A Dangerous Fiction by Barbara Rogan Page A

music. The second scotch was kicking in.
    â€œHow do you know it’s the guy from outside your office?” he asked, handing back the pages.
    â€œI called him Sam Spade, because of his fedora and trench coat. He must have adopted it as a pseudonym.”
    â€œWhen was the first encounter?”
    â€œTen days ago.”
    â€œAnd Jean-Paul ran him off. Was that before or after he asked for a job?”
    â€œThe same day. Right after.” A moment passed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Max!”
    â€œI’m just saying. The kid gets to play the hero and clinches the job.”
    â€œNo way. He’s a good kid. Besides, Sam Spade’s here, he followed me.”
    Max nodded. “What do you make of him, based on those pages?”
    I hadn’t expected the question but didn’t have to stop and think. “He’s no writer, that’s for sure. He’s never published, but my guess is he’s tried and been roundly rejected; hence his search for the missing element, his muse. He’s not illiterate, probably even college-educated, but he thinks in clichés and his aesthetic is totally hackneyed: the sad-clown paintings and that tacky Madonna reference. And he’s nuts, of course. Grandiose and delusional.”
    â€œWould you know him if you saw him?”
    â€œNo. I never really saw his face. The night he waylaid me, it was raining and he wore a trench coat and a fedora tilted down over his face, Bogart-style. That’s why I called him Sam Spade. But I’m scheduled to meet him tomorrow, to discuss this dreck.”
    â€œIf he shows. Guy strikes me as the shy type.”
    I didn’t like the sound of that. “You’re the profiler; what do you make of him? Do I need to worry?”
    â€œYou? You’re golden.” Max leaned back, hands clasped behind his neck. “Boyo needs to worry.”

Chapter 5
    O n Sunday, Max arranged for hotel security to place several people in the conference room where presenters met one-on-one with attendees, while he himself lurked behind a screen in one corner of the room. Sam Spade was the fourth and last of my scheduled appointments.
    He never showed.
    On Monday, Max flew back to New York with me. There was no talking him out of it. The strange thing was that, having convinced him to take my stalker seriously, I now found myself incapable of doing so. It wasn’t as if this were the first I’d ever dealt with. Hugo had attracted a whole following. Fans and aspiring writers used to send letters, hang around the building, or leave manuscripts with the doorman. Women, too, called the apartment, demanding to talk to Hugo, refusing to leave messages. Some were so persistent that I was finally forced to change our number. Especially when he was writing, my husband relied on me to protect his privacy, and I felt a . . . I won’t say “sacred duty
,”
for that sounds slavish, but an absolute imperative to do so. People had no consideration and would disturb him day and night if I didn’t intervene. I’d dealt with his stalkers as efficiently as a farmwife deals with flies. Why should Sam Spade be any different?
    From Kennedy we taxied into Manhattan, weaving through rush-hour traffic. The sky was pewter-colored, and the air smelled of rain and exhaust. I opened my window to the polyglot babel, horns, sirens, rumble, and clatter that was home for me. It was nearly six by the time we reached my office, but everyone was there, gathered around the conference table. Harriet looked pointedly at her watch as we entered. Jean-Paul brought in an extra chair for Max, who sat beside me at the head of the table. Lorna, as usual, anchored the foot with her trusty steno pad at the ready. They must have ordered in Chinese; my office smelled of fried rice.
    Max filled them in on the events in Santa Fe, then handed around copies of Sam Spade’s novel summary. We’d argued about this on the plane,