"Till Milo gets here."

"Well, be careful. Hang around here too long, you'll need to be disinfected."

She slammed the door and App heard it through the glass and jumped. His fear had always been there, hiding just beneath the cashmere.

MacIlhenny patted his shoulder and App resumed dictating.

Twenty minutes later, Milo still hadn't come back from accompanying Lucy and I wondered why.

A half hour after that, MacIlhenny stopped writing.

Bleichert ran his finger down the center of the page. Speed-reading. Then a slower perusal.

He put it down.

"It says nothing in here about who shot Mr. Mellors."

"A guy named Jeffries," said App, as if it didn't matter. "Leopold Jeffries. He got killed himself, five years ago- check the police files."

"What did you have to do with Mr. Jeffries's death?"

App smiled. "Nothing at all. The police shot him, in the middle of a robbery. Leopold Earl Jeffries- check it out."

Calm again.

Bleichert read the confession again. "This is okay, for a start." Putting it in his pocket. "Now fill me in on Trafficant."

App looked at MacIlhenny. The fat lawyer sucked his cheeks.

"There are tapes," said App. "At my house in Lake Arrowhead. Feel free to get them without a warrant. They're in the basement, behind one of the refrigerators."

"One of them?" said Bleichert, writing.

"I have two basement refrigerators at Arrowhead. For parties. Two Sub-Zeros. Behind the one on the right is a wall safe. The tapes are in there, I'll get you the combination. They've got Terry Trafficant telling me everything. I taped him because I thought one day it might be historically significant. Terry got fed up with Lowell's manipulation and looked to me as someone he could trust. I paid him every penny of his option money. I also paid him for a screenplay he did. Every penny."

"In return for all his future royalties?" said Leah.

"That, too," said App. "He got the better end of the deal. I haven't earned a thing in years."

"What kind of screenplay?" said Bleichert.

"Not really a full script, just a summary of some horror flick- Friday the Thirteenth type of thing, women getting chopped up by a maniac."

"Title?"

"The Bride."

The treatment I'd read, Trafficant's. Title stolen from a dead man's novel. For the petty thrill? The allure of crime had never left him.

"I thought," App was saying, "with a few changes- more character arc- it had potential. If Terry hadn't disappeared, I probably would have produced it."

"Hooray for Hollywood," said Bleichert. "So far I don't know much more than when I came in."

App wore a meditative look.

MacIlhenny handed his client water, and App sipped delicately.

Putting the glass down, he said, "The key to all of it is Lowell's creative block. He went into a massive block years ago- thirty years ago. Just couldn't break out of it, maybe because of his drinking or maybe he'd just said all he had to say. But Trafficant didn't know that. He spent most of his youth in prison, found Lowell's old stuff, and read it, had no idea what was going on in the outside world. Then he ended up in some sort of creative writing program the prison was experimenting with and got the idea he could write. So he wrote to Lowell, stroked Lowell's ego, the two of them started a correspondence. Trafficant started writing poems and keeping a diary. He sent it to Lowell. Lowell was impressed and started working for Trafficant's parole."

Pausing.

"That's the part the public knows. The truth is, Lowell and Trafficant cut a deal, back when Trafficant was still in prison. Lowell hatched the whole thing, telling Trafficant poetry was a financial loser in the book business, it was almost impossible to get published. Except for a few famous poets like him. Lowell promised to agitate until Trafficant got early parole; meanwhile he'd also be editing Trafficant's poems, then submit them for publication under his own name. Trafficant would get the money and Lowell would also get the diary published under Trafficant's name."

"And Trafficant went along with this?"

"What did he have to bargain with, a loser behind bars? Lowell was offering him freedom, lots of money, possible fame if the diary hit big. So he wouldn't get credit for the poems; he could live with that. He was a con, used to deals."

"How much money did Lowell get for the poems?"

"A hundred and fifty thousand advance against royalties. Lowell took fifty for himself, Lowell's agent got fifteen. The retreat- Sanctum- was started as a way to transfer the rest of the eighty-five thou to Trafficant."

"Sounds like you were in on it from the beginning," said Bleichert.

"I helped finance the retreat because I believed in Lowell."

"Idealism."

"That's right."

Bleichert said to MacIlhenny, "So far the tone of this is very self-serving."

MacIlhenny said, "Be frank, Curt. This old nose tells me they're operating in good faith."

App hesitated.

MacIlhenny patted him.

"All right," the producer said. "I used the retreat too. To launder money. Nothing big. Some friends of mine- kids, people in the industry- were bringing marijuana up from Mexico. We didn't consider it really a drug, back then. Everyone smoked."

He picked something out of his sweater.

Bleichert moved his head impatiently. "I hope there's more."

"Plenty," said App. "Lowell was hoping the poems he stole from Trafficant would put him back in the spotlight. They did, but in the wrong way. All the critics hated them and the book bombed. Meanwhile, Trafficant's book became a fu- a best-seller." He chuckled, wanting everyone else to join in. No one did.

I remembered the enraged letter Trafficant had written to the Village Voice in support of Lowell. Mustering the only real passion a psychopath can ever develop: self-defense.

"What made Lowell think Trafficant would keep quiet about the deal?"

"Lowell was desperate. And naive- most arty types are. I've dealt with them for thirty years; take my word for it. And the fact that the book failed protected Lowell. Why would Trafficant want to claim authorship of a turkey, especially with his other book doing so well? But Lowell wasn't even thinking in those terms at the beginning. He was obsessed with his place in history, freaking out that his reputation was rotting. He used to sit in that cabin on his property all day, trying to produce, but nothing came. He kept drinking and doping to forget, and it only made matters worse."

"How'd the failure of the poetry book affect him?"

"He drank himself unconscious, then came out of it saying it was Terry's work anyway, Terry had no talent, was just a slick criminal who'd taken advantage of him. Meanwhile, Terry's doing interviews with The New York Times and selling a thousand books a week. Lowell stopped talking to him, and Terry knew it was only a matter of time before he'd be leaving Sanctum. That's when he transferred his royalties to me for safekeeping. For all his tough talk, he was still a con, had no idea how to cope with the world, so he came to me."

"And you taped him."

"For his protection."

Bleichert grunted.

"Irony," said App. "It's the key to a good story line. Lowell's name on that book of poems was supposed to buy success but it didn't. Trafficant became the darling of the literary set. You could package it as a comedy and sell it to cable."

Bleichert said, "So Trafficant spilled his guts to you because he was worried about making it in the outside world."

"That, and he wanted to talk. Cons always do. No self-control. Never met one yet who could keep a secret."

"Know lots of cons, do you?"