Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #1: Books 1-4 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [classic children's novels txt] 📗

he was not a happy child.” He returned to his chair and sat carefully, as though sitting quickly might somehow have made David guilty of murder. “His mother was—is—naturally, protective. Perhaps a little too much so, but there is nothing…” He glanced at me. “Nothing untoward or unhealthy in their relationship.” I went to speak, but he rushed on. “I can vouch for the fact that he was never in any way abused as a child. In any way at all!”

I nodded. For some reason, I had suddenly had enough of Fischer and his weird family. I went to stand and said, “Can you tell me the name of these conferences that David goes to? Or the venue?”

He shook his head. “I would have to ask him.”

“Your accounts department must have records…”

He shook his head. “No, he pays for them himself. You want me to ask him now?”

“No. It’s okay. Probably best if you don’t mention my visit. In all probability, he will be eliminated anyway.”

“Yes… You think so?”

I stood and held out my hand. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Fischer.”

The lights were starting to come on as I climbed into my car and closed the door. The air was a grainy dusk touched with wet amber and red. I sat, drumming the wheel and watching the dark close in. I fired up the engine and drove slowly the short distance back to the precinct. By the time I got there, it was dark.

Dehan looked up from her laptop and watched me sit down. We sat staring at each other for a while. It was a comfortable habit we had gotten into. When I switched on my computer, she returned to her research. After half an hour, I leaned back and said, “Dave is lying to his uncle.”

Her eyes peered at me over the top of her screen. I explained about my meeting with Fischer and then pointed at my computer. “I have scoured Google with every variation and permutation of IT conferences, and there are no major computer conferences that occur regularly on the third weekend of July and the first weekend of December.”

“You going to ask him where he’s been going for the past twelve years?”

“Not yet. I want to know the answer before I ask him. See if he lies.”

“We haven’t got enough for a warrant to see his bank and credit card records.”

“I know… Another couple of weeks and we could follow him. But something tells me we haven’t got a couple of weeks.”

I picked up my phone and called Bernie at the bureau.

“Stone. What can I do for you?”

“Hey, Bernie. I need a favor…” I explained the situation to him and concluded, “I know you cannot check his bank records and credit card without a warrant, so I am not asking you to do that… But I was thinking you might be able to come up with a creative idea, because I know in my bones that this killer is building up to another kill. You hearing me…?”

“Yeah, I’m hearing you, John. Email me his details, and I’ll give it some thought and get back to you.”

“Appreciate it, Bernie.”

Dehan was watching me with no expression at all. Behind her the window looked very black.

“You just asked a special agent to break the law.”

“You misheard. I specifically asked him not to. How are you doing?”

“I can certainly add to your general state of confusion, if that’s what you mean. I have been trawling through what is available in public records, and Peter has an interesting past.”

“Oh, God…”

“He was orphaned at the age of four. Witnessed both his parents killed in a robbery. They were both knifed. He was adopted at the age of five, and eleven years later, at the age of sixteen, he left home and started working, doing menial jobs—burger joints, shop assistant, that kind of thing. Got his driver’s license at seventeen and at eighteen got his job as a sales rep for Canadian American Chemicals. Progressed rapidly. Married Jenny at twenty-one and that same year took out a mortgage on the house he now owns.”

“Okay…”

“There is more. He attended St. Mary’s Catholic School, primary and secondary. I managed to track down one of his teachers—still works at the school, and I went over and had a chat with him.”

“Good work. What did you find out?”

“Don’t interrupt. He remembered Peter very well. He said the staff were all aware that he was adopted and that he had had a very traumatic experience. The parents were supposed to take him to a child psychologist on a regular basis, once a week, and for the first couple of years, they did and he seemed to be doing okay. He was a shy, timid child, but he was making friends, and the teachers kept an eye on him to make sure there was no bullying and that kind of stuff.

“But he said, around the time Peter turned eight, things started to go wrong at home. Word from the other parents was that Dad had started drinking heavily. Peter started missing days at school. When he did turn up, Mom sometimes had bruises. Teachers tried talking to her, she got mad, told them to mind their own business—the usual shit. When Peter started turning up with bruises, they contacted social services, who looked into it and concluded there was not enough evidence to do anything. A visit to the house apparently showed the house was clean, both parents were sober and seemed happy. The kid was shy, but that was to be expected. He had stopped going to the psychologist, but the parents were under no obligation to take him if they deemed him to be okay.”

“That explains why he left home at sixteen.”

“Yup.”

I rubbed my eyes. Brilliant drops of water were trickling down