Hard Fall: A gripping, noir detective thriller (Thomas Blume series of Hard-Boiled Mysteries, Book 1) (8 page)

His wife and three children were cleaning up from dinner. There was much hustle and bustle in the house, the family getting along with one another and having loud and boisterous conversations. It made me miss family life, especially the winding down of evening after dinner and the nights spent with loved ones. It felt like a forgotten memory.

“What can I do for you?” Amir asked as we stepped away from the kitchen.

“I sort of need your help with this Ellington case.”

“How so?”

I spent the next fifteen minutes filling him in on everything I had discovered. This included how I had been embarrassed and sidetracked by having my theory about Harlowe being dead wrong.

“So how can I help?” Amir asked. He suddenly seemed very uneasy.

“I remember you telling me that your oldest son got into a bit of trouble a few months back when he started fraternizing with one of those online groups that hack into other peoples’ websites.”

“And?” Amir asked, a hard look on his face.

“I have a hunch I want to check on, but I can’t get it from the public records. Not that I can find, anyway. I was wondering if…”

“No,” Amir said. “Absolutely not.” He wasn’t offended, but caught off guard that I would even suggest such a thing.

“It won’t be long. Just a few minutes. Come on, you’re the one that pushed me to do this in the first place. Think of it as making up for ambushing me with that newspaper ad.”

Amir’s eyes widened at the mention of the ad and I could see the comment had almost worked. Then his brow furrowed and he shook his head. “I’m sorry about that, but I can’t allow what you’re suggesting.”

I shrugged. “I thought I’d at least give it a try. Thanks, anyway.”

I started for the door and made it no more than five steps before Amir called out, “Stop. Wait.”

I turned to him, hoping his mind was going where I hadn’t dared take it myself. His sister was still alive because of me—because of something that happened in that far-off world of New York City many years ago. Amir had told me once that he owed me more than he could ever give. It’s why he’d hooked me up with the cheap apartment and all the free food. It’s why he had posted the ad. Why he was always kind to me.

It’s why, I knew, he stopped me then.

“Jamal, come here, Son” he called out. He then looked to me and whispered: “You know why I’m allowing this, but there are limits, Thomas. You have ten minutes. That’s it.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling like crap for pushing the only man I trusted.

Jamal, Amir’s seventeen-year-old son came into the room, drying his hands on a dish rag. “What’s up?” he asked. The kid had the same intense eyes as his old man. He was wiry and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.

Amir sighed and gave a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating that I had the floor. I clapped Amir on the back warmly and told them what I needed.

***

I was impressed and more than a little disturbed with Jamal’s skill. Within a few minutes, he had found his way into the classified files of the local council offices and schools. He fished around a bit and found the information I was looking for. As his fingers danced across the keyboard he chattered on about how hacking was “nothing like the movies” and how something called Social Engineering meant that people, not passwords were the weakest link in online security. I simply nodded as I tried to take in what he said. This was the kind of education you don’t get in College.

“So what are we looking for?” he finally asked.

“Any sort of connections between these people.” I said, showing him a list. “Let’s start with Stephen Harlowe.” I wanted to start there just to test myself. Had I
really
been that sure about his innocence?

Five minutes passed and he found nothing. “He seems pretty clean from what I can see,” Jamal said. “Who else?”

“How about Billy Bennett? Can you get me into the site for city works like transportation and public services?”

Jamal worked his magic once more and within five minutes, we were looking at just about everything we could ever want to know about Billy Bennett’s work history. As I started to scan over it all, Amir poked his head in through Jamal’s open door.

“Three minutes left,” he said, giving me a stern look.

I barely even nodded as I looked through the files. Before working for the school transportation system, Billy had been a dump truck operator and a sewage treatment specialist. But what I really found interesting was the
References
section on his application for employment under the school’s transportation department.

There were two references. One was some Council officer. The other struck me as very off-putting.

Henry Atkinson.

“Where else would we look if I wanted to try to uncover some dirt on someone?” I asked him.

“Man, there’s all sorts of places. Police records, psychiatric files, basic background checks. You name it.”

“Could we —” I started, but was again interrupted by Amir.

“Sorry, Thomas. Time’s up. That’s it.”

The look on Amir’s face told me that arguing would be pointless.

“Thanks,” I told Jamal, shaking his hand. It means a lot.”

“It better,” Amir said. “There’s a fine line between help and risking my ass.”

“I know.”

“Did you find anything?”

“Maybe,” I said, wondering why Henry Atkinson hadn’t mentioned any sort of relationship with Billy Bennett.

“Maybe.”

NINE

My mind fumbled with the jigsaw of pieces.

I wanted to go directly to Atkinson and ask him why he’d failed to mention that he’d known the bus driver well enough to provide a work reference for him. I also wanted to ask if he’d heard about the other missing kid more recently. There was anger and the first sparks of a connection firing in my brain but by the time I left Amir’s it was already dark and too late to get to Atkinson.

The drink from earlier in the day had given me just a bit more than a taste. So I went home, changed my clothes, and went to the pub. I sat at the edge of a bar for about three hours, drinking and going over the case in my mind. I spoke to no one, not even the semi attractive woman who asked what I was drinking. I lost myself in the facts of the investigation. The only reason I went back to my apartment was because I damn near nodded off at the bar close to midnight.

When I got home and slipped out of my clothes, I realized that after the recent camera purchase, rent payments, and the tab for that night, I had a grand total of £16.00 to my name. I didn’t stay awake long enough to let that bother me, though.

I slipped into a deep sleep, but it felt like only a few minutes had passed when I was jarred awake by the ringing of my cellphone. The damn thing never rang, and hearing it was like hearing the shrieking of a banshee. Wincing at the noise and feeling an approaching hangover creeping in, I answered it, squinting against the grey daylight pushing through the greasy windows.

“Yeah?” I muttered.

“Mr. Blume, this is Jamal.”

“Oh. Hi.” My mind was fuzzy, slow to piece together how Jamal had helped me yesterday evening.

“Look, so after dad went to sleep last night, I went back in and started looking.”

“Oh, crap,” I said. “Don’t let him find out.”

“Whatever, man. He doesn’t know
half
the stuff I do.”

“I’m a little uncomfortable knowing that,” I said.

“Anyway, look. You got an e-mail address I can send you some stuff to?”

“Yeah.” I gave it to him, unable to remember the last time I had checked it. “But why don’t you give me the basics here, on the phone.”

“Well, for starters, Billy Bennett isn’t Billy Bennett.”

“I don’t have time for games, Jamal.”
 
I mumbled absently while my head pounded.

“Okay, okay. Get this, Billy changed his name years ago, then again more recently. He’s not even originally from London.”

“You’re sure of this?”

“Yeah. Saw the paperwork myself. His birth name is William Hudson.”

“And what do we know about Hudson?”

“Enough to re-open the Ellington case,” Jamal said proudly.

“Wait, how do you know I’m working on the – oh, never mind. What else?”

“This is the interesting part. It seems that Mr. Hudson had a rough childhood; orphan, bounced around a few foster homes up north. Yorkshire, in fact. A couple of investigations of abuse are noted on his file, but nothing stood. Eventually he vanishes from the system… Then one ‘Billy’ Hudson resurfaces almost twenty years later with a string of petty crimes against his name. Psych reports indicated hints of sociopathy and borderline personality disorder.”

Something about the North of England sounded familiar and stirred at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t place it.

“Mr. Blume, you there?” I realized I’d been lost in my thoughts for a minute.

“Carry on, Jamal. This is good stuff, really.”

“OK, well, I saved the best ‘til last. Check this out, seven years ago one Billy Hudson was finally sentenced to a stretch in prison... for attempted sexual assault on some kids.

“He’s a sex offender?” My mind now snapped awake and I propped myself up.

“Yeah. He molested three boys…all pretty young. Nasty stuff.”

“My God.” The revelation burned away my fuzzy head.

“Yeah. Apparently it’s quite common for sex offenders to change their names when they get out of prison. Did you know that?”

“And you’ll send me the proof of all this?”

“Clicking
Send
right now, Mr. Blume.”

Then a thought materialized. “Wait, why don’t the police know all this? Was it that hard to find?”

“Hard, yes. Impossible no. Any cop with half a brain and a digital forensics department would be able to find this stuff. My guess, it was either covered up for some reason, or just plain ignored.”

The cogs in my mind started turning as I tried to process this information. Suddenly things began to fit together and in a flash there was an idea burning in the back of my mind. Within seconds, I had a strong feeling that I had the answer. Now I just needed to confirm that I was right.

“This is pretty messed up, Jamal.” I said. “But thanks anyway.”

“Sure thing. You just keep me in mind when I finish school. You know…if you need an assistant or something.”

“Absolutely,” I said. Silently hoping Jamal’s father didn’t hear.

I hung up and started to get dressed right away. Suddenly, the hangover felt miniscule. By the time I made it outside, it was almost gone. Even the fact that it was raining again didn’t slow me down. I had figured out where I knew Billy Bennett from.

***

I decided not to bother Elizabeth Ellington until I knew I had an absolute case going. And since I didn’t want to go headfirst into the viper’s pit, I thought it might be smart to wait before confronting Billy. Or William. Or whatever the asshole’s name was.

So I found myself driving through a pelting rain that had really picked up, back to Henry Atkinson’s house. I sped the whole way, the revelation of breaking this case pushing me towards a sense of accomplishment that I had long ago all but given up on.