Excerpt
Dark Truth
One
November 2005
New York City
At eleven-ten on Tuesday morning, Nina Madden stared at the phone that sat on the corner of her desk, and willed it to ring.
Thirty seconds later, it did.
Finally. She punched the speaker button.
“Nina, we’re ready for you in the conference room.” The perky voice of the assistant to the marketing director chirped through the speaker.
“ ’Bout time. This is only the third time we’ve tried to have this meeting.” Nina slipped her feet back into the brown suede three-inch heels she’d kicked off the minute she got into her office that morning, and smoothed her newly cut short black hair. Then, papers in hand, she went immediately to the conference room at the end of the hall.
The door stood open, as the other participants in the marketing meeting of Griffin Publishing were already assembled. She closed the door behind her and took the first open chair. The head of the marketing department and her assistant, two copywriters, the art director, the publicist, and two people from sales were gathered around the oval table.
“Okay, next up on the schedule is Regan Landry’s Fallen Angels.” As always, Phoebe Valentine, the marketing director, got right to the point. She was mid-forties and buff as a twenty-year-old, blond and stylish. She was also the granddaughter of the company’s founder. “We’ve all read the blurb—college girls who earned their tuition money dancing in ‘gentlemen’s clubs,’ and who at some point were found murdered. Cases span the country . . .”
“Right.” Nina nodded. “Regan went through her dad’s files and found twenty-two such cases that remain open after nearly as many years. She selected four she felt were representative of the group as a whole, and concentrated on those.”
“Have you seen any of it?” Phoebe asked.
“No, but I’m sure it’s terrific,” Nina assured her.
“It’s her first solo work,” Darren Heller, VP of sales, reminded Nina.
“Regan worked with her father on a number of books before his death,” she replied calmly. “I have no reason to think this book will be any less wonderful than In His Shoes, which—I’m sure I don’t need to remind you—she completed after her father’s death. She’s experienced—”
“She’s not her father,” Darren interrupted. “Josh Landry was the biggest selling author this company had. Griffin built its reputation on him.”
“No, Regan is not her father, but she is a very fine writer, a good investigator. She does have her own style, puts her own spin on things. But that’s no reason to assume that her book will be any less riveting than Josh’s were.” Nina folded her arms and leaned back in her seat. The last thing she’d expected this morning was to have to defend her author, in whom she had complete faith. “I don’t think we need to worry about the quality of the book.”
“What were the sales on last year’s book?” Phoebe asked.
“Huge,” Darren admitted. “Almost two million copies.”
“Well, it was released not long after Josh’s death,” Tom DeMarco, the sales assistant and newest member of the staff, reminded them.
“Not so soon,” Nina said. “Actually, it was a full year before we released that book.”
“You sure?” Tom started searching through a folder.
“Positive.” Nina nodded. “Josh died in August of 2004. In His Shoes came out in July of 2005. The book was less than a third complete when Josh was murdered. Regan finished it herself, got it in on time, and went on tour to support the book. I don’t think we need waste any more time discussing whether or not she can carry this alone.”
“I agree.” Phoebe jumped in before anyone else could. “She’s proven herself. I do, however, think we need to invoke Josh’s name as often as possible.”
Phoebe pointed to Hollis Behl, one of the copy assistants.
“Make sure the cover reflects that this is Josh Landry’s daughter, the same daughter who coauthored his last however-many books.” Before the young girl could reply, Phoebe turned to the publicity director. “And Lydia, I think we need to use her father’s name in all our ads.”
“Of course. We’ve already worked up some preliminary promotions . . . magazine ads, newspapers, radio.” Lydia Post, the senior member of the group, skimmed her notes. In her mid-fifties, with fading strawberry blond hair and a soft waistline, Lydia was always one step ahead. “A shot on Today the day the book comes out, Oprah the day after.”
“How ’bout one of the late-night talk shows?” Darren rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“I don’t think she’d want to do that,” Nina told them.
“Why not?” Darren asked.
“I don’t think it’s her kind of thing. We can ask her, but I don’t think she’d go for it. She really likes to keep a pretty low profile.”
“How low a profile do you think you can keep with this kind of print run?” Phoebe wondered aloud. “And she’ll do Oprah and Today but not the nighttime talk shows?”
“I can talk to her about it, but she declined to do Leno last time because she feels it is too celebrity driven. That’s the best I can do.” Nina shrugged.
“When do you think you can do that?”
“Later this week.” Nina closed her file. “I’ve already made plans to meet with her, since I’ll be in Maryland anyway.”
“Oh, that’s right. Your stepmother.” Phoebe nodded. “You have our condolences, Nina.”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, sorry to hear about your stepmother,” Darren added. “Anything else we need to discuss?”
“Just the cover art.” Phoebe turned to the art director, Leo Curran, Nina’s deceased stepmother now tidily tucked away with the cover copy and the publicity plans. “What have you got for us?”
Leo held up the poster that had been leaning against the table leg.
“Whoa. That’s a strong image.” Darren sat up straight in his chair.
“Amazing.” Nina nodded, as the others began to murmur. “I love it.”
“She’s pretty slick, I have to admit.” Leo’s smile played above his grizzled beard as he turned the poster to the opposite side of the table, so all could admire the shadowy silhouette of the girl pole-dancing on a deep gold background.
“Leo, it’s fabulous,” Phoebe told him. “That is simply fabulous.”
“I can see that on posters in every bookstore window . . .” Lydia said, scribbling notes. “Every college bookstore . . .”
“What do you think the author will say?” Leo asked Nina.
“She’ll say it’s outrageous. It is outrageous.” Nina grinned. “She’s going to love it. May I take that with me to show her?”
“I’ll get you a duplicate.” Leo beamed, pleased that his efforts were so well received.
“Maybe we ought to look again at that print run,” Tom suggested. “How many were we looking at, first printing?”
“Three quarters of a mil,” Nina reminded him.
“Maybe we ought to go out with a little more.” Phoebe turned to Darren. “Can you sell that many?”
“With that cover?” He laughed. “If you’re thinking of eight hundred thousand, I think you ought to be ready to go back to press real soon. That book is going to fly off the shelves, cover like that. Josh Landry’s name behind it.”
“You’re right. We’re going to have to come up with something really fresh—marketing-wise, publicity-wise—to really launch this one in a big way,” Phoebe agreed. “Ideas, anyone?”
“Ah, actually, Phoebe, I have to catch a plane.” Nina checked the time on the wall clock.
“Sorry, my fault,” Leo told her. “We spent way too much time on the last book, talking about cover possibilities for Sandra Ingram’s next historical romance.”
“I should have cut that discussion off sooner,” Phoebe said. “I knew Nina had to leave before noon to make her plane. We’ll shelve the marketing and publicity plans for now. Everyone, keep it on the front burner. We’ll talk again after Nina gets back from meeting with Regan and we’ll see what she’s comfortable doing.”
“Great idea, Phoebe, thanks.” Nina rose and pushed the chair back.
“Hey, again, our condolences,” Leo called to her as she left the room. “Sorry you lost your stepmother.”
Nina nodded her thanks and closed the door behind her. There was no need for her coworkers to know she’d lost her stepmother sixteen long years ago. Right after her father was tried and convicted as a serial killer.
