Page 27

27

Diem

T he waitress dropped off our food and bustled away. Port Hope didn’t boast many options for breakfast diners, so Tallus and I ended up at the same place we’d eaten all week. We planted ourselves at an out-of-the-way booth to chat, but our ears stayed perked to other patrons’ chatter, curious if news of a cabin fire had spread through town.

So far, we’d heard nothing.

“I don’t get it.” I set the iPad down after reading the blurb for the book Tallus had shown me on Amazon. My proclamations of love and our subsequent evening made it hard to focus. My skin felt too small every time I caught Tallus’s eye.

He’d recounted how he’d accidentally seen information about a murder investigation back at the police station on the day we’d gone to ask about Weston’s case, but the connection between it and the book baffled me.

“They’re the same.”

“There are similarities, but I wouldn’t call them the same.”

“Don’t be like that. Admit I’m right. It’s too coincidental. I don’t think these books are fiction. That blurb might not cover much, but I’ve read a few reviews where readers gave thorough synopses, and it made my skin crawl.”

“You said you barely saw anything at the police station.”

“I saw enough.” He took the iPad and clicked around. “Right here. Listen. This reviewer says the body of a young woman is discovered in Skull King Swamp, and Detectives Angler and Raven quickly determine it’s the work of their slippery serial killer.”

I blinked and shook my head. “And how does that match what you saw?”

“The woman at the police station was found in a Skull-something Marsh. Hang on. There’s more.” He scrutinized the write-up. “I read before that every case in the series portrays the killer using a different MO, which is why the detectives struggle to catch him.”

Tallus stabbed a finger on a block of text. “Ah ha! Found it. The victim in this book was strangled and missing all her fingernails, exactly like the one at the police station. See? And she was found in a marsh.”

“A swamp.”

“Same difference.”

I scuffed a hand over my jaw, scratching the overgrown stubble. “What city does this book take place in again?”

Tallus frowned and studied the iPad, clicking around. “I… don’t know. I think it’s fictitious, but even the swamp name is almost exactly the same as what I saw on the whiteboard at the station. The police found that woman in Skull-something Marsh. I couldn’t read it. But this one is Skull King Swamp. That’s almost identical. Hang on.”

I smeared peanut butter on a piece of wheat toast and handed it to Tallus as he performed another search. His brain was too busy to eat, but the man loved peanut butter and got a blissed-out look in his eyes whenever he ate it.

He unconsciously accepted the toast and nibbled it as he worked.

“Found it.”

“Found what?”

“Sculthorpe Marsh. That’s what I read on the board. It’s the spot where they found that woman’s body. It has to be. Oh my god, D. It’s southeast of town, less than ten minutes from here. And she was missing fingernails and died from strangulation, just like the victim in the book. This isn’t a coincidence. If I had time to read the book and view the case, I bet there would be more matching evidence. Hell, it might give clues as to who was responsible.”

“But you said the killer in the series is never caught, so how does this help us?”

His face screwed up in contemplation. “I don’t know, but if the books aren’t fiction, if all of them are real, who’s to say these kids aren’t…”

His eyes blew wide, and he frantically changed screens to view the book on Amazon again. He scrolled and stabbed the screen. “Publishaven.” His voice went high-pitched. “Holy fuck. Nicholas’s dad’s publishing house. D, holy fuck. The kids are acting as a killer/author unit. They’re writing under the pseudonym Ambrose Whitaker, and Irvin is helping them get published. Oh my god, I just figured it out.”

My brain was a soupy mess thanks to high doses of prescription pain meds, but I had enough sensibility to see Tallus was jumping to wild conclusions with little or no evidence to back up his claim.

“I admit. It sounds… plausible.”

“Plausible? D, it’s a fact. Black-and-white. I bet if we read the blurbs of the other stories in the series, they will match the other victims on that police board. Damn, I wish I’d been able to see more.”

He was about to pick up his fork when he gasped again. “They said they were going to call in the bigwigs.”

“Who?”

“The officers in the room. That’s homicide, right? We need to call Doyle. Hell, if this series is eight books long, that’s eight freaking murders. That’s a real serial killer, and we have a key piece of evidence. A link. The police might not have even discovered some of the bodies yet. We could help, and—”

I removed the iPad from his hand and pointed at his plate. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

“Can we call Doyle?”

“No.”

“Just to see if they’ve been called in.”

“No.”

“Can we go to the police station and tell them what we discovered?”

I snorted. “Absolutely not.”

“Can we—”

“Eat, Tallus. Let me think.”

He ate—distractedly—his gaze continuously shifting to the iPad. “What about the library?” he said midway through our meal. “We could at least get copies of the books and have them as proof. We could make lists of details. See if there are unsolved murders in the area that match. We have connections back home who could—”

“Eat.”

He glared petulantly, nose wrinkled.

“The library is a good idea. Seeing if we can match plot lines to real cases is solid. But we still don’t know who’s behind it.”

“The kids are.”

“It’s… plausible.” But felt a tad outrageous, and I had a feeling I could prove Tallus was wrong with a simple question. “How long has Ambrose Whitaker been publishing?”

Tallus turned contemplative and pointed at the iPad. “May I?”

I slid it back, and he looked it up, clucking his tongue the entire time. When he slumped in his seat, I had my answer. “His first book came out in 2015.”

“And those kids are all about sixteen and seventeen years old. That would put them under ten at first publication. Not possible.”

“Well, fuck. It has to be old man McConaughy then. He worked at Publishaven, where these books are published. He pointed a gun at us. Chett’s his kid. Maybe… maybe he’s impressed with what these kids are doing and is mentoring them.” Tallus slapped the table as though he’d once again solved it all. “That’s it.”

“All I hear is maybe, maybe, maybe. We don’t have proof. We need proof.” Proof could solve the case. Delaney would have the answers she was looking for, her son could rest in peace, and with luck, I’d be able to avoid filing bankruptcy.

“We’ll find proof.” Tallus dramatically shoved his half-full plate aside. “To the library, Batman.”

I tried not to smile at his eagerness. “Finish your fucking breakfast because if you don’t, you’ll be hungry in an hour, and I’m not listening to you whine.”

What Tallus had adamantly avoided bringing up that morning was the fact that someone out there didn’t want their secret to be discovered. Whether the fire had been set to erase evidence or do away with Tallus, we didn’t know.

Considering someone had dropped a tree on me not two days ago, I tended to think it was the latter. Which meant someone was watching us. Someone knew we were getting close. Someone’s livelihood felt threatened.

We needed to stay vigilant.

***

The Port Hope Public Library was located on Queen Street. The building seemed modern but was constructed with a historic feel that fit the town’s ambiance. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d graced a library, but the interior felt small compared to the ones from my memories. Of course, Port Hope was not Toronto.

Tallus made friendly with the lady behind the counter, asking if they had copies of Ambrose Whitaker’s books and, if so, where we might find them. The woman directed us to a fiction section and pointed out the area.

“We seemed to have,” she counted, “seven of his books. I’m not sure how many this author has out, but if there is one in particular you’re looking for that we don’t have, let me know, and I can try to order it.”

Tallus thanked her and stacked all seven novels into his arms the second she was gone. “Over here,” he said, marching off to a table in an alcove.

He dumped the stack on its surface and pulled out a chair. “For the record. I’m a tragic academic. I faked my way through college. I love reading about as much as I love cardio. My glasses always gave the impression of high intelligence, but I’m a fake through and through, so bear with me, and no judging.”

“Your glasses make you look sexy, not smart.”

“Aww, thank you, Guns, but your assessment hurts a little. Plus, can we not mention the recently deceased. I’m still sad.”

“You’re sexy without them too.”

“Still sad.”

I was partial to the come-fuck-me glasses. Since day one, they’d made me weak in the knees. It hurt my soul to hear of their fate at the hands of a cabin fire. Tallus wasn’t kidding when he said he broke them every few months. This was the fourth time since I’d met him, and we’d only known each other for a year.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

I pulled out a chair and joined him.

“It seems we have seven of the eight books in his series. His other books were earlier publications, and I’m less suspicious of them. These are the ones with the uncaught killer.” He shuffled them around, putting them in order of release.

“Okay,” he said after excessive tongue clucking. “I’m going to give you a breakdown of each book. After, we’ll see if we can find similar cases in Southern Ontario that match. I know that’s a vast geographical area, but we shouldn’t limit ourselves to the Port Hope region since it’s so small.”

“You’re awfully bossy for someone who hasn’t finished their PI training.”

“Shut up, Guns. It’s the reading thing. Loathe, remember? Despise. Every synonym for hate there is. Besides, you like me bossy.”

I did, and I made sure my expression told him so.

Tallus blew me a kiss and drew the first book forward.

He read blurbs and skimmed pages, giving details he thought seemed important. Most locations were fictitious, but geographically, since the books were all set in Ontario, the fake towns and cities seemed to line up with real ones.

It was a slow process, so I joined the hunt, snagging a different novel to investigate.

I didn’t tell Tallus we could have gotten all this information online and with greater ease because I needed a break. I was tired and aching from head to toe. The library was as good a place as any to work, considering we didn’t have an office. Plus, encouraging Tallus to slow down and think was imperative. He tended to go off half-cocked the second he thought he had things figured out, and PI business required less spontaneous action and more confirmation of facts.

It took hours to go over each plot without actually reading the books. By the time he closed the last one, he sighed. “There’s one more in the series that the library doesn’t seem to have. The Crimson Veil .”

“This is a good start.”

“So how do we find out if they’re real cases?”

I slid him his phone. “You call Doyle and sweet talk your way into some information. If what you overheard at the station was true, then Port Hope police might have already contacted homicide.”

He sat straighter. “But I thought—”

“If the cases are active, information will be restricted. We don’t even know if all these bodies have been discovered… if they’re real at all. He’s our best bet. But, if the local cops haven’t brought in Toronto homicide, then it might get tricky.”

“Don’t they have to request assistance for murder investigations?”

“Not necessarily. Only if it gets too big to handle or turns into multiple deaths.”

Tallus scrolled through his contacts and found Doyle’s number. I wasn’t fond of asking for help, especially from Doyle, who seemed to take glee in his superior position, but finding out if cases matched these books was pivotal. We would either have a huge mess on our hands or find out Tallus’s theory was bogus and be back at square one.

Even if we discovered open cases that reflected these plots, it didn’t tell us who the culprit was. The book series was centered around unsolved murders. A serial killer at large. We’d eliminated the teens based on the publication timeline, and although the town drunk had points against him, we couldn’t exactly accuse him without some sort of proof.

Either way, when it came to Weston’s murder—and it was murder—the kids were involved. I didn’t know how, but it was their short story, and it was one or more of their group who’d done the deed. That in itself seemed to suggest Tallus was on the right track. Were they mimicking Ambrose? Was Ambrose mentoring a successor?

“Hey, Doyle,” Tallus said with a face-splitting grin. “It’s your favorite records clerk, Tallus. I’m going to put you on speaker. Diem’s with me.”

He switched the call to speaker, and homicide detective Aslan Doyle’s curses filled the space between us. It was a good thing we were in a back part of the library, or I had a feeling we would be reprimanded for exceeding library volume limits.

“What’s happening? Why are you calling me? You are such a punk-ass little shit who can’t seem to remember he isn’t a detective.”

“Hey, Doyle,” I said. “You call my boyfriend a punk-ass little shit one more time, and we’re going to have a problem.”

Tallus puffed up with pride. “Hear that, Doyle? Boyfriend . We’re dating now, and even though it’s none of your business, I’m a PI in training. Only ten more hours of coursework left, and I’ll be a certified badass, not a punk ass, so fuck you.”

I groaned at the same time as Doyle.

“I should hang up.”

“Please don’t. I’m sorry. You’re my favorite detective of all time. Please help me.” Tallus pouted even though Doyle couldn’t see.

Doyle sighed. “What do you need? Because of course you need something. You only ever call me for favors. You know, one of these days, I’m going to cash in some IOUs.”

Tallus ignored Doyle’s irritation and barreled ahead. “Diem and I were called to investigate an accident in Port Hope. I say accident loosely. The mother claims one thing. The police say another. We didn’t know if there was a case at first, but there is, and things have spiraled. The accident is looking more and more like murder by the minute, except the kid isn’t dead yet, at least, not technically.

“So, here’s the thing. We know we’re on the right trail because twice, someone has tried to kill us, and that doesn’t include the man with the rabid dog and a gun in the forest. I’m talking trees falling on our heads and flying projectiles that burst into flames. My glasses nearly melted off my face. They didn’t. I lost them in the kerfuffle, and they did melt, but… Never mind. Not relevant. The point is, I don’t have them, and it saddens Diem. They’re his favorite.

“So, as you can see, between trees and fires, we’re in danger, but we’re also pretty sure we’ve made a whooping discovery. It was murder. Multiple murders. So many murders. We might be able to prove it if—”

“Krause?” Doyle’s raised voice cut Tallus off.

“Yeah.”

“Gag him and explain in concise English before I hang up. I’m busy.”

Tallus huffed and crossed his arms. “Rude. That was completely coherent. I was giving you a rounded picture.”

I held up a staying hand before he tore into Doyle and explained our theory, giving the detective a rundown of Weston’s trip into the river, the short story, the murder club, and what we’d discovered in the novels so far.

Doyle listened and blew out a puff of air when I finished. “That’s… Wow.”

“I was trying to tell you that,” Tallus said. “Did Port Hope police contact you?”

“Yeah, we got that call. Summerfield sent a team down to coordinate with their officers. Supposedly, they had three victims discovered in a twelve-month time frame, but advanced decay in one of the bodies suggested they had died a long time before discovery.”

“The causes of death. Do they match our plotlines?” Tallus asked.

“I can’t get into those details. Mostly, I don’t have the details. It’s not my case, but I know the Port Hope police were hard-pressed to link the murders because they didn’t present with the same MO.”

Tallus slapped the table. “But that is the MO. You didn’t let me finish explaining. My god, it’s brilliant, isn’t it?”

I shushed my overeager boyfriend again. “We know the woman found in the marsh who was missing fingernails matches one of our plots. Even the location of her discovery is pretty spot on. Can you look into the others? At least see if we’re onto something. If we’re right, your case is gonna get a lot bigger.”

“How many books in the series?”

“Eight,” Tallus said.

“And this Ambrose Whitaker, who is he?”

“We don’t know.” I turned a book over, viewing the back and inside flaps again, even though we’d checked them thoroughly. “He has no online presence. No pictures in any of the books. No website. We can’t even find an author profile or bio anywhere. Seems to be a top secret pseudonym.”

Tallus’s eyes brightened. “Can we contact Publishaven? They would know.”

“You won’t get anywhere without a warrant,” Doyle said, taking the words out of my mouth.

“Can you get a warrant?” Tallus asked.

“Not without probable cause.”

Tallus huffed. “We’re giving you probable cause.”

“You’re giving me something to check out. If all the victims in Port Hope match your books, we have probable cause. I’ll get back to you.”

Doyle ended the call, and Tallus frowned. “We should contact Publishaven anyhow. I can sweet-talk my way into anything.”

I let him try, but he didn’t even succeed in convincing the reception clerk to put him through to a higher authority in the company.