The Night Caller by John Lutz Page A

sort of summons or court order.”
    “Not my game. Two o’clock okay?”
    The counterman called Alicia’s name to let her know her order was ready. She said good-bye and it was nice meeting Coop, not answering his question.
    “At your office,” he reminded her.
    “Two’s fine,” she said over her shoulder, headed for the register.
    He watched her walk away. He’d sensed a glint of dismay in Alicia’s eyes when Deni had called her name. Maybe the editor and the famous author weren’t all that compatible.
    Coop thought it couldn’t hurt to have an ally at Whippet, to know what Deni might be writing about Bette in her book.
    “She’s going through a horrendous divorce,” Deni said. “Her husband is an abusive son of a bitch.”
    “He abuse her physically?”
    “Worse than that—psychologically.”
    Coop remembered some of the women he’d seen on domestic violence calls after physical abuse. Did people like Deni think that kind of damage left little psychological effect?
    “The world can be a shitty place for women,” Deni said.
    “For men, too. For cats.”
    Deni smiled around a bite of egg. “I betcha we get along just fine, Coop.”

Chapter Twelve
    Coop had done his research. Whippet Publishing was an imprint of a larger publisher that was a division of a major publisher that was owned by a French conglomerate specializing in commercial concrete applications. All of this resulted in Alicia Benham having an office on the fifth floor of a building on Hudson Street.
    After a brief wait in a quiet, carpeted anteroom done in shades of blue and gray, Alicia had appeared and led Coop to the office. It was Coop’s idea of an editor’s office, small and book-lined, with a window that afforded a distant view of the Statue of Liberty. Alicia sat in a gray upholstered swivel chair behind a gray desk. There were a few yellow file folders on the desk, a gooseneck reading lamp, a stack of rubber-banded manuscripts, and on one corner a notebook computer with the lid raised. It was a prewar building of generous construction; no sound from the street made it all the way up five stories, through the thick walls, and into the office. All in all it was a good place to work, to ponder punctuation.
    Coop sat in a gray chair in front of the desk. Alicia leaned back in her chair and smiled at him. The harsh sunlight pouring through the window revealed fine lines in her face but seemed only to add to its delicacy. She seemed to have had pain in her life and dealt with it in an objective way that hurt all the more and left its imprint.
    “Know anything about commercial concrete applications?” Coop asked.
    She laughed, surprised. “Should I?”
    “Guess not.” He nodded toward the stack of manuscripts. “Those what authors hope will turn into books?”
    “By the time they get to me it’s already been decided that they’ll be books.” She motioned with her right arm. “Like those.”
    Coop followed her glance and saw a lineup of about a dozen Cozy Cat novels on one of the bookshelves. “If Deni’s such a successful mystery novelist,” he said, “why does she want to try writing a fact crime book?”
    “You asking as her collaborator or a cop?”
    “Former cop,” Coop reminded her. “And more of a researcher than a collaborator. I’m also the father of one of the victims who’ll appear in Deni’s book.”
    Alicia’s expression changed. Crows’-feet deepened around her blue eyes. “I’m sorry. Really.” Then another, more subtle expression entered her eyes. “Is that why Deni?…”
    “It’s how she got me to help her,” Coop said.
    Alicia clasped her hands together and leaned forward. “Listen, Mr. Cooper—”
    “Coop.”
    “Okay, Coop. I asked Deni to venture into the field of true crime. There’s pressure on me to provide Whippet with writers who sell. Her Cozy Cat series has gotten stale and sales are slumping.”
    “Why?”
    Alicia regarded him carefully, weighing whether she should