“So he probably had an informant, a whistleblower who found him, probably someone who read and admired his work.”
An informant? Once again, Bruce was a step behind Nick.
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“I don’t think there’s anything in his first three books, Bruce. Therefore, it has to be number four. And since he stepped outside his field, then someone approached him with the story. An insider. That’s the guy you have to find.”
Bruce reminded himself that this kid was only twenty-one. A well-read twenty-one, but still a kid nonetheless. “And how do we go about finding this person?”
“He’ll probably find you. What if Nelson promised him something, like a slice of the pie, or maybe some cash up front and the rest on the back end? If you had a really juicy story and wanted to spill the beans, wouldn’t you want some money?”
“Why not go to the FBI like Nelson did?”
“I don’t know. Nelson got screwed by the FBI, didn’t he?”
“He allegedly got five mil. Wanted more but he took what they offered.”
“But he wasn’t happy with the deal. Plus it’s taxable income, right?”
“Right.”
“So maybe this informant had his reasons to stay away from guys with badges, but he wanted the story told and he wanted to get paid. He cut a deal with Nelson and now Nelson got whacked. He’ll probably come sniffing around looking for his money.”
“There is no money. The book hasn’t been sold to a publisher.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know that. Will it get sold?”
“Probably. But according to my secret readers it’s not very good.”
“Do I know these readers?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Why can’t I read it?”
“Because you’re headed to Venice for a semester of hard work.”
“Let me read it and I’ll figure it out.”
“I’ll think about it. When do you leave?”
“Next week. Do the cops know about the book?”
“I don’t know. They have his computer, but, knowing Nelson, they won’t be able to turn it on.”
“Are they pushing hard?”
“What do you think?”
“Sorry. I saw online that the store has reopened. Congratulations. I already miss the place.”
“We’re open but nothing is selling. The locals aren’t thinking about books, and the tourists have disappeared.”
“Sorry, boss. I’ll send you a postcard from Venice.”
“We might get over there. I’ve never seen those canals.”
“Please come see me. I’ll need cheering up.”
“Right.”
Two hours later, as Bruce and Noelle were sipping wine on the veranda, Nick called back. “What is it now?” Bruce asked.
“Been thinking about this latest conspiracy. Is it safe to assume that Nelson’s murder will not be solved by the state police?”
“Probably.”
“Then go to the FBI. Murder for hire is a federal offense. A somewhat famous writer gets taken out with a contract. The FBI will be all over it.”
“So you’re a lawyer now?”
“No, but one of my roommates is in law school.”
“Can he find the nearest courthouse?”
“Probably not. But he’s a great guy.”
“No doubt. Look, Nick, I had lunch with my lawyer last week, and he can usually find the courthouse. On a good day. He says you have to be careful because fights between the locals and the Feds are easy to start and hard to stop. He thinks it’s best to wait a few weeks and see where the investigation goes. Fortunately, you’ll be out of the country and preoccupied elsewhere.”
“No doubt. Here’s the real reason I called. You know I really dig this stuff, and so I spend far too much time surfing the Internet. I ran across an interview with a retired