“Now you’re scaring me.”
“Remember that movie with Tom Cruise? Where they can see a crime coming before it happens? We’re almost there. We can almost really do that. Our program will build a profile of intent based on past history. It’s not only informative but deductive. Removes all possibility of human error.”
“Christ,” DeMarco said.
“I know! Homeland Security has their own version already. Problem is, they don’t like to share. I don’t really care though, because we’re having so much fun just putting this thing together.”
Sometimes DeMarco felt that the world had come to a standstill. At other times, and this was one of them, he felt that the world was spinning so fast he was in danger of being flung into the void.
He laid a hand on the jewel case. “Well, in the meantime…”
Carmichael winked. “I’ll have the rest of it by tomorrow noon.”
“Good,” DeMarco said. “Unfortunately, I just thought of something else. You have time to monitor social media for any chatter about the case? Not just the usual kind of talk about it, but anything implying, you know, insider knowledge. Any one individual taking an inordinate amount of interest in what’s transpiring. You got time for that?”
“If you need it, I’ll find the time.”
“I appreciate it. Thank you.”
Carmichael’s brisk exit seemed to suck the air from the room. DeMarco sagged in his chair, rubbed both hands over his face, and felt the world spinning like a centrifuge.
He got up, still feeling wobbly, and headed to the restroom to wash his hands.
Fifteen
For dinner that evening, DeMarco opened a can of white albacore tuna and dumped it onto a plate. He sliced tomatoes, onions, and mozzarella for a quick caprese salad, sprinkled it with dried basil, drizzled Italian dressing over everything. He carried this and half a water glass full of Jack Daniels to the dining room, where his computer sat on the table amidst an ever-growing accumulation of file folders and miscellaneous papers.
On the CD Carmichael had made, there were sixty-seven emails to or from eight different sources, most from the inbox, none more than six weeks old. Apparently, Huston was not an email pack rat and kept his files cleaned out. Carmichael had organized the messages into separate folders labeled with the names of the correspondents.
The first folder contained messages between Huston and his literary agent. The agent’s tone brimmed with optimism about the buzz The Desperate Summer had generated. He reported that inquiries about film rights were coming in daily, that he was negotiating audio rights and, through his subagents, foreign language rights in nine countries. A large print edition was scheduled for release in February, the mass market paperback the following May. In one of the emails, he predicted a half-million dollar advance for Huston’s next novel. “So for Chrissakes, Tom, get fifty pages or so to me along with an outline,” he wrote. “We’ve got to strike while the iron’s hot, man, and the fire is fucking blazing right now. Plus, I recently met a woman who’s working in Spamalot, drop-dead sexy brunette with legs that go all the way to the most exquisite ass I’ve ever drooled over. Promised I’d take her to Ibiza if she’ll sleep with me, so I need that fucking commission!”
Huston’s replies showed a more literary concern. “I plan to take my time with this one, Harry. For one thing, the plot is a lot more convoluted. Plus the research isn’t easy. I have to watch my step. Maybe that brunette would settle for Roosevelt Island instead of Ibiza? Tell her there will be fewer terrorists.”
In another email, he complained about his reputation. “My problem is I succeeded too well with my goal of bridging the gap between serious and commercial fiction. I made the plots too strong. The books have sold too many copies. So now according to the Washington Post I’m a ‘veteran mystery writer.’ And not one of my books is a true mystery.”
In another: “Did you notice that every fucking review so far has started off by announcing that I got a 200k advance for Summer? Is that how everybody judges a book these days, Harry?”
DeMarco sipped his whiskey. “So he does have a few bugs up his ass,” he said. “Not a happy camper at all.”
But Huston wore a different face in the emails to his students. Most were filled with encouragement and practical advice: “Don’t even worry about publication for now. You’re a strong writer, Nicole, and will get even stronger. So concentrate on that. Publication will come when you’re ready for it.”
“It’s all in the execution, Ben. Learn when to dramatize and when to summarize. You do too much of the latter and not enough of the former.”