Murder, She Wrote--A Date with Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “And now I’m scared.”

  “We’re all scared.”

  I could see Alyssa’s features tighten. “You could’ve been killed last night.”

  “But I wasn’t. I’m still here and I’m not going anywhere, not until I get to the bottom of this.”

  “No,” Babs said, storming toward me. “Leave it to the professionals this time. We’ll wait this out. We’ll go away for a while.”

  “With what, Mom?” Alyssa shot at her. “We’re broke, remember?”

  Babs lapsed into silence. I could feel how much Alyssa’s remark had stung her, just as I could feel the air leave the room. Chad seemed to be edging back toward the door, as if to make a break for it, given his clear discomfort. But I was struck by something else entirely:

  Determination.

  Someone had turned the lives of my friends upside down—had murdered a husband and father and drained all the resources his family was now counting on. Depending on how deep the problems went, I had no idea how Babs was even going to pay for the funeral expenses, and I wasn’t about to sting her pride by offering to pay them myself or loan her whatever she needed. Because there was something else I could do that was far more fitting and relevant:

  Find who was behind the crime.

  “I need a few minutes alone with Chad,” I said, breaking the silence in the room. “If the two of you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind, Jessica,” Babs protested. “I very much mind. No more going behind people’s backs, no more sneaking around—we’ve had quite enough of that. And if you’re so sure about where this is headed, call Mort, or the FBI. Tell them what you know and let them handle it.”

  “Mort knows everything I know, but not how I know it, Babs. That’s a risk I’m willing to take. It’s a risk Chad has made plain he’s willing to take. But it’s not a risk I can let you or Alyssa take, not under any circumstances.”

  Babs looked visibly shocked by the forceful nature of my comments. She’d never heard me speak that way before, because, truth be told, I never did. I can’t even remember the last time such firmness had crept into the tone of my voice. But I knew she understood it was due to how much I cared and how much I wanted to make this right.

  And make whoever was behind it pay.

  I’d gotten myself involved in any number of real-life mysteries over the years, but never one of this scope and, apparently, conspiratorial nature, stretching from coast to coast and potentially including such a cross section of victims. Almost like some crazed, high-tech serial killer had used LOVEISYOURS, or comparable dating sites, to make a date with murder.

  That stopped now, I thought, my resolve rooted in the conviction to make Hal Wirth his, or their, last victim, while making Hal’s wife and daughter whole again.

  I hugged Babs tight. She stiffened, but then slowly relaxed and hugged me back just as tight, until I eased away.

  “You need to trust me, Babs.”

  She tried to take a deep breath, but it caught in her throat. “I know you’re doing this for me.”

  “And Alyssa,” I told her. “And Hal, too.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “What now?” Chad asked, the two of us alone after I closed the door behind Babs and Alyssa.

  I fished the printouts from my bag, where I’d left them overnight, and sat down next to Chad on the couch. “We need to determine if the profiles of these three people were ever included on the LOVEISYOURS site. The circumstances of their deaths otherwise match Hal Wirth’s to a T.”

  Chad shuffled through the printouts, shaking his head in disbelief at their contents. “All this from those airport security photos I isolated for you?”

  I shrugged. “I had a hunch.”

  “Of course, if you’re right, then we can assume the profiles of these three victims were wiped clean off the site’s server, just like Mr. Wirth’s was.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Relax, Jessica,” he interrupted, flashing that trademark smirk I now found strangely reassuring. “I got it covered.”

  “Another way in?”

  The smirk remained. “Something like that.”

  * * *

  • • •

  My cell phone rang as Babs pulled out of my driveway with Chad and Alyssa as her passengers.

  “Why don’t you ever call me on my landline, Mort?” I greeted.

  “Because I always figure you’ll be out fighting crime somewhere. You know, doing my job for me.”

  “Are you calling to criticize me?”

  “No, to see if you want to take a ride.”

  “Where?”

  “Boston. The FBI has Sean Booker in custody.”

  I felt something shift in my stomach. “Is he talking?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are we—”

  “Because he says he’ll only talk to you.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Sean Booker was being interviewed, again without success, by a trio of assistant United States attorneys when we arrived at the Moakley United States Courthouse. The official address, located amid a constant construction zone, was 1 Courthouse Way. I couldn’t recall the actual street off which the building was tucked, only that the sprawling, modern, seven-story structure backed up almost square against Boston Harbor, making it likely one of the few waterfront courthouses in the nation.

  Mort had plenty of friends in the FBI and the Justice Department from the earlier days of his career, before he was appointed sheriff of Cabot Cove in what he’d probably intended to be a soft retirement. That is, before he realized I lived there. He had already alerted those friends in federal law enforcement of our interest in Sean Booker, and it was they who’d determined that the man’s life on paper went back only a few years. Apparently, he had lawyered up and wasn’t saying a word about his actual identity, or what had led him to concoct his current persona around the time he founded LOVEISYOURS five years earlier. He was being held in an interrogation room on the seventh floor, where he’d remain until the authorities settled upon exactly what to charge him with.

  Mort and I went through the airportlike security. I had to check my cell phone with the deputy at the reception desk before proceeding to the elevator and riding it to the seventh floor, but Mort was allowed to keep his.

  “Are his lawyers with him?” I asked the FBI agent who was Mort’s friend, after pleasantries were exchanged.

  “They’re already writing and filing motions,” the man said, a sour expression spreading across his face.

  “So he’s alone.” I was going to add the man’s name, try to establish a bond between us, but I couldn’t remember what it was for the life of me.

  “And not saying a word, on advice of counsel. I think asking for you was a ruse, a stall tactic. Sorry you wasted a trip, Mrs. Fletcher. For what it’s worth, my wife loves your books.”

  I get that a lot, I almost said, aware my audience was dominated by women.

  “Well, then I suppose there’s no harm in honoring his request to see me.”

  The man—Castner or something, I now remembered—looked toward Mort.

  “Welcome to my world,” Mort said, making himself look equally sour.

  “Does she know how unusual this is?” Castner or something said, addressing his remarks toward Mort.

  “Oh, she knows, all right,” Mort told him.

  The agent nodded. “I’m still waiting for clearance on this.”

  “From whom?” I asked him.

  “It’s such a rare occurrence, I really don’t know.”

  “Here’s something Mort and I know, Agent. This isn’t about a single murder anymore.”

  Mort shot me a glare, about to speak when Castner or something beat him to it.

  “No?”

  The same resolve I’d felt with Babs and A
lyssa rose again. “I believe I’ve uncovered a pattern suggesting Hal Wirth is one of what could be many, many victims in cases that fit the same profile,” I said.

  “I’m still listening, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “But I’m not talking, not without you giving me something in return.”

  Castner or something started to smile, then stopped, ended up shaking his head instead. “You do know I’m a federal agent?” Then, to Mort, “She does know I’m a federal agent, right?”

  “Oh, she knows.”

  “I want you to honor Sean Booker’s request to talk to me.”

  Castner or something looked toward Mort again. “Should I trust her?”

  “Oh, you should trust her.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Booker’s real name is Larry Dax,” Castner or something said before letting me into the interview room. “Committed a number of low-level computer crimes out of Washington State that would have stayed off our radar if he hadn’t gotten greedy and come up with a bank fraud scheme. We nailed him for mail fraud and about sixteen other counts, but he skipped bail before the trial. After we located Sean Booker, thanks to Mort, we ran his fingerprints and lo and behold.”

  “Larry Dax.”

  “The kind of guy who’d scam you in three-card monte before the Internet age. Between cyberspace in general, and the Dark Web in particular, we’re dealing with more outlaws than ever roamed the Old West. We’ve started throwing the book at these bastards, no more going gentle, to make examples out of as many as we can. Larry Dax is looking at considerable time behind bars, and nothing he tells you is going to change that. So I’m wondering why he’s bothering to make the effort.”

  “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Larry Dax looked significantly smaller and less important than Sean Booker had behind his big desk, when I’d seen him just a few days before. His shoulders were hunched and his expression carried the stiff resignation and plaintiveness of a man who knows he’s got no cards left in his deck.

  “Nice to see you again, Larry,” I said, closing the door behind me. “I wanted to speak to you, too.”

  Dax kept looking, as if certain someone else was going to be following me through. “You’re alone?”

  “Just you and me,” I said, taking the chair across from him.

  “Seems strange.”

  “Murder always is.”

  His eyelids fluttered. “I didn’t kill anyone. Not my style or Sean Booker’s.”

  “That’s not what they’re accusing you of.”

  “They might add it to the charges if you turn out to be right.”

  “I’m right. I’m more convinced of that than ever. Someone tried to kill me last night.”

  Larry Dax, aka Sean Booker, chuckled humorlessly. “Well, at least you can’t blame me for that. I’ve got an alibi.”

  “Too bad you got caught. You had a good thing going with LOVEISYOURS.”

  “Guess I can thank you and that sheriff for ruining it for me.”

  “You could be charged as an accessory in as many as four murders and probably plenty more. That has to be the reason you wanted to see me, although I can’t for the life of me figure out why.”

  Dax’s flat, cold stare turned desperate and pleading, just for a moment. “Because I think you might be the only person who can get me off.”

  “Me?”

  He nodded. “It’s what you do.”

  “I’m a writer.”

  “And real murders keep finding you. I read all about you after you and that sheriff paid me a visit. It’s like you’re a magnet for murder.”

  “Can I use that as a title?”

  “You think this is funny?”

  “A friend of mine was the most recent of the victims somehow involving your dating site. What do you think?”

  Dax shifted in his seat, a man starting to come to grips with the fact he was about to lose his freedom for a long time. “I already told you. You might be the only person who can help me.”

  I decided to get to the point. “Was it Denver, Houston, Miami?”

  “Was what Denver, Houston, or Miami?”

  “Three of the other victims who used the LOVEISYOURS site came from those cities,” I embellished, hoping my expression didn’t give me away. Writers are great liars on the page, not so much in person. “I’m guessing someone else got wise to what had happened, someone who would’ve led us straight back to you.”

  “It’s not like that at all.”

  “Then what is it like, Larry?”

  “Just after you and the sheriff came to see me, the site went down.”

  “LOVEISYOURS?”

  He nodded. “I don’t mean a glitch, a hack, or an overload. I mean down and done, as in every scrap of data lost. We couldn’t even refund our clients’ money if we wanted to, because we don’t know who they are. Don’t you get it?”

  “Somebody got spooked.”

  “By you, by your poking around. So they shut me down to avoid leaving a trail for the great Jessica Fletcher to follow. That’s why I asked the Feds to call your sheriff. Because if you follow that trail, you’ll be able to prove to them that I had nothing to do with these murders.”

  “You’re still going away.”

  “Five years in a federal pen with walk-around privileges?” Dax moved his head from side to side, as if to consider the prospects. “I can live with that. Life without parole is something else.”

  “So you need my help.”

  “That’s why you’re here.”

  “Then you’re going to need to help me.”

  Dax looked down at the table for a long moment, then back up at me. “Just tell me how.”

  “How does your site actually work?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The matching. How’s it happen?”

  “Algorithms.”

  “Algorithms?”

  Dax nodded. “Micro-bits of random data assembled into a cyber profile. Our software extrapolates out the best fit possible by finding two people whose algorithms come closest to a match.”

  “How?”

  “What you’re going to do next is predictable based on what you’ve already done. Can you explain compatibility, Mrs. Fletcher, what it is exactly that makes two people the perfect fit for each other?”

  I thought of my late husband, Frank, how we’d both been struck by what could only be called love at first sight. I’d never bothered to look deeper than that.

  “No, Larry, I can’t. I don’t think anyone can.”

  “And that’s where computers come in, because they can. They put the pieces of who we really are together in search of placing us with someone who best fits those pieces. That’s the definition of compatibility. And LOVEISYOURS has taken that a whole bunch of steps further. Our software, through our app, tracks you. It knows where you go, what television shows you watch, what you order for lunch, your favorite muffin, how fast you drive. It’s constantly updating itself on a quantum level, following every move those registered on our site make, in search of someone making similar moves. It’s not just a simple questionnaire anymore. Give us ten answers and thirty-nine ninety-five a month and we’ll give you love. The strange thing is that the algorithms we use today really do work, and they’re remarkably good at achieving compatible matches.”

  I tried to get my hands around what I was hearing, the utter intrusiveness of it all, how much people were willing to sacrifice in search of love.

  “Isn’t that illegal?” I asked Dax.

  “It would be, if our clients didn’t pay us to do it. The software isn’t looking for an exact match—that would be like dating yourself. Instead, it looks for the right match, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Our goal is to fit two people to
gether the same way you try to find the pieces of a puzzle that mesh. We find round pegs for round holes and square ones for the square holes.” Dax stopped, then started again almost immediately. “Is this helping at all?”

  “I think it does,” I told him, starting to put something together for myself. “Quite a bit, maybe.”

  Dax’s expression turned pleading once more. “You need to prove I had nothing to do with that man’s murder. Or any of these others.”

  “It’s not easy to prove a negative, Larry.”

  “I’ll give you whatever you need.”

  “Which isn’t much, given that somebody wiped your slate clean.”

  Dax leaned closer to me, lowering his voice. “What if they left a trail?”

  “A trail?”

  “A cyber trail, plain as bread crumbs.”

  “Are you working with them, Larry?”

  “No, I already told you that. No!”

  “But you know who they are?”

  Dax looked like he wanted to nod but didn’t. “I’ve got an idea, an inkling.”

  “How?”

  I could see from the tightening of his expression that he’d said as much as he intended to.

  “This trail you mentioned,” I said, instead of waiting for him, “I’m supposed to follow it?”

  He stretched his hands across the table and I noticed a glimmer of white protruding beneath one of them, his palm hiding a small scrap of paper that might have been a Kleenex. As casually as I could, I stretched my own hand out and captured it beneath my palm.

  “And see where it leads,” said Larry Dax.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I didn’t even glance at what was written on the scrap of paper until I was back in the front seat of Mort’s department-issued SUV emblazoned with CABOT COVE SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT in white letters across blue paint.