Alafair Burke
Dead Connection
The first book in the Ellie Hatcher series, 2007
For Sean Simpson
I can’t believe I found
you on a computer.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As ever, I am extremely grateful to the readers and booksellers who make it possible for me to write fiction and to the many people who help me do a better job at it.
My gratitude extends to computer geniuses Gary Moore and David Joerg. What the two of you know about the ins and outs of the “black hats” on the Internet and the havoc they can wreak on the unsuspecting is terrifying. Hopefully I’ve done the material justice in the translation.
I continue to be blessed by the splendid support of Henry Holt, St. Martin’s Press, and Orion Publishing Group. I am especially thankful to Henry Holt’s former editor-in-chief, Jennifer Barth; its vice president of Sales and Marketing, Maggie Richards; and my agent, Philip Spitzer. Jennifer is a gutsy kindred spirit who always understands precisely what I am trying to accomplish and keeps pushing me until I get there. Maggie is a fierce insomniac who will not rest until the entire world has read this book. And in Philip I have found tremendous loyalty, friendship, and family. Being me, I rarely say it, but the three of you are very special (and yes, I mean the good kind of special, not the stop-eating-the-glue kind).
PART ONE
1
THE MAN’S FIRST LOOK AT THE NEWSPAPER ITEM WAS A CASUAL one, followed immediately by a more deliberate perusal. But it was the photograph accompanying the story that had him transfixed.
Caroline Hunter had preoccupied his thoughts in recent weeks, but this was his first opportunity to reflect on her appearance. To his surprise, she reminded him of a girl he had worked hard not to think about for a very long time. So proud. So uppity. Caroline Hunter had the look of a woman convinced of her own intelligence, a woman who assumed she could do whatever she wanted –
The man wondered if Caroline Hunter had any regrets as those two bullets tore through her body. Maybe for some women it took dying in the street like a dog to reflect upon one’s decisions and the effects they have on others. He felt his muscles tense, crumpling the pages of newsprint in his hands.
Then he placed the paper neatly onto the breakfast table, took another sip of tea, and looked down at the muted traffic in the street below the window. He smiled. Fate was presenting him an even more promising opportunity than he had understood when he first spotted the article. Details remained to be worked out, but he was certain of one thing: Caroline Hunter was only the beginning. There would be more stories, just like this one, about women just like her.
THREE HUNDRED AND sixty-four days later, Amy Davis finished a second glass of red wine, pondering which excuse she should exploit to call it a night. She should have known better than to agree to a first date that started at eleven o’clock. Even by New York City standards, such a late invitation was an unequivocal sign that the guy wanted to avoid the cost of dinner but leave open the possibility of a spontaneous one-nighter.
But then the guy – he claimed his name was Brad – had suggested meeting at Angel’s Share, not one of the usual meat markets. Amy still thought of the cozy lounge as her secret oasis, tucked so discreetly inside a second- floor dive Japanese restaurant on Stuyvesant Street. She decided to take Brad’s awareness of the place as a sign. Then she looked out her apartment window and saw the snow, the first of the season. To Amy, the first flakes of winter were magical, almost spiritual. Watching them fall to the quiet square of grass beneath the oversized bay windows at Angel’s Share would be fantastic, much more satisfying than observing them from the fire escape of her fifth-floor Avenue C walk-up.
And so Amy had taken a risk. None of the previous risks had panned out, but that didn’t mean that Brad wouldn’t. Besides, all she had to lose was another night at home with Chowhound the Persian cat, falling asleep to the muted glow of her television. Three weeks earlier, she had committed herself to this process, and nights like this were the price she would have to pay if she were ever going to find The One.
She knew the date was a mistake precisely one second after she heard the voice behind her at the bar’s entrance. “
Then the second passed, and she turned to meet the man who went with the voice. The truth was, Amy did not care about looks. People said that all the time, but Amy actually meant it. Her ex-boyfriend – perhaps he had never become a boyfriend, but the man she’d most recently dated – had been handsome as hell, but by the time they were through, she found him repulsive. This time, she was putting looks aside to focus on the qualities that counted.
Brad’s face was not unattractive, but neither was it familiar – a surprise to Amy since they had exchanged multiple pictures over the last week. Internet daters posted photographs, so, even though Amy did not particularly care, she looked. It was nice, after all, to have a visual image to go with the instant messages and e-mails. This face in front of her, however, did not match the image she’d carried.
As Brad squeezed through a small group of people to ask the host for a table, she mentally shuffled through the pictures he’d sent and realized that in most, his face had been obscured – sunglasses on both the fishing boat and the ski slopes, a hat on the golf course, a darkened dinner table at some black tie event. One head shot had been pretty clear, but even a toad could eke out one good picture. In retrospect, she realized she had used that one good picture to fill in the blanks on the rest.
Once they were seated, Amy tried to put her finger on precisely what was different. The face was puffier. Older, too. In fact, Brad looked much older than the thirty-eight years he claimed in his profile. Sure, she might have shaved off a couple of years herself, but she was talking
