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Black Sapphire Pearl
Everything falls into place in the exciting conclusion of our mystery thriller.
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by mark haskell smith | illustrations by tavis coburn
I don't like mysteries›. I know that sounds strange coming from a detective. After all, it's a detective's job to solve mysteries, unravel riddles, de-enigmatize enigmas, and basically figure out that it was Colonel Mustard in the billiard room with the candlestick. But I was never good at Clue. I'm not a genius like Sherlock Holmes or Theo Rose›. I became a detective because I don't like criminals. There's just something about the crumbs that bugs me. Always has. Call it a desire for justice if you want.
. . .
I steered the hybrid onto the freeway and hit the gas, or maybe I hit the battery, and headed north toward San Francisco. Lydia› wanted to know what our next move was, so I handed her the matchbook I'd swiped off the table in her agent's hotel room. She looked at it.
"Persian Aub Zam Zam Room?"
"It's a bar."
"I can see that. Why are we going to a bar?"
I didn't want to tell her what I'd already figured out: that the matches had been left on purpose, that someone was pulling the strings on our little adventure, and that going to the Zam Zam Room would be walking into a trap. She didn't need to know all that. So I changed the subject.
"Why was your agent so upset? I thought he was gonna cry."
She sat back in her seat and looked out the window.
"Theo Rose has been very good to me. And because Corey› gets a cut of every penny I earn, he's been good to Corey." She sighed. "I guess Corey's gotten used to a steady cash flow over the years, but honestly, Roy, I can't go on. The pressure of cranking out a book a year is too much. It's been 10 years of my life. It's all I've done. I need a break."
She turned and looked at me. I could see she was upset.
"Do you know that he wants to go ahead and hire a ghostwriter to keep churning out Theo Rose novels?"
I don't know much about the book biz.
"Can he do that?"
"It's not unheard of. Agatha Christie's novels have been ghostwritten for years. But that's not who I am. I'm not a factory. I write books, not widgets. Closing out the series is the only way to preserve my integrity."
"That's why you're killing Theo?"
She nodded. "It's either him or me."
. . .
We didn't talk much after that; she sat there and stewed, and I pretty much kept my eyes on the road. So it was pretty easy to hear my stomach start growling. Lydia said she could use a bite too, so I exited the freeway, avoiding the more traditional fast-food restaurants that seem to hover around the interstate like pilot fish on a shark, and cruised into a little no-name town searching for a reputable-looking burrito stand. I have friends who believe that the taco is the perfect food, and I'll admit it's hard to argue with a soft corn tortilla, a clump of grilled meat, onions, cilantro, and salsa. But those are authentic Mexican tacos, something that's hard to find north of Los Angeles. Good burritos, on the other hand, are everywhere.
There's no way you can drive and eat a burrito. Well, I mean, you can do it, but it's not safe. So we ate in the parking lot. It wasn't the most romantic locale-there were no candles, no flowers on the table-but I have to tell you, there was something about the way Lydia Stark ate a carnitas burrito that took my breath away. Not that I had an asthma attack or anything, but I did something I'd never done before, something that the Private Investigators Association of America explicitly advises against: I made out with my client.
I don't think I'd ever kissed anyone in a car before either-it may have something to do with the fact that I own a motorcycle-but, well, I recommend it.
. . .
Lydia reclined the seat and took a nap as we drove toward the Bay Area. I didn't mind. I needed time to think.
The matchbook clue was bothering me. It was too obvious, amateurish even. I don't like it when clues are too easy. First, it's insulting to my intelligence, and second, it means that somebody's planning some kind of surprise. I don't like surprises. It's how I got the metal screws and plates in my leg.
I remembered that I had Gannon's› address in San Francisco. I decided that it might be worthwhile to swing by and see if he was home. Maybe I could surprise him before I walked into the Zam Zam Room.
My cell phone rang, almost on cue. It was Jared› again.
"Dude! What's happening?"
Again with the dude.
"We're on the road."
"Listen, Roy, I talked to Corey and he's really worried about Lydia."
"He should be worried about himself."
"What happened?"
I didn't want to go into the details: that Lydia's agent dressed like a color-blind golf pro, or that he'd gotten down on his knees and begged her to keep writing Theo Rose books like he was a 5-year-old in desperate need of a cookie.
"They had a disagreement."
"I have to say, as her attorney, that I agree with Corey. She shouldn't quit writing those books. It doesn't make sense."
"I think she's made up her mind."
There was a pause on the line, and then Jared popped the question.
"Roy, what's your assessment of her mental condition?"
I swear, somewhere in the crackle of the cell phone I thought I heard a tape recorder click on.
"She's tired. But otherwise I'd say she's completely sane."
"What about her claim that she saw one of her characters?"
"I saw him too."
There was another pause.
"Where're you headed now?"
"Bay Area."
"Dude, do you really think her car's up there?"
I'd almost forgotten that we were looking for her car: the missing Lexus LS 460 in Black Sapphire Pearl.
"Just following a lead."
Jared told me to keep him posted, then hung up.
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