to shake it out of him, get him to make some sort of confession. I know his type, and if you bent him a little, I think he’d give it up. I’m not suggesting, just saying.”
“Got it,” I said. “No, all I needed was the information. It’s helpful, Marty, thanks.”
“No, thank you. I actually felt useful this week. First time in what feels like forever. The FBI still questioning you about this Chaney homicide?”
I took a long sip of my beer, wondering, once again, how much to tell Marty. “They haven’t, no,” I said. “Apparently it all had something to do with a list I made on the Old Devils blog about a hundred years ago.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. You ever go to our blog?”
“I don’t know what the fuck a blog even is,” Marty said.
“I don’t do it anymore, but when I started at Old Devils, it was an online place where I wrote little articles. Reviews of new books. Lists of my favorite authors. That type of thing. I wrote a piece once about my eight favorite perfect murders in books, and someone in the FBI saw a connection between my list and a couple of recent unsolved homicides. They were pretty thin connections, though, so I don’t think they’ll follow up.”
“What else did they ask you about?” he said, clearly interested.
“A death down in Connecticut, someone who was found near the tracks of a commuter train. And they asked me about that newscaster, Robin—”
“Robin Callahan, sure,” he said, jumping in. “Her husband did it. I can’t believe they haven’t made an arrest yet.”
“You know that?” I said.
“I don’t know it, but, yeah, she was the one who wrote the book about how adultery was good for marriages. I think I’m safe in saying they ought to take a hard look at the husband.”
I laughed. “Yeah, so, I think I overreacted.”
“I don’t know if you overreacted. It sounds like they overreacted. They asked you about all these cases?”
I could tell he was getting more and more interested, and I just didn’t want to involve him. He reminded me of a dog with a bone, and if I told him all about the copycat murders, he’d start looking into it. Not to mention that I’d actually given him the name of Norman Chaney.
“They just asked me if I had any relationship with them, with Norman Chaney, or this guy down in Connecticut, or Robin Callahan. And I said no. I asked you about Norman Chaney because for whatever reason they seemed more interested in that. Honestly, though, it was nothing. At least I hope it was nothing. Your daughter still coming to visit?”
“What books did you put on that list?” he asked, ignoring my question about Cindy.
I told him, pretending I was having a hard time remembering. I left off Strangers on a Train, however. Marty, who was always looking for book recommendations, wrote some of the titles down in his little notebook.
“The A.B.C. Murders,” he said. “I like the sound of that. These days I think I like reading Agatha Christie more than I like reading James Ellroy. Don’t know what it is, but maybe I’m getting soft.”
“You’ve been reading Agatha Christie?”
“Yeah, like you told me to, remember? I just read Ten Little Indians.”
“And Then There Were None,” I said, almost automatically. It was the less offensive title that the book was now sold under.
“Right, that one. Now that was a perfect crime. Too bad more murderers don’t copy that book.”
“Kill yourself after you commit the murders, you mean?” I said. I didn’t remember telling him to read Agatha Christie, but I’m sure I did. It sounded like me.
We ordered another beer, and talked about books, and a little about his family. He asked if I wanted to stay for a third beer, but I decided to bow out. As always with Marty I liked spending time with him, but after a while we’d run out of things to say, and I would feel sad and lonely. I’ve always felt that being with people, as opposed to being alone, can make you feel loneliness more acutely.
“You gonna do anything about Nick Pruitt?” he asked, as I was pulling on my jacket.
“No,” I said. “Not unless the FBI decides to talk with me again. If they do, then I guess I could mention him, say that I had an ex-cop look into the Norman Chaney murder and how Pruitt looked like a suspect.”
“I wouldn’t mention my name,” Marty said. “If you