Inherit the Dead

Introduction
    O ne of the most often repeated legends in the publishing world is that crime fiction writers are the nicest of all. The theory is that they work out all their angst and all their aggression on the page by killing made-up people in all kinds of gruesome ways, thereby leaving their real lives full of nothing but kindness, generosity, and gauzy goodwill. Consequently, they help, support, and encourage one another. The success of one is celebrated by all, and they’re always ready to drop everything to help out with a good cause.
    That’s the legend.
    Is it true?
    Well, yes, it is. All of us were new to the scene once, and all of us can testify to the help and support and encouragement we received from those who came before. All of us remember being sincerely and genuinely congratulated on whatever small successes came our way both by those who left such milestones behind long ago and by those yet to reach them. All of us have had flat spots or difficulties, and all of us have been helped out of them by the others.
    But what about dropping everything for a good cause?
    That’s true, too. You’re holding the proof in your hands—a serial novel that combines the efforts of twenty great crime writers in a twisted noir tale so seamless it shows just how cooperative crime fiction writers can be when they put their talents together. Inherit the Dead is as nasty and dark as it is fun, every chapter a surprise yet inevitable.
    But how did it come about?
    Well, Linda Fairstein needs no introduction as an acclaimed crime writer, but she’s also a real-life prosecutor on some very tragic criminal cases. Linda, being Linda, wanted to do more than just secure convictions. She wanted to draw attention to Safe Horizon, the largest victims’ support charity in the United States, that provides assistance of every kind to victims of crime, long after the legal dust has settled.
    And Jonathan Santlofer needs no introduction as an acclaimed crime writer either or as an acclaimed painter—which he is, too, by the way—and which helps make my point: he generally doesn’t have much spare time on his hands. But Jonathan happily agreed to put the book together and to help the charity. The idea was to assemble an extraordinary cast of bestselling contributors who would combine their creative talents and help support Safe Horizon’s vital work.
    So he put out a call to his wish list of contributors—even though he knew that none of them was exactly sitting around doing nothing. At a rough guess, between them they’ll publish about thirty or so novels this year, and I know there’s major involvement in five or six TV series and a couple—or more—major movies; and they all have families, and they all have personal projects of their own.
    So what did they all say?
    They all said yes. Immediately. They dropped everything and rallied around a good cause. I’m proud to call them my friends, my peers, and my colleagues. And I’m delighted to have a good book to read. I hope you will be, too. And thank you for helping out by buying it.
    Crime writers really are a great bunch of people.
    Crime readers, too.
    LEE CHILD
    New York
    2013

1
JONATHAN SANTLOFER
    T he call had been unexpected. The reference—a friend of a friend of a friend—too complicated to follow. But the job—if it turned into a job—was simple enough, a missing person. Or so the caller had said. But Perry Christo, former NYPD homicide detective turned private investigator, knew nothing was ever simple.
    It was six years now since he’d left the NYPD. That was the way he always said it: I left the police department six years ago. As opposed to the truth: that he had been fired. More specifically: asked to leave before he was fired.
    Pericles Alexandros Christo, Perry to his friends (though he didn’t have many—his choice). His mother was the only one who had dared call him Pericles (and live). Forty-four years old, disgraced cop, divorced, one of those men who saw his child every other weekend and sometimes less. His fault. He tugged his collar up against the wind as he cut across Third Avenue. It was the kind of winter day that reminded residents Manhattan was an island surrounded by water, icy water, an unprotected twenty-four square miles of land that had nothing to shield it from the chill other than glass and steel skyscrapers that only helped create wind tunnels and lonely corridors.
    But the address Perry was headed for, 720 Park Avenue, only