Free Where the Truth Lies by Holmes Rupert Page A

Conan Doyle ratiocination. Icould see that he quickly received the requested Smirnoff on the rocks, because Helen (who’d bravely volunteered to become his personal stewardess) brought it immediately after takeoff, on a small tray along with a porcelain nut dish filled with almonds. I can visually verify that his left arm looked nice taking the tray from her. She leaned forward to hear something he was saying or requesting. Helen laughed a giddy laugh and stepped away, returning moments later with an American Airlines sleeping mask, even though it was only around four in the afternoon. His left arm took it from her, his seat reclined, and I assume he took a nap.
    I wondered whether he’d asked for the mask in order to reduce visibility fromhis side of it or to reduce his own visibility to the surrounding passengers. He was certainly lucky in that those seated in the two rows ahead of him hadn’t seemed to have noticed his entrance just prior to takeoff. The two Hindustani gentlemen on his left didn’t show any signs of recognition, perhaps becauseTwo Flatfoots from Flatbush had never played at the Raita Rialto in downtown Vindaloo. The Brit and his Nordic model citizen were seemingly far more interested in themselves than anyone else, and it looked like a trip for the two to the loo to do the dirty deed was all but inevitable. For the moment, everyone in first class was by design or by ignorance playing it very cool about Lanny’s presence in their midst.
    Stewardess Kim gifted me with my complimentary headphones, which were simply hollow plastic tubes that sent sound stethoscopically to one’s ears. I put them on, heard the thrilling strains of Paul Mauriat and His Orchestra performing “Love Is Blue,” and wondered what, if anything, I should do about this unusual situation.
    Introducing myself was an option, but it was hard to know where I ranked on Lanny’s hit list, based on our asymmetrical correspondence. Was I enemy, nuisance, rival? Did he really know of me or had this all been the doings of John Hillman, Esquire? I had never actually received a letter signed “Lanny Morris,” but surely I wouldn’t have been given access to his memoirs without his knowledge and consent.
    For an instant, I entertained the narcissistic notion that Lanny was following me: that he’d pulled a few strings easily accessible to someone of his status, learned when I was flying back to New York, and booked these seats specifically to observe me—but if he wanted to have me shadowed, he could have hired someone to do it. I suddenly had a disconcerting thought accompanied by a chill, which I at first took to be the overhead air vent blowing directly upon me. I half-reached to adjust it before I realized that the frisson I felt was internal.
    Forget thinking that Lanny Morris was following me. Much more likely he’ll think I’m followinghim. Like an obsessed fan, or the paparazzi, or the “journalist” Moe Cohn, whose Miami-based column had dug up dirt on people like Lanny right up through the late fifties, raking them into the muck with a sharp-edged hoe.
    Here I am, having written repeated letters to Lanny and his representatives, pleading my case, sending him excerpts from my published oeuvre, negotiating an agreement with Lanny’s ex-partner, poring over Lanny’s offered memoirs … and now a mere three days later I’m sitting in the midst of his entourage en route to New York. If I were Lanny, wouldn’t I be suspicious?
    I tried to remember if any of the articles that I’d sent to Lanny’s lawyers carried byline photos of me. As best I could remember, they hadn’t. There was a piece I’d done forViva in which I’d tried to uncover the secret identity of “J.” (the author of the recent best-sellerThe Sensuous Woman ). The magazine had made much of “K. O’Connor” (my usual billing) searching for “J.”—but I’d been photographed wearing a harlequin’s eye mask while supposedly scribbling notes at the bedside of three men who were