Rules for Perfect Murders - Peter Swanson Page 0,32

Anyone who killed people for money was not someone I wanted to be involved with; besides, it would be giving someone far too much power over my own life.

So I decided that I couldn’t hire a killer. But I did like the idea of being far away when Eric Atwell was killed.

A year earlier, sometime in 2009, a young woman had come into Old Devils with a stack of incredibly valuable first editions. They weren’t primarily mystery novels, although there had been an 1892 Harper & Brothers edition of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes that had made me ache with longing. There were about ten books in all—including two Mark Twain firsts that must have been worth thousands—and the woman, who had stringy hair and scabbed lips, had been carrying the books in a grocery bag. I asked her where she got them.

“Don’t you want them?” she said.

“Not if you can’t tell me where you got them from.”

She’d left the store, as quickly as she’d come in. In retrospect I began to wish I’d simply bought them from her with whatever money was in the register. And then I’d have been able to find the owner—she must have robbed someone’s home—and returned the books. As it was, I did call the police to report the incident, and they told me they’d keep an eye and an ear out for reports of stolen books. I never heard anything back from them, and I never saw the young woman again. At that time, Old Devils had an employee named Rick Murphy, who worked weekend shifts. Rick was a collector, primarily interested in anything horror related.

I told Rick about the woman who’d come in with the rare first editions.

“She might try and sell them online,” Rick had said.

“She didn’t look like the type who goes online.”

“Worth checking, though,” he said. “There’s this pretty tasty little site, more of a dark web place, where people sell collectibles under the table.”

Rick, who worked in IT at an insurance company during the week, showed me a site called Duckburg. To me it looked nearly incomprehensible, like message boards from the early internet days, but Rick pulled up a section where rare collectibles were offered for sale. It was all anonymous. We did searches for some of the books that had been brought into the store, but nothing popped up.

“What else is on here?” I said.

“Ah, the gentleman is intrigued. A lot of it is just a place to chat anonymously. To tell the truth, this isn’t the true dark web, but it’s darkish enough.”

Rick went to get his gigantic soda and I quickly bookmarked the page. I thought I might check it out later, but never did.

After deciding in late 2010 to kill Eric Atwell, I went to my bookmarks and discovered I still had that link. I spent a few hours one night after closing time, exploring the different portals, and creating a fake identity, calling myself “Bert Kling.” Then I logged on to a portal called “Swaps” that didn’t specify exactly what it was for but primarily seemed to be sexual in nature. Sixtyyearold man wants to buy you a 1000dollars in clothes. Young and sexy only. Won’t mind me accompanying you into changing room. No touching, just looking. But there were also offers such as Looking for cleaning ladies that want to be paid in oxy.

I opened up a dialogue box and wrote, Any Strangers on a Train fans out there? Would love to suggest a mutually beneficial swap. I posted it and logged off.

I told myself to wait for twenty-four hours before getting back on, but only managed about twelve. It was a quiet day at the store, and I logged back on to Duckburg under my alias. I’d gotten a response. Big fan of that book. Would love to discuss. Go to private chat?

Okay, I responded, clicking the box that made the chat visible to only the two parties involved. Two hours later there was a new message: What did you have in mind?

I wrote, There’s someone who deserves to disappear from the face of the earth. Can’t do it myself, though. I somehow couldn’t bring myself to actually write the word die.

I have the same problem, came back almost immediately.

Let’s help each other out, okay?

Okay.

My heart was beating, and my ears had gone warm. Was I being trapped? It was possible, but all I had to give up was Eric Atwell’s information, not my own. I decided, after about five