The Crime Writer Read Online Free PDF

role.
    He squinted at me. “You getting any sleep?”
    “Sure.”
    But I wasn’t getting much. Last night I’d stayed up like Lady Macbeth, staring at my hands, staggered by their secret history. A fleck of dried blood remained wedged under my right thumbnail, and I dug at it and dug at it until frustration gave way to something like horror and I tore off the tip of the nail with my teeth. Later I dreamed about Genevieve—her pale Parisian skin, her inviting cushiony hips, lounging on my deck chair and spooning avocado curls from the dark shell, edging them with mayonnaise from the dollop she’d dropped where the pit had been. She looked at me and smiled forgivingly, and I awoke having sweated through one end of the slim pad of a pillow. The polyester sheet was thin, and I knew I was a sorry sight there in the darkness, trembling and terrified by something I couldn’t put a name to.
    “Can you get my condolences to Genevieve’s family?” I said quietly. “Tell them I didn’t do this.”
    “All due respect, they prob’ly don’t much want to hear from you right now.” He held up a hand when I started to protest. “How are those lawyers who your overeager editor found for you?”
    “They seem to know what they’re doing.”
    “Let’s hope so.” He withdrew a stapled document and put it in the pass-through box.
    The guard rushed forward, blurting, “Let me take a look at that, sir.”
    Chic waited impatiently while the guard flipped through the document, searching for the blowtorch concealed in the pages. He justified himself by removing the staple from the corner.
    Scrap Plan B. No flying out of here on a magic staple.
    Once the document cleared security, Chic slid it through to me. A power of attorney that designated Chic Bales with broad powers over my finances and legal affairs.
    “Broad powers,” I said. “That include X-ray vision or just shape-shifting?”
    He half smiled, but I could see his concern in the lines that pouched his eyes. “Law firm needs a two-fifty retainer. You’ll have to take a second on the house.”
    “A third.” Just contemplating the state of my finances made my temples throb. There was some bureaucratic fuss until the guard produced a notary’s seal, required to validate any power of attorney. Another reality tidbit overlooked in the pages of my—I now realized woefully unrealistic—novels.
    I signed and sent the document back through. Chic’s eyes caught on the note I’d included. “What’s this?”
    “For Adeline.”
    “Genevieve’s sister? You really think she wants to hear from you?” He unfolded the paper without asking and regarded my adolescent script.
    I didn’t kill your sister.
    Tell me if there’s anything I can do.
    I’m so sorry for your loss.
    He refolded the note, and it disappeared into a pocket. His look said it all.
    “You get accused and you’re no longer allowed to have a human reaction?” I said.
    “You are, but no one’s gonna believe it. If you’re sincere now, you’ll get chewed up. Everyone’ll think you playin’ to the jury pool. You’re in a game. The sooner you figure that out, the better.”
    “So what can I do?”
    “Look innocent.”
    “I am innocent.”
    “Look it.”
    We sat in silence for a few moments, staring at each other. The guard strode over. “Time’s up.”
    Chic’s stare didn’t so much as tic over to pick up the guard’s reflection in the glass. “I just got here.”
    “You’ll exit to the right. Got it?”
    Chic sucked his teeth and screwed his mouth to the side. “Why, sho’. ” And then, to me, “Hang tough. I’m here for whatever and all of it.” He pushed back with a screech, and then his footfall echoed off the cold concrete walls.
     
    The next morning I was summoned by my lawyers back down that ammonia-reeking hall to the Plexiglas Pavilion. They waited in their chairs, outlines bleached by strong morning light, one leaning forward, elbows resting on knees, lips pouched against