This was the big one, a perfect climax to three weeks of newspaper interviews, personal appearances on radio and television talk shows, and autograph parties in bookstores from coast to coast. If only I had known how big this night was going to rank in my life, I might have remained in my room at the Century Plaza, double-locked the door, and watched television in my pajamas.

“Ever been on the Carson show before, Mr. Lawrence?”

I shook my head at the inquisitive brown eyes squinting back at me from the distant rearview mirror. Although I was heading for my sixty-first media appearance in twenty days, I felt tense for the first time. I had already managed to conduct myself on the Donahue show with some measure of aplomb, visited with Merv, joked with Snyder, and even held hands with Dinah. So why the butterflies now? I closed my eyes and tried to relax, hoping the Tanner limo people had sent a chauffeur who was not a talker. No such luck.

“I’ve read a lot of your books, Mr. Lawrence. Ter-r-r-r-ific! My wife and I, we both love ’em.”

“You’re very kind,” I replied, before I could stop myself. Reflex action. A simple phrase used repeatedly by many authors to acknowledge the heady and often embarrassing praise heaped on them by their fans. I had never realized how banal those words sounded until I shared an autograph session with Erma Bombeck and we caught each other mouthing the same response as we signed our weary signatures. Erma thought it was hilarious, but we both decided to be more creative in the humility department from then on.

My driver skillfully eased his glistening chariot out of the hotel’s Mercedes-cluttered circular driveway and onto the Avenue of the Stars. “You must be some kind of smar-r-rt man, Mr. Lawrence, yessir! A genius! Don’t know how you think up all those impossible crimes and then put all the pieces together. Never have been able to figure out who the murderer is until the very last pages. Never! Your stuff is even better than those old Sherlock Holmes things—yessir!”

“Thank you.”