Twenty-nine

“Esther, look at this.”

Esther stopped her own search, glanced at the cover letter, and quickly focused on the contract.

“This contract was signed six months ago. Mr. Scrib was hired to write a book based on a submitted proposal, and the full manuscript is due in two weeks.”

I stared Esther down. “After Mr. Scrib’s mental health episode yesterday morning, didn’t you tell me he was working on a book, something about a crime story?”

“That’s what he told me when I asked what he was working on so diligently. He said, and these were his exact words—” She lowered her voice to mimic Scrib. “My dear Esther, I’m writing a true story that will shake up the whole city. A tale of crime and no punishment.”

“Oh, no,” I whispered.

“What is it, Boss?”

“Two and two is four,” I said.

Esther blinked. “Are we doing math now?”

“I’m adding up some things, and it’s an ugly equation.”

“Enlighten me.”

“There was a crime years ago. A major, unsolved crime. A member of the original Writer’s Block Lounge was murdered. Madame told me about it.”

“And you think that’s what Mr. Scrib is writing about?”

“Yes! According to Madame, your Mr. Scrib was a member of the original Writer’s Block group. One of the men in the group, a young actor, was killed and his body was dumped in Brooklyn. The case was never solved.”

As Esther’s eyes widened with this bit of news, I started to pace.

“Now it’s starting to make sense,” I said. “I mean, it’s one thing to brag to a barista that you’re writing some bombshell book while being unstable enough to think your notebook full of gibberish is a masterpiece. It’s quite another to secure a contract for that book from a legitimate publisher.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Don’t you see? Your eccentric old friend wasn’t bluffing about that book.” I pointed to the contract. “This must be it!”

“I hate to break it to you, Boss, but that’s not a book. It’s a contract commissioning a book. And judging from Mr. Scrib’s gibberish-filled notebook, I have to wonder whether his mind is capable of fulfilling that contract.”

“You’re right. Let’s look for his manuscript—if it even exists. Did you find anything in the bookshelf?”

She shook her head. “The books are just volumes of poetry arranged in an alphabetical row. Most of them are dead poets, and all are major ones I recognize, but I’m not finished yet.”

“Keep looking.”

While Esther continued looking through Scrib’s library, I laid the letter and document on the parquet floor and used my phone to snap pictures of every page.

“Hey, Boss, check this out!”

Esther showed me what she found: several notebooks, like the one filled with gibberish, only these were filled with handwritten poetry. Original poems, all in the same handwriting as the Mr. Scrib scribbles.

They were all dated, and they weren’t from the distant past. He wrote these perfectly understandable verses over the past year. Many of them were love poems—sad, sweet verses of unrequited love.

“This is clearly proof he can write,” I said. “I mean something other than gibberish. These poems are perfectly coherent and beautifully written.”

“I know!” Esther said. “He writes a lot about a woman named Juliet, but I assume that’s just a Shakespeare reference. And I found this, too.” She handed me a slim hardcover that she’d plucked from the collection. “I was curious because there was no title on the spine. Go on, open it.”

“Oh, wow, this is a photo album.”

“And the pictures are prehistoric.”

While I examined the album, Esther wandered down a dark hallway in search of the elusive Wacker, and any other clues she could find.

Most of the album was blank except for the first few pages, which contained about a dozen photos. The pictures featured a group of young people, and the background was clearly the Village Blend’s second floor. On the wall, I saw the telltale sign, and I knew for sure—

These were the faces of the original Writer’s Block Lounge!

I didn’t quite strike gold. I only had their faces. There were no names, no captions, a dead end. But maybe not. If I showed these pictures to Madame, they might shake loose more memories.

With that goal in mind, I opened the photo album on the desk and once again used my phone camera. As I snapped my pictures, a chill took hold.

One of these carefree-looking kids would soon be a murder victim, his body dumped in a Columbia Street lot. Was someone else in this group the killer? Or did Jensen Van Dyne’s true crime story involve outsiders?

I considered what Mike told me about that part of Brooklyn, how it was a dumping ground for murdered victims of the mob. An icier chill gripped me at that thought, especially when I noticed something else.

The photos always featured the same people, but in one of the pictures, I glimpsed a big, middle-aged Italian-looking man with a walrus mustache standing in the background. I released a nervous breath, hoping Madame’s memory wouldn’t fail me on this one.

As I finished and closed the album, I heard Esther’s urgent call—

“Hey, Boss, come here quick!”

I tucked my phone away and hurried down the shadowy hall, passing the apartment’s only bedroom. Esther lingered in front of a closed door, which I assumed was the bathroom. The sour smell that tainted the entire place was more pronounced here.

“I checked the bedroom already,” Esther said, “even under the bed and the closet, but I didn’t find anything. No clues to his next of kin, just a few more books of poetry collections on his nightstand.”

“You didn’t find a manuscript?”

“Sorry, but it’s a mystery where Mr. Scrib is hiding his true crime manuscript. There was no mobile phone, no computer laptop, not even a typewriter. I did find an empty cage—”

“A cage? What do you mean? A birdcage?”

“No. A square cage, a pretty big one. Then I came to this closed door. I think it’s his bathroom—”

I was about to speak, but a fluttering sound from the other side of the door silenced me.

“Did you hear that?” Esther whispered.

“It sounds like a bird’s wings.”

“Big wings,” Esther said. “Maybe it’s a parrot. If it is, I hope it’s friendly.”

“Whatever it is, I doubt it’s going to attack,” I said. “Unless it’s a hunting hawk or an illegal fighting cock.”

Esther’s eyes went wide. “A fighting cock!”

Her loud cry provoked the creature on the other side of the door.

QUACK, QUACK…QUACK, QUACK, QUACK.

“It’s a duck,” Esther said, relieved. “Nothing to fear from a cute little—”

She opened the door and a virgin white whirlwind of fluttering feathers exploded out of the room. Esther screamed, reared back, and tripped over her own combat boots.

She hit the floor butt first and the mad flapping thing was on her!