Waterton Press was located in the Flatiron Building, a triangular structure marking the juncture of Broadway and Fifth Avenue. Considered a skyscraper when erected in 1902, the historic building was now dwarfed by nearby condo towers. Size wasn’t everything, however. Waterton’s offices were only midway up the building’s modest height, but Ellie still felt herself marveling at the unencumbered views of Madison Square Park from the editor in chief’s windows, right at the northern tip of the triangle.
“Janet Martin,” the editor said, standing behind her desk to offer a surprisingly firm handshake. “Thank you for heading right over. Well, aren’t you the best-looking police detective I’ve ever laid eyes on?”
Ellie didn’t enjoy pretty-for-a-cop comments, seeing them as insults to other female police officers rather than compliments to her. But she needed Janet Martin to like her. “Actually, I’ll let you in on a little secret. We get an extra stipend for appearance-related expenditures. A few highlights, a wee bit of Botox . . . It’s all part of the mayor’s new plan to revamp the department.”
“Oh, and funny, too. Gorgeous and funny.”
“That’s very nice of you. And I’m sorry again that we got off on the wrong foot. I know Adrienne has concerns about maintaining her anonymity, but I certainly didn’t do anything to dissuade her from writing about her experiences.” Ellie had already primed this pump when Martin had called her in a huff, but she figured a little extra obsequiousness couldn’t hurt.
With a single hand wave, Martin let her know it was all bygones. “I should’ve known it was Adrienne being Adrienne—blowing things out of proportion. I’ve never met an author so afraid of success. Hey, I bet you have fabulous stories about catching the bad guys, saving the good guys, and doing it all in your Jimmy Choos. Ever thought of writing a book?”
“One pair of Jimmy Choos would eclipse my entire shoe budget, and the only writing I have time for is police reports,” Ellie said, taking a seat in one of the guest chairs.
“You adorable girl. You wouldn’t actually have to write it. That’s how we do it these days, haven’t you heard? Snooki’s a New York Times best seller. A witty girl like you? I could sell TV rights tomorrow.”
“Thank you very much, Miss Martin, but the only book I’m interested in right now is Adrienne’s.”
“Now she’s a real writer, doing it all herself. Such a doll. And she’s got a fantastic story. And now defending herself against this crazy stalker?”
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Did you sign a book contract with Adrienne before or after these threats started?”
“Before. My niece—she’s also a survivor—was following the blog and forwarded it to me as a possible book project. I signed the deal with Adrienne three weeks ago. Paid more than I wanted to, frankly, but, like I said, she’s that rare reluctant author. Not like she needs the dough, either.”
“But I’m right that the threats will only help in terms of book publicity?”
“I’m upping the print run to a quarter million copies. The only problem now is that this little shit has Adrienne terrified. She called me today trying to return her advance. She wants to pull out of the deal. I even offered her more money, but, like I said, she doesn’t need it.”
“I don’t suppose you have any theories about who the little shit might be.”
“Who knows why these kinds of crackpots do what they do? And just in case you’re thinking it’s me, take a look through our catalog. Even a quarter million print run won’t make this a lead title for me. I bought Adrienne’s book because I think it will help a lot of women.”
“To be honest, one of my colleagues suggested Adrienne might be doing this herself.” Always better to let a nonexistent colleague be the bad guy.
“I’d bet every dollar I have against it. I’ve been in publishing thirty-two years, and I’ve worked with authors concerned about privacy. We’ve published under pseudonyms. Forgone the tours and the interviews.”
“Doesn’t that hurt the book?” Ellie asked.
“Are you kidding? It makes the writer’s story all that more interesting. The mystery becomes the marketing hook. Who is she? Who are the people she’s writing about? So, you know, we’ll tell the reader we’ve got to change some names and dates and cities and details, and then the author gets to remain anonymous. But I’ve never seen anyone quite like Adrienne. So skittish. I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s threatened to pull the plug. When I told her about the fact-checking, I thought her head was going to explode.”
“Fact-checking?”
“Haven’t you heard? That ‘Million Little Pieces of Bullshit’ has us all investigating our own writers. We can always tell readers that we’ve changed details to protect anonymity, but we have to know the heart of the story is true. When Adrienne found out we’d be verifying the underlying narrative, she even insisted on a nondisclosure clause in the contract. The only reason I’m talking to you is she told me you already know about the book. The woman’s gonna drive me nuts by the time this thing comes out.”
“She told me she doesn’t want the past to bleed into the present.”
“Whatever. I’ve read enough of her work to get a feel for that husband of hers. Don’t get me wrong: it’s part of what makes her journey so sellable. Upper East Side wife and mother, all prep schools and high society. People eat that WASPy shit up. But if I had to guess, I’d say her husband finds this whole thing a bit too messy for his taste.”
Ellie had to hand it to the woman: she had good instincts. But if Janet Martin’s instincts about Adrienne were right, then Ellie’s were necessarily wrong. Whoever was stalking Adrienne was still out there.