Murder Match

By Max Perkins

Notorious juvenile hacker Nicholas Anthony has left his criminal past behind and is grateful for his second chance at life as a police detective. When a string of unsolved murders all lead back to a social networking Web site, he is the obvious choice to lead the investigation. As Nick and the detective squad race to identify the next one to be killed, former lawbreaker Nick himself falls under suspicion. He can no longer be trusted and is suspended from his job. Without his expertise, the police are forced to use one of their own, Detective Donna DiRenzo, as a decoy, hoping that the killer will select her as his next victim. That plan proves all too successful, and Nick, working alone, becomes the only one who may reach her in time to save her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Max Perkins
• Release date: Mar 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301288793

Max Perkins

Max Perkins is a writer trapped in a lawyer's body, spending nights and weekends desperately trying to escape.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

He was eager to see if she had gotten back to him; she looked like a good match. He jacked in and opened up his SocialMeetia page. Yes, there it was, the message tucked away up there in the Inbox. Only other changes were an ad for online prescriptions and one for making thousands of dollars working at home. Didn't need either one of those, not at all.

Looking for near-perfection

Between You and Sally Ross

Great to hear from you, John. OK, you can tell me now: is some of your profile a little exaggerated? I mean, you're too good to be true and I can't believe no woman has already taken you out of circulation. You're not the SocialMeetia.com type, because women would be fighting over you in real space. Much more fun that way. But, hey, I guess I'll just have to see for myself, right?

Write back (if you dare!).

Love to hear from you,

Sally

He smiled to himself and filled in his reply.

Re: Looking for near-perfection

Between Sally Ross and You

Sally -

To answer your question truthfully: if anything, my profile is a little understated. You could ask our mutual friend, but you'll see for yourself if we decide to get together. Which, by the way, I'd very much like to do. Are you up for the traditional SocialMeetia coffee drive-by? I know a little place that's exactly halfway between your town and mine, and I'll show up there any time. Just say the word and it's done.

By the way, can you post more pictures? I'm really looking forward to seeing you, and that's the next best thing. Just to be fair, here's another one of me.

Can't wait to get together,

John

He attached the digital picture, read the message over a few times, and after deciding that it was what he wanted, he clicked the Send button. He reached over, grabbed the remote and unpaused the show on the screen.

He expected an answer soon.

The beep for a new message took less than five minutes.

Re: Re: Looking for near-perfection

Between John Anderson and You

OK, you made me do it! Here's the most recent picture of myself that I have. Someone took my picture at a party and emailed this one to me. I know I look silly and half-drunk but at least you get an idea what I look like in real life.

Where are you thinking we could meet? I'd love to set it up sometime soon! Bye for now,

Sally

He opened the attached image, zoomed in and took a long look at her head and body. Her blonde hair appeared to be natural: shiny and golden and with a little curl of its own. Her eyes were wide and blue and her skin was relatively blemish-free. Moving steadily down, her breasts might be a little smaller than average, but there was definitely something there. She was wearing shorts, and her legs were long and shapely with slender ankles (thank God!). She passed inspection.

He clicked the Reply button and began to type.

Re: Re: Re: Looking for near-perfection

Between You and John Anderson

OK, Sally, I'm going to call your bluff. Are you free tonight? I'm sure you're not!

If you want to meet me, we can go to the Europa Coffee Shop at Main and West End Avenue at 9:30 tonight. Are you up for it?

Let me know soon.

J.

He read it over and clicked Send. He hoped that she was still logged in. The beep this time told him she was.

He read the message on the screen, then looked back at her picture again, running his eyes up to her neck. She was wearing a golf shirt, with the top two buttons unbuttoned, and he admired the curve of her throat. Meeting her in meatspace was something to look forward to. He reached down and picked up his new Japanese Feather straight razor and rubbed it gently on his thumb. Have to be more careful, he thought, as he cut himself slightly and a drop of blood formed. He loved the feel of the razor, the handle and the blade on his skin. He wanted to share the feeling.

CHAPTER 2

The 5292 radio call put out by the dispatcher was the code used for reports of a dead body that was beginning to smell. The police cruiser responded and the two officers took down the door of the small townhouse after knocking for several minutes. They were immediately greeted by an eye-watering stench coming from the bedroom. The dead girl lay on the bed, her print sundress pulled up around her waist and her panties ripped off and lying on the floor. The two nervous rookie officers saw it was much more than they could handle, so they called Homicide and were told to secure the scene and wait for the detectives to arrive.

Fifteen minutes later, the unmarked car carrying Nicholas Anthony and Peter Chaney skidded to a stop in front, and the two detectives hustled up to the door. Nick, tall and slender, almost gaunt, with spiky dark hair gray in the temples, got there first and pushed the door open with his elbow. Pete, stockier and not as tall, with buzz-cut, almost white blond hair, followed him in.

One of the officers, a dark-haired man who looked too young to be a cop, appeared in the dark hallway.

You're the Homicide detectives?

They nodded, and he pointed to the bedroom door and turned sideways to let them past. Nick pulled on a pair of latex gloves as he went through the doorway and looked at the young woman on the bed. Though her body was disfigured by at least ten deep stab wounds into her chest and stomach, and her throat was cut halfway through, he could see the traces of makeup on her bloated face and tell that she had once been a very pretty girl. The bed was still made with a fluffy floral comforter trailing down to a pink dust ruffle. Most of the comforter had been soaked through with blood that was now dried brown and some had dripped down and hardened on the beige rug. A medium size Teddy bear wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt with a peace sign reclined against the headboard and gazed mutely out over the crime scene.

OK, relax, we'll take it from here. You did a good job answering this call. Manner of death is homicide, obviously, and it's a nasty one. If you guys had to break in, then there's no other sign of forced entry, no weapon, no footprints and I'm willing to bet no fingerprints or DNA. This girl knew the guy; he was either her boyfriend or a guy who was getting pretty lucky so far on the first date. We'll need a positive ID from a relative, but we pulled up her driver's license photo, and that's her: Sally Ann Ross, born May 3, 1982. Nick was always willing to explain things to less experienced cops.

The cop from the hallway spoke up. How long do you think she's been dead?

"We'll have to see what the ME says, but the beginning of decomposition, that smell, and the bloating don't come right away, so I'd say at least 48 hours, which would take us back to Saturday, a typical date night. Plus she's been in an air-conditioned bedroom with no flies, so you have to take that into account. You guys might want to help us knock on a few doors and see when the last time was that anyone saw her alive.

Anybody see if any of these framed photos could be of a boyfriend? Whoever did this was certainly able to get pretty close to her without seeming to arouse much suspicion.

The four cops started to look around the room at the framed photos arranged on the walls and furniture.

Pete was looking at the pictures on the chest of drawers. No men the right age yet, but it looks like there are quite a few of this little boy and girl. They could be twins. They are about the same age and most of the pictures are of both of them together.

Look, the computer on the little desk over there is still on, the other, older officer said.

Nick looked over and saw the small notebook computer lying in the middle of the desk. The lid was closed partway down and it did not seem as though it belonged in the spot where it was. He walked over for a closer look. It was not plugged into the charger wire and the end of that wire was lying on a corner of the desk, along with a plug for external speakers and some other peripheral wires.

She must have used it recently without putting it back. Look, there's the cleared spot where it goes. Was she looking up a phone number? Finding the address of a bar or a restaurant? Checking the start time of a movie? We'll take it with us. I'd like to image the drive and look around and see what's in the temporary files.

Pete nodded. If we are very lucky, it'll have an address book on it with a thousand or so people that we can contact, knock on their doors, using good old-fashioned police work.

I don't know, though. I think we need to do some more old-fashioned police work right now. A girl this pretty, if she's straight, has got to have men in her life. She's either got a current boyfriend, an ex-boyfriend, or there's some confusion between them. Maybe she's got an ex who thinks he still should be coming around and got violent when she tried to straighten him out or an abusive boyfriend who ought to be an ex.

Pete was opening and closing drawers while he listened. Yeah, they always say it's most likely to be the husband or the boyfriend. Of course, if we don't find anything here now we can always ask her mother who she associated with, and who her mother thought was bad news.

Nick opened another drawer. Wow, look at this!

The other three peered into the right top drawer of the bureau that Nick had pulled all the way out until it stopped. At the back was a color picture of the victim and a smiling man, with the faces close together and a view of the blue sea behind them. The photo was in a scuffed black wooden frame that no longer fit together at right angles, and it was covered in front by most of the shattered glass fragments. After photographing it in place, Nick reached in with a gloved hand and drew it out. The glass that remained stayed together.

This didn't just fall off the shelf. Someone threw this at something hard with all their might.

Or at something soft, which ducked and let it hit the wall or the floor.

You know, if I thought someone might end up killing me, that is exactly the kind of little breadcrumb I would want to leave behind. I think the guy in the picture needs to be brought down for a little heart to heart talk with us.

Two techs from the Crime Scene Unit arrived and started the processing of the scene: they took high-resolution photos of everything from every angle, samples of hair, blood and fiber and precise measurements for a sketch of the scene. Nick watched them at work: he had seen their finished graphics and slide shows, and heard them testify at trials many times. One of them, Rose Jones, a pleasant, slightly plump African-American woman, was taking pictures of the blood patterns. She was a career civilian civil servant who had somehow managed to get a master's degree in forensic science at night while working eighty hours a week for the Police Department.

Rose, aren't you a qualified expert in blood spatter?

All that good stuff, Nick. Have you ever heard a defense attorney convince a judge not to let me testify about it?

They rarely even tried. Juries thought she was such a great witness that those lawyers just wanted to get her off the stand as fast as possible. Usually they didn't even ask her any questions, just let her step down after direct examination.

What does the blood here tell you?

She smiled. Wait, let me listen to it: the silent witness. Well, so far, it looks like it's all passive; it just flowed down out of her and dripped onto the floor. And I haven't seen any swipe anywhere so far, have you?

No, I don't think so.

In this light you would be able to see it if it were there. I'll shine the UV light around to make sure. There are no signs of a struggle, so it's probably all hers, but I'll take samples every five feet or so, if you want me to.

Yes, please, Rose, I'd appreciate that. We'll leave you guys alone now. We're going to ride up and do the most fun part, the next of kin notification.

The detectives, their work at the scene completed, left in their car and headed up the Roosevelt Boulevard to the address in residential Northeast Philadelphia they found that was likely to be Sally's mother. After turning left off the wide Boulevard onto one narrow residential street, then right onto another, they located the correct house number on a tidy row house with a neatly manicured front yard.

After they knocked on the aluminum screen door, they heard a faint sound inside and moments later she unbolted, unlocked, then opened the main door behind the screen. Mrs. Ross was tiny, with snow white hair. She looked like she had Sally very late in life. They held up their IDs, so she could see them through the screen. Please come in, gentlemen.

They walked slowly and quietly through the door, which opened directly into a cozy living room with a fireplace and a floral printed sofa. Ms. Ross pointed at the sofa and they sat down obediently. Coffee or tea? she asked.

Ma'am, please sit down, Nick said. She did so, on the rocking chair opposite the sofa, and he took a deep breath. This was not the first time he had notified the next of kin of a murder victim, and it never got any easier.

Ma'am, are you Esther Ross, mother of Sally Ann Ross? He held up her driver's license photo and the woman nodded silently.

Ma'am, we are very sorry to have to tell you this but she, she … passed away.

Nick searched her face for a reaction. Sometimes it took a few minutes to sink in.

Are you sure — it was my Sally?

I'm afraid so, ma'am.

What happened to her? The woman's eyes were starting to fill with tears.

Nick had put a pack of tissues in his pocket; he knew he would need them. He took one out and handed it to her.

Someone killed her. With a knife. We're going to find whoever did it and lock them up, no matter what, and we'd like to ask you some questions. We need your help.

She stood up. Coffee or tea?

Coffee, please. They were cops, after all. She disappeared into the kitchen that was straight ahead behind the stairs on the right. She appeared moments later. It will just be a few minutes while I brew it fresh.

Not that they cared much; they would drink the day old dregs in the bottom of the pot. She gave them no opening to protest and they knew she would like to stay busy and be useful. Nick spoke first.

Ma'am, first of all, we want to tell you how sorry we are for the loss of your child. We know that's the hardest thing in the world for anyone to come to terms with, and we want you to know that we are here for you if there is anything we can do. Just call.

She nodded, with tears now coming down that she wiped away with the tissue.

Remember, though, we're detectives and we're working hard on what we do best, which is trying to catch whoever did this terrible thing. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions now?

She shook her head. Pete handed her another tissue, as if to say that it would be OK to express her emotions. It seemed to give her some support. Thank you, detective. I'm all right, really. I know the best way to honor poor Sally is to try to be strong for her.

We're trying to start with people she knows and work our way outward. Did she have a boyfriend?

She had one until about a month ago, then she broke it off. She said he was getting too serious and she didn't want to keep leading him on. More recently, she has mentioned in passing that he seemed to not be getting the message. That's all she said, though. I didn't press her, although maybe I should have. She didn't seem like she was afraid of him or anything like that. She glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. Excuse me one moment, gentlemen, the coffee's ready.

Nick and Pete glanced at each other. Well, I think that guy sure sounds like he could be Picture Thrower. If we find him today, I say we go visit him bright and early tomorrow morning. Don't want to give him too much time to think about it. Nick had taken a digital picture of the photo in the broken frame and zoomed in on the man by himself, smiling and looking not threatening. When Ms. Ross returned with the tray with two cups of coffee, a sugar bowl and creamer, Nick waited until she put it down on the coffee table.

Did you ever meet him?

Yes, a few times.

Did you like him?

She frowned. He seemed nice … I guess.

He showed her the picture on the camera LCD screen.

Yes, that's him. Where did you get that?

It was a picture we found in your daughter's apartment. Can you give us his name, address and phone number, and his birthday, if you know it?

His name was David Sullivan, but I'm afraid I don't know his address or date of birth. Sally told me he was thirty-five, so that gives you the year, more or less. I have his phone number in my address book as one of my many contact numbers for Sally. Just a minute.

She got up and went to her purse, sitting on a chair by the stairs and carried it back to the living room. She took out a large but neat ring binder address book. OK, this number here is his home phone number. She pointed out the number and handed the whole book over to Nick, who carefully copied the number down and handed the book back. That was really all the detectives needed from her at this point; anything else could wait. They finished their coffee, thanked her and went back out to the car.

CHAPTER 3

Back in the car, Nick flipped through his notes as Pete drove them back to headquarters.

OK, everything's right by the book so far. Crime scene definitely suggests that she knew the doer, that's right out of Detecting 101. Rose says it's all her blood. Cutting her throat like that and stabbing her a bunch of times means not just an acquaintance, but an angry one. That broken picture was something I've never seen before. And Mom didn't seem to be a big fan.

Pete glanced over. You're the famous computer hacker. Going to be a big letdown for you if this is just another garden variety mommy-poppy murder?

We're not going to go through that again, are we? That hacker stuff was a long time ago. If this ex-boyfriend is our guy, we still have to prove it. He won't talk; he'll lawyer right up if he hasn't already.

Sullivan had a landline, so a quick check in the reverse lookup database gave them his home address. The state Bureau of Motor Vehicles database supplied his date of birth, the make, year, color and model of his car, a late model Lexus sports sedan, along with his three most recent driver's license photos.

The next morning, they showed up at his house in a quiet residential neighborhood at 6:30 a.m. They knocked loudly on the door for about five long minutes.

Police! Open up!

Sullivan finally answered in his bathrobe, with disheveled hair. Please come in, gentlemen. I don't want my neighbors to see the police coming to my house. Please come all the way back to the kitchen. I need coffee before I can do anything.

They followed him back to the bright kitchen and watched as he put the water on for instant coffee. What can I do for you, officers?

"I'm Detective Nick Anthony and this is Detective Peter Chaney. We are investigating the murder of Sally Ross. I understand she was