The May Day Murders Sequel
Page 29
“That’s how I feel and why I’ve felt compelled to ‘interfere’ as you call it. I want this to be our secret—nobody else needs to know. It will do no good but potentially do a lot of harm if anybody else ever finds out.”
“But it isn’t fair, Sam! You should hate me for what I did and I should be punished. I don’t deserve anything less.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, on both counts. I don’t hate you and you’ve been punished enough. You deserve to live your life and try to put this behind you, as I’ve tried to do.”
“Jesus, Sam. You are being much too good to me. I am unworthy—”
“I don’t want to hear that anymore. You are worthy, Maisy. Or we wouldn’t be here right now discussing this.”
She stood up and went over to Sam. She threw her arms around him, sobbing. Sam held her tight, patted her comfortingly, not feeling a bit of doubt he was doing the right thing. As for their future together, that was another thing. Right now he couldn’t begin to wrap his head around that. He’d just give it time and wait to see which way the wind blew.
Only time would tell.
The End
PREVIEW: THE COLLECTOR
Book 1 of the Alan Swansea Mystery Series
CHAPTER 1
The Collector peered through the viewfinder and scrutinized the scene. The angle of the floral patterned fringed chair still looked a little off so he backed away from the tripod and went over to adjust it. He returned to his Canon EOS Mark II and examined the set again. Perfect, almost. The pale green hue of the wall molding still bothered him but he could easily correct that in Photoshop later. The arrangement of clothes hanging in the closet just beyond the chair wasn’t quite right either, but this too could be fixed on the computer.
Ah, the power of technology!
He turned around and raised the light stand another couple of inches. He knew that lighting was crucial to the scene and it had to be just right. Although there was the capability of modifying both light quality and direction in Photoshop, he refused to compromise what he felt was absolutely essential to his art. Lighting is what made it all happen—just ask any of the masters. And if it didn’t happen naturally in real time, a scene was not worth rendering in the first place. Simple as that.
Tilting the soft box downward a bit, The Collector observed the shadows falling onto the bare hardwood floor. He closely noted how the shadows fell within the folds of the white cotton towel draped over the chair that she would be sitting on. Everything was just right.
His anticipation was palpable as he visualized the scenario that was about to happen. He would enter the dormitory and a hush would suddenly fall over the room. As he strode slowly and methodically between the rows of beds, he would see a mixture of excitement and fear in every one of their sweet innocent faces, absolute confirmation that he was in charge and their master. Witnessing that simultaneous fear and eagerness to please made it all worthwhile—the very fuel on which he thrived. That, and of course his art.
He had already made his decision several days ago. The lithe brunette with the long torso and radiant skin was hands-down the obvious choice. He would walk over to her, smile and offer his hand. There would be the slightest bit of hesitation before she smiled back sheepishly and accepted it, all young lady-like, and arose from the bed. The pair would then proceed to walk hand-in-hand to the door and stop. Then the Collector would turn around and announce to the room that she was the only one he needed this time. The girls would all breathe sighs of disappointment, but he knew that this would be just for show. Deep down inside, they would no doubt be heaving sighs of relief.
Amused and insanely inspired by all of this, the Collector turned and left the room.
CHAPTER 2
Alan Swansea positioned the cursor over the space and pasted in the html code. Nothing would make him happier now than to be done with this whole project. Yes, the money was decent, but there was something about designing a website pitching commercial cleaning products that sort of took the edge out of any real sense of accomplishment or enthusiasm.
Like, how awesome could a grid of toilet bowl cleaners look anyway?
He saved the file and previewed the page in Safari. Wonderful. Just three more pages to go and this project would be history. Chris Hammond would be overjoyed that his website was finally ready to go live.
Taking a sip of black coffee, Alan stretched out his legs and focused his weary eyes on something other than the screen of his iMac. The dusk had given way to night as he spotted a full moon rising over the horizon through the window. He stood up to crack it open a couple of inches and heard a symphony of cricket chatter pour in from the chilly night air. Autumn was at last making its debut and he was glad that the god-awful heat and humidity of summer in Columbus was finally over. Maybe his disposition would improve along with the cooler weather.
After warming up his coffee, he sat back down at the desk and resumed work on Hammond’s website. He had just positioned a thumbnail of carpet deodorizer into a column when he heard the ping of an incoming e-mail. He clicked on the Mail window and scrolled down to the new message. It was from Beth Lindsay, whom he hadn’t heard from in several months. The subject of the forwarded message read, Puzzled in Denver. Leave it to Beth to make even an e-mail heading sound dramatic.
The message read:
Hey old friend, hope this finds you well. Sorry it’s been so long but I’ve been swamped with speaking engagements lately. I know I shouldn’t complain but sometimes I wish that writing was all you had to do to be a writer. No one ever told me I’d be spending more of my time promoting books than writing them. But then, it is all for a worthy cause.
At any rate, I’m wondering what you make of this strange e-mail I got from one of my online visitors. At first I thought it was a hoax but something tells me there may be something to it just by the sheer brevity of it.
I clicked on the link and that’s when this got really strange. It took me to a website where there’s nothing there but a small collection of paintings that look sort of familiar—like they’re by some famous painter. I figured since you are the big art major in my life, not to mention a former PI, that you could take a look and tell me what you think. I wouldn’t bother you like this if I didn’t have a weird feeling that this Elen woman is legit. Maybe she was going to say more but ran out of time. Anyway, I’d appreciate your professional advice. I can’t rest easy if I know there’s a desperate woman out there in need!
Get back to me when you get a chance. I know I owe you a drink. Coming out west anytime soon?
Love ya dear!
Beth
begin forwarded message
Please save my sister before it too late. She is here
http://kadanskl.com/gallery
Please do not reply to this
Elen
end forwarded message
Alan clicked on the link and was promptly taken to a webpage in his browser. What he saw was a page simply entitled My Art. Below the title were four images on a black background—two columns of two images each. He studied the paintings for a moment and realized that they were very much in the style of Edgar Degas, the nineteenth century Impressionist. The subject matter in all of the paintings was young ballerinas, favorite fodder for many of Degas’ works. In fact, all of these paintings looked like they actually could be by Degas. Except—
Alan closely examined the first image of a young girl standing in a powder blue tutu with her back to the viewer. Her head was bowed down looking at the floor and there were three other ballerinas dancing in the background. He scrolled over to the next image of a solitary young ballerina in a large dance studio standing on one leg with her other leg extended horizontally backward. An arabesque position, he recalled.
Something’s not quite right here, he thought. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. Alan right-clicked his mouse over the image and downloaded it to his desktop. He followed suit with the remaining three images then dragged all four files into
Photoshop. Choosing the first painting of the ballerina staring down at the floor, Alan zoomed in three hundred percent and studied the magnified image. Although it was of low resolution and considerably pixilated, he was able to come up with a startling conclusion: this was not a painting after all. It was a photograph that had been modified using image manipulation software—most likely Photoshop.
He zoomed in on the other three images one by one and came up with the same conclusion. The artist appeared to have created mock-ups of several Degas paintings by photographing the subjects then digitally manipulated them with painting tools and filters in Photoshop. Which meant that the models Alan was seeing here were living subjects, and one of them could be the sister that the Elen woman had referred to in the e-mail to Beth.
But which one? There was no way to tell.
He clicked on the tab of the third image and reexamined it. The image showed a ballerina sitting on a long wooden bench against a wall. The girl had her head bowed down with her elbow resting on her knee and her other hand grasping her ankle. Her feet were pointed outward, making the girl look rather awkward. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun and her face was not visible.
He studied the fourth and final image. There were also four young ballerinas in this one, one in the foreground and three in the background. The one in the foreground was standing in profile while one of the remaining three was looking directly toward the camera. The third one was looking off to the side and the fourth stood with her back facing the camera. All four girls wore blue tutus and appeared to be in a dance studio with a rail running along the wall on either side of a stone or plaster column.
And not one of the girls looked any older than fourteen or fifteen.
So what in the hell is going on here? Alan thought. Do these images imply some kind of foul play or are they simply a showcase of some photographer’s concept of ripping off Degas and creating his own brand of digitized plagiarism? Was one of these girls actually the sister of the mysterious Elen and was she in some kind of trouble? Trouble enough that she needed to be “saved?”
And if this were the case, why in the world would this woman implore Beth Lindsay to be her sister’s rescuer? Why not the police, for crying out loud?
It had to be a hoax, he thought. Something cooked up by some bored idiot surfing the net with nothing better to do than to send an e-mail to Beth after stumbling upon her website—
Alan suddenly recalled that Beth had indeed received the e-mail in question from what she referred to as “a visitor to her website.” Beth’s website, which Alan had designed for her a couple of years ago, featured a women’s rights platform and hosted a forum for battered and abused women, causes that Beth Lindsay tirelessly advocated for in her books and lectures. That lent to the possibility of legitimacy to the woman’s plea. But again, wouldn’t simply calling the police be the most logical route to take for someone seeking help for a loved one in harm’s way?
And why had this Elen woman added the link to this website, anyway? Why not just attach a photo of her sister along with her name and whereabouts instead? Why all the mystery?
None of it added up. Yet, Beth seemed to have a feeling about the e-mail’s legitimacy. It’s “sheer brevity,” as she had put it.
Alan clicked out of Photoshop, returned to his e-mail program and reread the message. He had to admit that there was a sense of urgency in the body of the message—as though the sender was in haste to complete it. That could account for the minor typos and minimal content. Had this Elen woman—or was it actually Ellen with two L’s—written this under duress?
Please do not reply to this, she had said. There was only one reason Alan could think of for this request. Ellen did not want someone to find out that she had written the message. A response would give her message away.
His suspicions mounting, Alan read the return address of the sender, jhb@ments11.net.
He selected and copied the e-mail address, went to Google Search and typed in “trace e-mail locations.” He clicked on the first of several free sites that came up and pasted the sender’s e-mail address into the search box. No luck—unknown server.
Alan copied the URL of the website link from the e-mail, opened his iMac’s utilities folder and double clicked the Network Utility application. After clicking the Traceroute tab, he pasted the URL into the search field. Several lines of text appeared as the software began at his current IP location and worked backward through a network toward the source until it finally stalled and went no further. It was likely that the site’s IP address was blocked behind a firewall or some other means, which meant that it would take a more sophisticated program than the one on his Mac to trace it down.
He would have to give Charlie a call. If the site was traceable in any size, shape or form, Charlie Ling, Mr. Hacker extraordinaire, could trace it. Maybe Charlie could even locate where the Ellen woman had sent the original e-mail.
Alan picked up the phone and keyed in Charlie’s number. . .
Find out what happens next in The Collector, available at all e-book retailers and in paperback!
Also available by the author:
The Wall
Double Trouble – An Alan Swansea Mystery
The Barcode Murders - An Alan Swansea Mystery
The Collector – Debut of the Alan Swansea Mystery Series
Greshmere
See Tom Run
Katherine’s Prophecy
The Story Behind The Images
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Scott has published ten novels including his most recent, The Wall. Other titles include the Alan Swansea Mystery Series (Double Trouble, The Barcode Murders, and The Collector.) Scott has also written a non-fiction photography book entitled The Story Behind The Images and is host of the popular photography podcast, Photography 101. Scott resides in Worthington, Ohio with his wife, Marilyn.
Connect with the author online:
ScottWittenburg.com
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