry King. Oprah puts Graham in her book club — and then the truth