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Authors: Jane Haddam
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Melissa Crowell.”
I woke up long enough to get a cigarette out of the pack in my jacket pocket and (almost) unravel Radd Stassen’s show-and-tell.
“Melissa Crowell,” I said. “Melissa Crowell writes bodice rippers. You mean Max Brady is Melissa Crowell?”
“Exactly,” Radd Stassen said.
“Ridiculous,” Dana said.
“You take a rape prevention class at the New School Monday and Thursday nights at seven-thirty,” Radd Stassen said. “Maxwell Arthur Brady teaches a class on the history of the private detective at the New School Monday and Thursday nights at seven.”
“I take a rape class at the New School,” Dana said.
“We know that’s where you’re passing business information,” Radd Stassen said. “Outside the men’s room on the third floor. We’ve got witnesses.”
“Bull manure,” Dana said.
“Jane Minetti Brady got a divorce from Maxwell Arthur Brady in 1969,” Radd Stassen said. “It’s a percentage of income, which translates into a percentage of known income. We now know about this income.”
Dana sighed, elaborately, grotesquely, exaggeratedly. It was such an out-of-character sound for her, I woke up again. I had a sudden vision of a class called “Acting for Agents,” held in a fifth-floor Chelsea loft every Monday and Wednesday lunch and run by a ringer from William Morris. If it didn’t exist, it ought to.
“Mr. Stetson—” Dana started.
“Stassen,” Radd Stassen smiled energetically. “Raddford Hugh Stassen. Know what’s great about my name? It’s my name. The one I was born with.”
“It must have been quite a trial in Little League,” Dana said.
“About Maxwell Arthur Brady writing as Melissa Crowell,” Radd Stassen said.
The buzzer went off on Dana’s desk. She picked up her phone, listened with impatience, and said, “That’s all right. Go to lunch... no, go to lunch now. I’ll come out and get it.” She replaced the phone. “If you’ll excuse me. This is very important and I’ve been waiting all morning.”
She got up and headed for the door, heels sinking into the carpet, hands rigidly at her sides. Radd and I watched her go. She had more self-control than either of us. She left that office as if she were leaving an empty space.
She shut the door with a snap. Radd rearranged his big, intrusive body in his chair, wiggled his foot (the one in the air), and smiled at me.
“Going to call her lawyer,” he said. “They always do.”
I started hunting for another cigarette. “Somebody buzzed her,” I said.
“Somebody buzzed her to say they were going to lunch,” Radd Stassen said. “It’s an excuse. She did this Maxwell Arthur Brady a favor, now she wants to know what her liability is. She’ll come back, deny everything, then come into court and change her story under oath. They do it every time.”
“I didn’t even know Max used to be married,” I said.
“Ancient history,” Radd Stassen said.
I found the cigarette. I found the matches. I found a three-week overdue electric bill. “Lisa,” I said. “All the time I’ve known him, he’s been going out with a girl named Lisa.” I thought about it. “Never seen her,” I said.
“The redhead,” Radd Stassen said. “That’s recent. Last year, year and a half. Before that there was—” He consulted his papers. Every time he consulted his papers, he had to look through the stack page by page. He had apparently yet to hear about categorization by subject. Or even alphabetization. “The older woman,” he muttered. He seized a page. “Train,” he said. “Mrs. Verna Train.”
I burned my fingers with the match. “Are you nuts?”
“Of course I’m not nuts. I’ve got pictures.” He was offended.
“They hated each other,” I told him. “They did physical violence to each other.”
“Lately. Before Lisa, they used to do other things to each other.” Radd smiled. I was getting very tired of his smile. “Mrs. Brady has kept an eye on Mr. Brady since the
I woke up long enough to get a cigarette out of the pack in my jacket pocket and (almost) unravel Radd Stassen’s show-and-tell.
“Melissa Crowell,” I said. “Melissa Crowell writes bodice rippers. You mean Max Brady is Melissa Crowell?”
“Exactly,” Radd Stassen said.
“Ridiculous,” Dana said.
“You take a rape prevention class at the New School Monday and Thursday nights at seven-thirty,” Radd Stassen said. “Maxwell Arthur Brady teaches a class on the history of the private detective at the New School Monday and Thursday nights at seven.”
“I take a rape class at the New School,” Dana said.
“We know that’s where you’re passing business information,” Radd Stassen said. “Outside the men’s room on the third floor. We’ve got witnesses.”
“Bull manure,” Dana said.
“Jane Minetti Brady got a divorce from Maxwell Arthur Brady in 1969,” Radd Stassen said. “It’s a percentage of income, which translates into a percentage of known income. We now know about this income.”
Dana sighed, elaborately, grotesquely, exaggeratedly. It was such an out-of-character sound for her, I woke up again. I had a sudden vision of a class called “Acting for Agents,” held in a fifth-floor Chelsea loft every Monday and Wednesday lunch and run by a ringer from William Morris. If it didn’t exist, it ought to.
“Mr. Stetson—” Dana started.
“Stassen,” Radd Stassen smiled energetically. “Raddford Hugh Stassen. Know what’s great about my name? It’s my name. The one I was born with.”
“It must have been quite a trial in Little League,” Dana said.
“About Maxwell Arthur Brady writing as Melissa Crowell,” Radd Stassen said.
The buzzer went off on Dana’s desk. She picked up her phone, listened with impatience, and said, “That’s all right. Go to lunch... no, go to lunch now. I’ll come out and get it.” She replaced the phone. “If you’ll excuse me. This is very important and I’ve been waiting all morning.”
She got up and headed for the door, heels sinking into the carpet, hands rigidly at her sides. Radd and I watched her go. She had more self-control than either of us. She left that office as if she were leaving an empty space.
She shut the door with a snap. Radd rearranged his big, intrusive body in his chair, wiggled his foot (the one in the air), and smiled at me.
“Going to call her lawyer,” he said. “They always do.”
I started hunting for another cigarette. “Somebody buzzed her,” I said.
“Somebody buzzed her to say they were going to lunch,” Radd Stassen said. “It’s an excuse. She did this Maxwell Arthur Brady a favor, now she wants to know what her liability is. She’ll come back, deny everything, then come into court and change her story under oath. They do it every time.”
“I didn’t even know Max used to be married,” I said.
“Ancient history,” Radd Stassen said.
I found the cigarette. I found the matches. I found a three-week overdue electric bill. “Lisa,” I said. “All the time I’ve known him, he’s been going out with a girl named Lisa.” I thought about it. “Never seen her,” I said.
“The redhead,” Radd Stassen said. “That’s recent. Last year, year and a half. Before that there was—” He consulted his papers. Every time he consulted his papers, he had to look through the stack page by page. He had apparently yet to hear about categorization by subject. Or even alphabetization. “The older woman,” he muttered. He seized a page. “Train,” he said. “Mrs. Verna Train.”
I burned my fingers with the match. “Are you nuts?”
“Of course I’m not nuts. I’ve got pictures.” He was offended.
“They hated each other,” I told him. “They did physical violence to each other.”
“Lately. Before Lisa, they used to do other things to each other.” Radd smiled. I was getting very tired of his smile. “Mrs. Brady has kept an eye on Mr. Brady since the
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