Eight Perfect Murders(56)

“I know,” I said. “I like to get there early if I can. I’d rather have extra time there than be running late.”

For the two other cases she asked me about—Bill Manso and Ethan Byrd—I had no solid alibi, even though they were probably days when I was at Old Devils.

“Sorry I can’t help you more,” I said.

“You’ve been helpful, Mr. Kershaw. I would like you to send me the exact flight numbers for your trip to London if you have them.”

“Sure,” I said, deciding not to remind her that I’d already sent those to Agent Mulvey.

“And just so we’re being thorough, and I know this is a long time ago, but can you tell me where you were on August twenty-seventh of 2011?”

“I’ll look. What was it that happened on that date?” I said.

“That was the date that Steven Clifton was killed in a bike accident near Saratoga Springs.”

“You mentioned his name before. I don’t know who he is. Agent Mulvey never said anything about him.”

“His homicide was in her notes,” Perez said.

I had flipped backward through my online calendars. I thought of making something up, but said, instead, “I was probably working that day, but, honestly, it was a long time ago. My calendar has nothing.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Kershaw. Not a problem, but I thought I’d ask.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said.

I thought that would be the end of the phone call, but Agent Perez coughed, then said, “I know I already asked you this, but when Agent Mulvey came to you, were you convinced right away that there was a connection between your list and the unsolved crimes? I’d like to hear your response again.”

“I wasn’t convinced, not right away, but maybe that had something to do with me not wanting to admit to a connection. It’s a bad feeling, you know, having written some dumb list, and then finding out that someone else is using it to commit actual murders.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“She told me about the bird murders, first, and how she connected them to The A.B.C. Murders—”

“The Agatha Christie book?”

“Right. It seemed a stretch, honestly. But the man killed on the train tracks—Bill Manso—that murder did sound like it was emulating Double Indemnity, but, like I said, I didn’t really believe it until we found the books at Elaine Johnson’s house. Then it was obvious. And it was obvious that the murderer wanted me to know about it. Or wanted it to point to me, I guess. I don’t really know. We talked a lot about it, the two of us.”

“Who? You and Agent Mulvey?”

“Yes. We thought about what the person, what Charlie—that was the name we gave him—was trying to accomplish with the murders. And we thought that he really was trying to accurately convey the spirit of the original murders from the books.”

“Can I ask you about one of her notes? She had written down the three names of what she called the ‘bird murders,’ and then she’d written: Who was the actual target? Do you know what that meant?”

“In The A.B.C. Murders a series of murders are committed so it will look like a lunatic is on a crime spree. But the murderer had only one victim in mind that he really wanted dead. The other murders were cover.”

“So you think that might be the case with the bird murders?”

“I don’t know if I think that, but it’s a possibility.”

“Maybe it’s a possibility that all these crimes—all the ones tied to your list—are just covering for one murder.”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s a possibility, but if that were the case, that’s a lot of murders to commit to conceal one.”

“Yes.” There was a lengthy pause, and I wondered for a moment if our call had been disconnected, or if she was just thinking.

“So, if you had to guess,” she finally said, “which one of the three in the bird murders do you think was the intended victim?”

“If you forced me, I’d say Robin Callahan because she’s the best known of the three, and she pissed a lot of people off.”

“That’s what I think,” she said, then there was another pause. “Do you mind if I call you back with any other questions I might have?”

“Of course not,” I said, and we said our good-byes.

I called Old Devils. Emily answered.

“You still feel sick?”

“Not terrible, but not great.”

“Stay home. It’s fine here.”

I was about to end the call but decided that while I had Emily on the line I could ask her some questions.

“Can I ask you some names and you can tell me if you’ve heard of them?” I said.

“Uh, sure,” she said.

“Ethan Byrd.”

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Haven’t heard of him.”

“Jay Bradshaw.”

“No.”

“Robin Callahan.”

“Yeah, of course. She was that insane newscaster who got murdered. I’m sure she’ll be the subject of an eventual true crime bestseller.”

“Why do you say she was insane?”

“I don’t know. I guess I heard it. She wrote the book about adultery, right?”