“Manuscript came in over the transom,” he said. “Literally. I came to work one morning—I was just about to close up the shop for good—and the manuscript was lying on the floor. Tell you the truth, Lieutenant, I was all washed up as an agent. But when I read Tumult, I knew I had a winner. Trouble was, nobody in any established house would even take my calls, let alone read the manuscript. So I called my nephew, who was an editorial assistant at Simon and Schuster, and he read it and went nuts. His dad loaned him some money, and he packaged the book and got S and S to distribute it for him. He’s making out like a bandit.”

“Would that be Pete Willard?”

“That would be he.”

“Mr. Jones, did you ever know a writer named Paul Manning?”

“Sure, I knew him for twenty years; got him started and I represented him right up until his untimely death.”

“You haven’t heard from him lately, then?”

“Not likely. I don’t have those kind of connections!” Jones laughed hysterically again.

Stone waited him out. When Jones had recovered himself, Stone tried again. “Mr. Jones, how do you send Mr. James contracts to sign, checks from his publisher, that sort of thing? You must have some kind of address.”

“You promise not to tell him where you got it?”

“I promise.”

“He lives at One Vanderbilt Avenue, right here in New York.”

“Phone number?”

“Doesn’t have one; not even an unlisted one.”

“Mr. Jones, when you hear from Mr. James, it’s important that you don’t tell him I called.”

“But he’s my client. I represent him.”

“Believe me, Mr. Jones, you don’t want to get in the middle of this.”

“Has he done something wrong?”

“Not that I know of. We just want to talk to him.”

“Well, okay. Whatever you say.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jones, and if you do hear from him, please call me at this number.” Stone gave him the cell phone number and hung up.

“What?” Dino said.

“This looks real good,” Stone said. “This guy Jones was Manning’s agent before he ‘died.’ Jones has no idea who he is, I think.”

“Did you get an address?”

“Yep. One Vanderbilt Avenue.”

Dino looked at Stone as if he were a retarded child. “Stone, One Vanderbilt Avenue is Grand Central Station.”

“I knew that,” Stone replied.

Chapter 37

37

DINO LOOKED THOUGHTFUL. “HAVEN’T WE RUN ACROSS One Vanderbilt Avenue as an address before? It sounds familiar.”

Stone slapped his forehead. “Mail drop! I tracked it down once, roamed around Grand Central until I found this wall of mailboxes. They’re unattended, except when somebody shows up to sort the mail. Can you call the precinct and detail a man to watch it?”