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Jaded

Damon Frost sat back in his reclining chair and gazed out the bay window at the snow falling upon the beach as he lazily sipped his afternoon cup of tea, a habit he acquired during a three-month sojourn in England. He knew that Burgess Communications, his publisher, was waiting for the manuscript of a new book, but he just could not bring himself to sit down at his computer and work.

I'll get up early tomorrow morning and write all day long, he vowed, giving in to the temptation of procrastination; it was something he had been doing for the past six months.

There was a time in his life, before he sold his first manuscript, when he looked forward to writing, when he woke up at dawn and sat at his desk still wearing his pajamas, often letting his coffee grow cold as he typed furiously on his laptop keyboard. There was also a time when his wife, Riley, his college sweetheart, was the only thing that could distract him from his work, when his passion for her was greater than his passion for writing.

She and I were so happy once, Damon thought nostalgically as he reached for a chocolate chip cookie on the coffee table. We may have lived in a small, one-bedroom apartment and survived on her paycheck as a secretary by dining on ramen noodles and burgers off McDonald's dollar menu, but we had such high hopes and dreams.

Ironically, once those early aspirations came true, the couple began to drift apart. Thanks to Damon's string of bestselling novels, they had more money than they would ever need. When they were not traveling the globe, they lived comfortably in one of their homes: the San Francisco apartment, the three-story colonial house in Greenwich, Connecticut, or the oceanfront house on Nantucket Island. With their children out of college—their son living in San Diego, their daughter in Seattle—and their own youthful dreams fulfilled, their life became routine. Another new car. Another Mediterranean cruise. Another trip to Europe. Another multimillion dollar book deal. None of them offered any excitement or happiness. In a word, the Frosts had both become jaded.

Damon assumed that since he was growing bored with writing his detective novels, his fans must be growing bored with reading them. Sales remained high, but he was certain there were people out there saying that his newer books were not nearly as good as his earlier ones.

Maybe if I could come up with a new idea, I could breathe new life into my books. But what?

Ever since Poe penned The Murders in the Rue Morgue there has been a profusion of whodunits featuring such diverse fictional detectives as Sherlock Holmes, Charlie Chan, Hercule Poirot, Alex Cross, Miss Marple, Philip Marlowe, Sam Spade, Father Brown, Mike Hammer, and the list goes on and on. These stalwart crime-fighters have solved every conceivable type of murder. There were the one-on-one murders, one killer and one body, as well as killers who did away with multiple victims. Hercule Poirot solved a case where twelve men and women joined forces to do away with one man, and C. Auguste Dupin determined two women in Paris were murdered by an orangutan.

Damon's own detective, Art Sheffield, and his partner, Domingo Acosta, had solved murders for hire, crimes of passion, justifiable homicides, mercy killings, political assassinations and several cases of murder-suicide. His books dealt with patricide, matricide, filicide, fratricide, infanticide, road rage, roid rage, serial killings, school shootings and ritualistic human sacrifice.

What do I do now? he wondered with frustration. What's left but for Art and Domingo to battle forces of the supernatural?

Somehow, he could not picture his two detectives hunting vampires, werewolves or zombies on the streets of Boston.

Maybe I ought to just give it all up. Forty-two is not too young to retire. God knows I don't need the money. I could write one last novel and kill off my detectives like Agatha Christie did.

It suddenly occurred to him that he need kill off only one: Domingo Acosta. If Detective Sheffield were to get a new partner, say a woman, that would open up numerous possibilities for future books, the first of which would involve Art and his new partner searching for Domingo's killer.

Having decided on a deus ex machina for his next novel, Damon was excited about writing for the first time in several years. He left his teacup on the windowsill and, taking the steps two at a time, hurried upstairs to his office.

* * *

Riley Frost put her cell phone down and answered the doorbell. Van Everton, her husband's literary agent, stood on the doorstep, smiling warmly and shivering in the record-low temperature.

"Come inside before you freeze to death!" she exclaimed after receiving a friendly kiss on the cheek. "I was just about to make some espresso. Would you like some?"

"Sure. Is Damon home?"

"Where else would he be?"

"Please tell me he's upstairs at his computer writing," Van beseeched as he followed Riley into the kitchen.

"Nonstop."

"You're kidding?" the agent asked with delighted surprise.

"God's honest truth. Don't tell me you came all the way out here to Nantucket in the middle of February just to ask that! Why didn't you simply phone or email him?"

"Because I received a call from Abner Crowley over at Burgess yesterday. He's still waiting for a manuscript. I came over here to crack the whip, but I guess that won't be necessary."

"Damon has been at it day and night for close to two months. He claims he's got a great idea for this new book."

After he finished his espresso, Van went upstairs to his client's writing room. As Riley had told him, the author was busy at his computer working on his latest novel.

"I hope I'm not bothering you," Van apologized as he stuck his head through the open door.

"Hey! I didn't know you were here. Come on in. I can take a break."

"Your wife tells me you've been making progress on the new book."

"I most certainly have!" Damon said. "In fact, in another three or four weeks, I ought to be done with the first draft."

"That's great! Can I tell that to your publisher? He's getting anxious."

"Sure. Furthermore, you can tell Crowley he's going to love it! I think it's the best work I've done in years."

"Oh, really? What makes this one so good? Have Sheffield and Acosta solved the Black Dahlia case or discovered the identity of the Zodiac killer?"

"No. In fact, Domingo gets bumped off halfway through the book."

Van's face paled.

"You can't kill off your detective. He's your bread and butter."

"Art Sheffield is my main character; Domingo is nothing more than his trusted sidekick. Besides, Sheffield gets a new partner after Acosta is murdered. The two of them solve the case Art and Domingo were working on when Domingo got killed. That leaves the story line open for the next novel in which Art and Angel McComb—she's the new partner—find his killer."

"Your new detective is a woman?"

"And not just any woman," Damon explained, exhibiting more excitement than Van had ever seen in him. "Before she got transferred to homicide, Angel was a former vice cop who worked undercover as a high-priced call girl. She's the total package: brains, body, beauty. She's got long red hair, down to her waist; eyes like emeralds; legs that ...."

"Whoa! She's supposed to be a police detective, not a fashion model."

"She is. Graduated top of her class at the police academy and was twice decorated. She's the Tom Brady of the Boston P.D."

"As partners, they sound incompatible," Van opined. "Art Sheffield is a balding, ex-beat cop with a flabby beer belly, who lives on strong, cheap coffee and pushcart chili dogs."

"So? There's not going to be anything sexual going on between the two of them. I'm not writing a Harlequin Romance, for Christ's sake. They're both good cops, and they're both honest. My readers are going to love them as a team!"

"Well, you're the writer, not me," Van declared, unconvinced by his client's argument but delighted by his obvious enthusiasm.

* * *

"I've got to hand it to you," Everton said as he and his client enjoyed a beer at Fenway Park's Infiniti Suite the following year. "I thought you were committing career suicide by killing off Domingo Acosta, yet this last book sold more than any of your others."

"It's Angel McComb," Damon announced with pride. "She's quite a girl."

"Everyone does seem to love Art Sheffield's new partner."

"They're going to love her even more after they read my next novel."

"I know you never like to discuss the endings of your books before they're published, but I'm your agent and your friend. You can tell me. Who killed Domingo?"

"Nobody," Damon replied with a mysterious grin on his face.

"What do you mean? It couldn't have been suicide," Van argued. "He was shot execution style in the back of the head."

"It wasn't suicide; it was definitely murder. But nobody is going to be caught. Remember the old Sixties television show The Fugitive? For four seasons, David Janssen searched for the one-armed man who killed his wife. And Monk? It wasn't until the series ended that viewers learned what happened to his wife, Trudy."

In light of his being wrong about Frost's killing off one of his detectives, the agent was hesitant about giving his client any more advice on writing. However, he did know a thing or two about what the public wanted.

"Readers demand closure," Van said. "They don't like books without endings unless they're part of a trilogy."

"From now on, each of my novels will have a central murder that Damon and Angel investigate and solve. The Acosta case will be an ongoing one. In each book, they'll uncover another clue. Eventually, of course, I'll have to unveil the killer, but not yet. Readers will keep buying the books to find the answer."

"Have you already decided who it's going to be?"

Again, the writer's enigmatic smile appeared.

"I have a pretty good idea, but I'll never tell, not even you."

Damon's decision to not present a quick solution to Detective Acosta's death paid off. Sales of his subsequent novels continued to rise. Readers lined up in bookstores to purchase their copies when a new book came out, and online stores sold thousands of advance copies before the manuscripts were even edited.

Not only were his latest books a commercial and critical success, but they also proved to be his personal salvation. His rekindled passion for writing had restored the purpose his life had lacked for many years.

Riley, too, was experiencing a renewed joie de vivre, but it had little to do with her husband or his career. With Damon's attention focused on his writing to the point where it bordered on obsession, the neglected wife sought company elsewhere. She did not have far to look. Riley had always been attracted to Van Everton, and he to her. Although neither one of them wanted to betray Damon, they could no longer deny their feelings.

"We've got tell him," Van insisted when they began their relationship. "He's not only my client; he's one of my closest friends. We'll have to tell him we're in love and that you're leaving him for me. I'm sure he's mature enough to understand."

"Yes," Riley readily agreed. "I don't want to hurt him, but you're the one I want to be with."

Surprisingly, there was no ugly scene, no hateful recriminations. Not even a single harsh word passed Damon's lips.

"If that's what the two of you want, then I wish you both the best."

"You're not upset?" Riley asked with an odd mixture of relief, disbelief and disappointment.

"No. Now that my writing has taken center stage in my life, it would be unfair for me to expect you to live your life in the wings."

"I hope this won't cause a rift between us," Van said uneasily.

"Don't be silly!" Damon assured him. "You've been my agent since I wrote my first novel. As I see it, we're partners, just like Art Sheffield and Domingo Acosta."

"Good!" Van exclaimed with a nervous laugh. "Just don't get the idea to kill me off like you did poor Domingo."

* * *

Five years passed, during which six new novels were released. Damon Frost was still enjoying his "honeymoon" with his new detective, so much so that the pot-bellied, chili dog-eating, beer-guzzling Art Sheffield, although technically the senior partner, was fading into the background.

Riley and Van Everton were now happily married and living in the Greenwich, Connecticut, house that Riley had received in the divorce settlement, along with half of the couple's savings and investments. Damon did not care about the money. After selling his San Francisco apartment, he gave the proceeds to his two children. He kept only the house on Nantucket where he now lived year-round. It was always his favorite home, the one where he wrote most of his novels.

Damon never remarried. In fact, he did not even ask anyone out on a date. For all intents and purposes, his only love was a former vice cop turned homicide detective with long red hair, emerald green eyes, a killer body and outrageously long legs. The writer had thought about his character so often that he could close his eyes and picture every expression on her captivating face. He could hear the melodic sound of her sultry voice in his head. No real woman would ever compare to her.

The day after sending yet another completed manuscript off to Abner Crowley, the senior editor at Burgess Communications, Damon sat beside his bay window, drinking a cup of tea and watching a sailboat on the horizon. He would allow himself an hour of relaxation, and then he would head for his writing room to begin a new book. Since giving birth to Angel McComb, he had not missed a single day at his computer.

Angel, he thought with a smile.

He closed his eyes and imagined the two of them aboard that sailboat. Damon would pop the cork on a bottle of aged wine, and Angel would lie back in his arms and sip from her glass as they gently rode over the waves. He could almost imagine the feel of her long, silky red hair on his naked chest as the two basked in the summer sun.

A knock on the door interrupted his reverie. Assuming the housekeeper had forgotten her key, he got up to answer the door.

"Van!" he exclaimed with surprise. "What brings you out to the island?"

"You haven't been watching the news?"

"No. I've been too busy writing. I finished another novel yesterday."

"Demetrius Contos died yesterday—heart attack. He went just like that," the agent said with a snap of his fingers.

"What? But he's younger than you and I are."

"Yeah, well. Death is no respecter of age. The funeral is tomorrow in Oak Bluffs. I thought you and I should attend."

"Sure. I'll go," Damon answered. "But why didn't you just phone me? Why come all the way here to invite me in person?"

"Because Riley wanted to spend a few days on the island," Van explained, becoming uncomfortable as he always did when he spoke of his wife to her ex-husband.

"How's she doing?"

"Fine."

"Glad to hear it. Would you like some tea? Coffee?"

"No, thanks. Riley and I are going to head over to the Vineyard and meet some friends at Edgartown for dinner." As an afterthought he added, "You're welcome to come along with us."

"Maybe some other time. I was just about to start my next book."

"See you tomorrow then."

As Damon walked up the stairs toward his writing room, he thought about Demetrius Contos. A brilliant historian and a Pulitzer Prize-winning author, he was in the process of writing a series of in-depth volumes on the Royal House of Stuart. Unfortunately, when last Damon had heard from him, Demetrius was only up to Charles II.

Perhaps someone else will finish his work, the writer thought.

Damon abruptly stopped halfway up the stairs. What if something should happen to him? What would become of Angel?

I have to make sure she's taken care of if I should die unexpectedly.

When he sat at his desk, he put aside the outline he had created for his next novel. He then turned on his computer and began putting down ideas for a different book.

* * *

Damon woke to the jarring sound of his alarm clock. It was, literally, a rude awakening, one he had not experienced since he quit his teaching job to become a full-time writer. Half-asleep, he stumbled down to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee.

He sat at the kitchen table, wishing he could go back to bed, but he had a plane to catch. His daughter had given birth to a seven-pound, six-ounce baby boy, and he was flying to Seattle to see his grandchild for the first time. It was his own fault he was exhausted. He insisted on finishing his novel before heading west—just in case the plane crashed or he had a heart attack after landing in Washington.

Despite his exhaustion, Damon managed to make his flight on time. He had expected his son-in-law to meet him at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, but it was Van Everton who met his plane instead.

"When did you get in?" the writer asked his agent.

"Riley and I got here yesterday morning. We took an early flight out of Kennedy."

As Van fought the airport traffic, the subject of the new book came up.

"I spoke to Abner Crowley yesterday," the agent said. "He told me you're not going to submit your latest book."

"That's right. When I get back to Nantucket, I'm going to start another novel. That's the one I want published."

"I don't get it. Is there something wrong with the last one that can't be fixed?"

"Not at all. It's a great book."

"Then what's up?"

"Remember Curtain and Sleeping Murder?"

"Of course. Hercule Poirot's and Miss Marple's last cases. Ah, I see. You've written a book in which Domingo Acosta's murder is finally solved."

"That's right. On the way to Logan this morning, I put a copy of it in my safety deposit box. Should I go unexpectedly like poor Contos, my readers will get their long-awaited closure."

"All right. I gotta know. Who killed Domingo?"

Damon hesitated. He had never divulged the ending of one of his books before it went into print, not even to Riley when they were still married.

"I suppose I can trust you not to leak it over the Internet. Art Sheffield killed him."

"His partner? Why would he do such a thing?"

"Domingo discovered he was on Giuseppe Corelli's payroll."

"No way! Art was an honest cop!"

"That's what everyone thought, but Angel McComb discovers the truth."

"And she turns him in?"

"No. Art tries to take her out, too, but she's a better shot."

"Don't tell me she kills him?"

"It was either him or her."

"Your readers are not going to like the hero turning into a bad guy."

"Sheffield's not the hero; Angel is. Besides, who gives a damn what the readers think? The book's not going to be published until I'm in my grave."

* * *

"Did you have a good trip?" Hedda, the housekeeper, asked when Damon walked through the front door of his Nantucket home two weeks later.

"Yes, thank you, I did."

"And the baby? How is he?"

"Great pair of lungs on that kid. My daughter will have her hands full with that one, I'll bet."

After Damon unpacked his bags, he went downstairs to make himself a sandwich. Hedda had finished cleaning up and left for the day. He took his roast beef on rye up to his office to eat at his desk.

Now, where did that outline go? he wondered as he rifled through his drawer. It was here before I went to Seattle.

Unable to find it, he assumed that while he was feverishly working to finish his last novel, he must have accidentally tossed it in the trash.

Oh, well, I can start fresh.

He turned on his computer, opened a new Word file and began to type.

What's going on?

The characters on the screen did not coincide with the keystrokes he had typed. Suspecting there was a temporary glitch, Damon rebooted the computer and repeated the process. Without his fingers on the keys, the words began appearing on the screen.

This isn't my writing!

There could be only one answer: someone had hacked his computer. His sandwich forgotten, he sat in front of the monitor and read what the mysterious hacker had written.

A sudden agonizing pain took Damon's breath away. His hands grabbed his chest. As a writer, a master of words, he knew the proper term for it: a myocardial infarction. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone, hoping he could get the 911 operator before he expired. He managed to press the nine and the one before he collapsed on the floor.

* * *

Abner Crowley smiled when he saw his newest writer walk into Boston's upscale L'Espalier restaurant. Heads turned in her direction as she glided rather than walked toward his table. Her waist-length red hair fell over her shoulders as she sat down across from him.

"Hello, Abner," she said, tucking her tantalizingly long legs beneath the tablecloth.

"Hello. I've taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of champagne for us."

"Champagne for lunch? That must mean Burgess is going to publish my manuscript."

"Did you have any doubts?"

"Frankly, no," she admitted with a bewitching smile.

"Imagine having Damon Frost, the author of the Sheffield novels, be Domingo Acosta's killer! It's pure genius. Tell me, though, when did the two of you cook up this little scheme?"

"After poor Demetrius Contos died, Damon came to the realization that he wasn't going to live forever. He wanted to write a book that would be published posthumously, solving Detective Acosta's murder. Who knew it would turn out to be Damon's last manuscript? I suppose that's one of fate's little ironies."

"I'm more surprised that he signed over all rights to his novels to you so that you could carry on where he left off."

"Yes," the writer said, her emerald eyes twinkling with a well-kept secret. "Even though poor Damon is no longer with us, Art Sheffield and Angel McComb will live to solve many, many more crimes together. And I'm glad. I've grown very fond of that pot-bellied, chili dog-eating, beer-guzzling detective. I think when I see him again I'll buy him a couple of chili dogs from the pushcart."

Abner laughed, unaware that his delightful luncheon companion was deadly serious.

Yes, Salem, they still make books without the name JAMES PATTERSON on the cover!