Eight Perfect Murders(53)

Chirping sounds, like crickets, suddenly filled the kitchen and I jumped, my heart ratcheting up to full speed. It was Pruitt’s phone, charging by the toaster on the kitchen counter. I went and looked at the screen. The person calling him was named Tamara Strahovski. I guessed that it was the TA, checking in once more. How soon before she called the police, asking for a wellness check? I had no idea of knowing. I made a quick decision to briefly look through the house—a five-minute search.

The kitchen had two doors and I went through the other one. It led to a back hallway, a half bathroom, and a room that was Pruitt’s office. There was a standing desk, a laptop propped open on it, and more shelves, most of these filled with endless copies of his own book, Little Fish. I knew from visiting Brian Murray’s home that authors got a number of their own editions, but not as many as there were in here. Little Fish filled two bookshelves and there were stacks along the floor. It looked to be in the hundreds. I wondered if he’d bought copies of his own books, maybe to boost sales. From the office I worked quickly down a side hall that led to the stairs. At the top of the landing I peered into Pruitt’s bedroom, messier than any of the rooms downstairs. And sparser, as well. There was a pile of clothes on the floor, an unmade bed, and another hand-drawn theater poster framed on the wall. This time for Twelfth Night. I was able to get a better look at this poster. It was a production of the New Essex Community Playhouse, and the director was Nicholas Pruitt. Before leaving the bedroom, I glanced at the top of his bureau, cluttered with framed photographs, most of them old family shots, although I recognized a picture of Jillian Nguyen, posing with Pruitt in front of what looked like the reconstruction of the Globe Theatre in London.

I let myself out the back door and returned the key underneath the potted rosemary. Then I got back into my car and drove home to Boston.





Chapter 22




I hadn’t gone back onto Duckburg since 2010, when I’d arranged the murder swap. But I was thinking I needed to revisit the site now, just in case I could get in contact with Charlie. As far as I knew I still had the site bookmarked on my work computer. It was early afternoon, and I walked from home to the Old Devils. Every time I blinked, I could see Nick Pruitt’s lifeless body sitting placidly on his sofa, his head tipped back, and his mouth hanging open.

I pushed through the door. Emily was behind the register ringing up a sale, and I heard Brandon before I saw him. “The gang’s all here,” he said in his loud voice. He was crouched to my left, hunting one of the lower shelves, probably trying to find a book for an online order.

“Just for a while,” I said. “Sorry I’ve left you two alone so much lately.”

“What’s going on with you?” Brandon said, standing now, holding a copy of John le Carré’s The Spy Who Came in from the Cold.

“Honestly,” I said, “I haven’t been feeling too well.” It was the first lie that popped into my head. “Just extra tired and a little achy. Don’t know what it is.”

“Well, don’t come here and spread it all around,” Brandon said. “E and I have got it covered, don’t we, E?”

She didn’t respond but I saw Emily look up from behind the desk. The customer she’d been helping, a semiregular whose name I could never remember, but who always bought the new Michael Connelly from us, was now shuffling toward the exit.

“I have some work to do in my office, then I’m going to head back home, I promise,” I said, and made my way there as Brandon started to tell Emily how his mother had had a cold for an entire year once.

Nero was in my desk chair, curled into a circle, but he perked up when I came in, stretched his back, then leapt to the ground. I sat and turned on my computer. I was suddenly worried that I’d deleted the Duckburg bookmark—the smart thing to do, in all honesty—but once I’d gone online, there it was. I logged on, went to the section called Swaps, and did a quick perusal of the last fifty or so entries. It was the usual stuff—offers of work with the payment of either sexual favor or drugs. There were outliers, of course, a man looking to trade his wife’s entire shoe collection (“at least eight jimmy choos”) for a ticket to a sold-out Springsteen concert. I didn’t see anything that referenced Strangers on a Train. I wasn’t surprised. Charlie didn’t need to get in touch with me because he already had, in a way. He knew exactly who I was. Still, it was worth a shot to send him a message on the off chance he was watching this site.

I created a new fake identity, calling myself Farley Walker, and posted a message. Dear Strangers on a Train fan, I’d like to propose another swap. You know who you are. I stared at the message for about five minutes after I’d posted it, wondering if a reply would come through instantly, but nothing did. I logged off Duckburg and did a quick search of New Essex University to see if anything had popped up in the news. I wasn’t surprised to find nothing. Even if Nick Pruitt’s body had already been discovered, and it probably hadn’t yet, then it would hardly be newsworthy. It would look like an accidental overdose from an alcoholic who fell off the wagon. Unless Charlie had screwed up, it was a perfect murder. No one would suspect a homicide.

I did wonder how he’d done it. My best guess was that he’d gone to Pruitt’s door with the bottle of whiskey and a gun and forced him to drink. Maybe he’d drugged the whiskey, as well.