Eight Perfect Murders(26)

Rick went to get his gigantic soda and I quickly bookmarked the page. I thought I might check it out later, but never did.

After deciding in late 2010 to kill Eric Atwell, I went to my bookmarks and discovered I still had that link. I spent a few hours one night after closing time, exploring the different portals, and creating a fake identity, calling myself “Bert Kling.” Then I logged on to a portal called “Swaps” that didn’t specify exactly what it was for but primarily seemed to be sexual in nature. Sixtyyearold man wants to buy you a 1000dollars in clothes. Young and sexy only. Won’t mind me accompanying you into changing room. No touching, just looking. But there were also offers such as Looking for cleaning ladies that want to be paid in oxy.

I opened up a dialogue box and wrote, Any Strangers on a Train fans out there? Would love to suggest a mutually beneficial swap. I posted it and logged off.

I told myself to wait for twenty-four hours before getting back on, but only managed about twelve. It was a quiet day at the store, and I logged back on to Duckburg under my alias. I’d gotten a response. Big fan of that book. Would love to discuss. Go to private chat?

Okay, I responded, clicking the box that made the chat visible to only the two parties involved. Two hours later there was a new message: What did you have in mind?

I wrote, There’s someone who deserves to disappear from the face of the earth. Can’t do it myself, though. I somehow couldn’t bring myself to actually write the word die.

I have the same problem, came back almost immediately.

Let’s help each other out, okay?

Okay.



My heart was beating, and my ears had gone warm. Was I being trapped? It was possible, but all I had to give up was Eric Atwell’s information, not my own. I decided, after about five minutes, that it was worth it.

I wrote: Eric Atwell, 255 Elsinore Street, Southwell, Mass. Anytime from February 6 through February 12. I was going to be at an antiquarian bookseller’s conference in Sarasota, Florida, during that week. My ticket was already bought.

I watched the screen for what seemed like an hour but was probably only ten minutes. Finally, a message appeared. Norman Chaney, 42 Community Road, Tickhill, New Hampshire. Anytime from March 12 through 19. After that message another one popped up thirty seconds later. We should never message again.

I wrote, Agreed. Then I copied down Norman Chaney’s address on the back of an Old Devils bookmark and logged out. From what I understood of Duckburg’s policy, the conversation would now disappear forever. It was a comforting thought, even though I doubted its veracity.

Taking a deep breath, I realized that I’d been barely breathing for the past twenty minutes. I stared at the name and address I’d written down and was just about to punch it into the computer when I stopped myself. I needed to be more careful than that. There were other ways to find out about this person. Right now, the name was enough. I was glad, I had to admit, that it was a man I was supposed to kill. And I was very glad that I was going second. Obviously, I would only have to go through my half of the bargain if Eric Atwell died while I was in Sarasota.



In February 2011 I attended the conference. I’d never been to Sarasota before and I fell in love with its old brick downtown. I made a pilgrimage to what had been John D. MacDonald’s house on Siesta Key, peering through the locked gates at a midcentury modern structure surrounded by lush vegetation. I even attended some presentations and had dinner with one of my few friends in the antiquarian world, Shelly Bingham, who had owned a used bookstore in Harvard Square before “retiring” to Bradenton, Florida, and selling used books at Anna Maria Island’s weekly flea market. We drank martinis at the Gator Club, and after our second Shelly said, “Mal, I was so gutted to hear about Claire last year. How are you doing?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but began to cry instead, loudly enough that several heads swiveled toward me. The suddenness and force of the tears was shocking. I stood up and walked to the restroom at the back of the dark bar, where I composed myself, then returned to the bar, and said, “Sorry about that, Shel.”

“No, please. I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s have another drink and talk about the books we’re reading.”

It was later that night, back alone in my hotel room, that I got onto my laptop and checked out the Boston Globe’s online site. The top story was related to an off-season trade the Red Sox had just made, but the second story was about a homicide in Southwell. The name of the victim had not yet been disclosed by the police. I was tempted to sit with my laptop, refreshing the site until Eric Atwell was named as the victim, but I forced myself to try and sleep instead. I opened the window of my hotel room, lay on the bed under a single sheet, and listened to the breeze, plus the occasional truck rumbling by on the nearby highway. Sometime near dawn I fell asleep, waking up a few hours later, skin damp with sweat, the sheet twisted around my body. I logged back on to the Globe website. The body that had been found had been identified as Eric Atwell, a prominent local entrepreneur and angel investor. After throwing up in the hotel bathroom, I lay back down on the bed and savored, for a moment, the fact that Atwell had gotten what he deserved.

By the time I was back in Boston, I’d learned that Eric Atwell had been reported missing on Tuesday night by one of his housemates. He had gone out on one of his daily walks earlier in the day and had never returned. The following morning the police conducted a search and Atwell’s body was found near a walking path on conservation land about a mile from his house. He had been shot several times; his wallet had been taken, along with an expensive set of headphones, and his cell phone. The police were investigating the possibility of a robbery and asking for help from nearby residents. Had anyone seen someone suspicious? Had anyone heard the gunshots?