he said.
âWhy?â
âTrust me. It is,â said Conner.
And so, there on that hill in Bloomington, Indiana, beneath the graying skies that seemed to mirror the lake below, Conner started to tell me everything that had happened from the moment I last saw him in West Lafayette. Or, at least, all that he wanted me to know.
19
T he story began a few hours after we had said good-bye at the Hilton Garden Inn. I had driven home to Bloomington, while he took I-65 to the Indianapolis Airport. By the time he got there, he had decided to take Dexâs story at face value. He would do what Dex asked. If the check turned out to be good, he would take the money, write the book as well as he could, and feel blessed that this strange project had fallen into his lap. If it had been good enough for the other authors Dex had employed, it would be good enough for Conner. It was about time his luck turned around.
Back at LaGuardia, he got his car and drove to the Poconos. He felt energized by the prospect of devising story ideas. He hadnât felt so upbeat since he had first met Angela and they had talked about books and she had told him how much she hated contemporary crime novels because they were so implausible, and he had vowed he would write one she could believe was true. He had dedicated that novel, Devil Shotgun , to her, had even named it after the brand of exhaust pipe on her Suzuki motorcycle. How thrilled he had felt during those days, typing until dawn while she slept in his bed until it was time for her to get up and get ready for her shift.
Back then, writing hadnât been about making money or trying to appeal to a big audience. It hadnât been about trying to make back the advances he had been paid. The reason he wrote was to forge a deeper relationship with the woman he loved and wanted to marry. Although he had fantasized about publishing a novel at some point, he hadnât thought Devil Shotgun would be the one, not until Angela read it and told him it was too good to share with only one person, even if that person was the one who had accepted Connerâs proposal to marry her. Everything that came afterwardâthe agent Conner secured to sell the work; the contract he signed with Shaschaâs imprint at Schreiber & Sons; the movie deal; the deals for all the Cole Padgett books that followed; the ability to quit his job at the Daily News , buy a Porsche 911 and a sprawling 1920s home built on four acres of land with great views, lousy plumbing, and a private path that led down to the Delaware Riverâall that had been extra. And none of it would have mattered had Angela not fallen in love with him, married him, and agreed to move with him to Pennsylvania and start a family. Even now, he would have given back every word he had ever put down on paper if he could have recaptured the joy he had felt during his first years with Angie.
Angela De La Roja was Connerâs inspiration and had been for every book he had written. He had been attracted not only by her beauty, but also by her honesty. âSometimes, I feel weâre the only two honest people left in the world,â he once told her. When he had talked to her as a beat reporter, he was stunned by all the confidential information she provided him, all the background details no other cop had ever given up. And he knew she didnât tell him all this to impress him or to make her bosses or coworkers look bad, but because she was incapable of lying and because she thought he was the only trustworthy journalist she had ever met; journalism was a profession she viewed with as much skepticism as she viewed police work, which was probably why she had seemed so suspicious of me. She had been hurt badly in her lifeâwhen she was twelve, her father had died in prison after having supposedly been set up to take the fall for a drug deal heâd had nothing to do with. Becoming a cop had been Angelaâs form of mourning and
âWhy?â
âTrust me. It is,â said Conner.
And so, there on that hill in Bloomington, Indiana, beneath the graying skies that seemed to mirror the lake below, Conner started to tell me everything that had happened from the moment I last saw him in West Lafayette. Or, at least, all that he wanted me to know.
19
T he story began a few hours after we had said good-bye at the Hilton Garden Inn. I had driven home to Bloomington, while he took I-65 to the Indianapolis Airport. By the time he got there, he had decided to take Dexâs story at face value. He would do what Dex asked. If the check turned out to be good, he would take the money, write the book as well as he could, and feel blessed that this strange project had fallen into his lap. If it had been good enough for the other authors Dex had employed, it would be good enough for Conner. It was about time his luck turned around.
Back at LaGuardia, he got his car and drove to the Poconos. He felt energized by the prospect of devising story ideas. He hadnât felt so upbeat since he had first met Angela and they had talked about books and she had told him how much she hated contemporary crime novels because they were so implausible, and he had vowed he would write one she could believe was true. He had dedicated that novel, Devil Shotgun , to her, had even named it after the brand of exhaust pipe on her Suzuki motorcycle. How thrilled he had felt during those days, typing until dawn while she slept in his bed until it was time for her to get up and get ready for her shift.
Back then, writing hadnât been about making money or trying to appeal to a big audience. It hadnât been about trying to make back the advances he had been paid. The reason he wrote was to forge a deeper relationship with the woman he loved and wanted to marry. Although he had fantasized about publishing a novel at some point, he hadnât thought Devil Shotgun would be the one, not until Angela read it and told him it was too good to share with only one person, even if that person was the one who had accepted Connerâs proposal to marry her. Everything that came afterwardâthe agent Conner secured to sell the work; the contract he signed with Shaschaâs imprint at Schreiber & Sons; the movie deal; the deals for all the Cole Padgett books that followed; the ability to quit his job at the Daily News , buy a Porsche 911 and a sprawling 1920s home built on four acres of land with great views, lousy plumbing, and a private path that led down to the Delaware Riverâall that had been extra. And none of it would have mattered had Angela not fallen in love with him, married him, and agreed to move with him to Pennsylvania and start a family. Even now, he would have given back every word he had ever put down on paper if he could have recaptured the joy he had felt during his first years with Angie.
Angela De La Roja was Connerâs inspiration and had been for every book he had written. He had been attracted not only by her beauty, but also by her honesty. âSometimes, I feel weâre the only two honest people left in the world,â he once told her. When he had talked to her as a beat reporter, he was stunned by all the confidential information she provided him, all the background details no other cop had ever given up. And he knew she didnât tell him all this to impress him or to make her bosses or coworkers look bad, but because she was incapable of lying and because she thought he was the only trustworthy journalist she had ever met; journalism was a profession she viewed with as much skepticism as she viewed police work, which was probably why she had seemed so suspicious of me. She had been hurt badly in her lifeâwhen she was twelve, her father had died in prison after having supposedly been set up to take the fall for a drug deal heâd had nothing to do with. Becoming a cop had been Angelaâs form of mourning and
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