Back home I got myself a Coke and settled behind my desk. First things first—I checked my email. I highlighted the usual spam for deletion, then paused on one that stood out. NEW CLIENT—PLEASE HELP. Sender: Jill Smith.
I’m always on the lookout for new business. Without thinking, I clicked the email—
—and spotted the IntraX domain as it started to open.
I was an idiot.
I dived to the floor and covered my head, as if I expected the computer to explode. A flash of light burst from the screen, fading after just a second, but I kept my head down.
After 30 seconds of silence, when I realized my heart was still beating—hammering, actually—and my brain seemed to be working at its usual efficiency, I cautiously rose to my knees, peered over the edge of my desk, and saw my email page. Without the “NEW CLIENT” message from “Jill Smith.” The deadly email was gone, just like Cristin Ward had said.
Damn it. Rachel was going to be mad at me, which felt almost worse than the fact that I’d almost gotten killed. By an email. On a case that was literally centered on killer emails.
After a few minutes I managed to clamber back into my chair and stop shaking. Tyner had found my email, even though I’d tried to obliterate it on my card. But I was easy enough to find on the internet—I have a web page, after all (Rachel designed it). I just hadn’t anticipated him trying to murder me. That happens to TV private eyes, not me.
I gulped some Coke, now lukewarm. Then I called my client. “Chad Tyner just tried to kill me.”
She gasped. “What?”
“I’m fine. He sent me one of his killer emails, and I should have been more careful. It was right after I talked to him on the one. I managed to find someone to pass my number on to him, and—”
“What did he say?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. He called me, then hung up when I started asking questions. But he seems nervous. He called me very quickly after I left my number with an acquaintance.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “I’m glad you’re all right. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to get hurt. Or anybody. I just—you can stop if you want.”
“I don’t know. Now I’m getting mad. But I’m not the kind of P.I. who goes on vengeance quests.”
“Right. I got the laptop, by the way. Thank you.”
“No problem. I’ll be in touch.” We hung up.
I needed a beer after narrowly escaping death. And Rachel would be home soon, and it was my day to make dinner. I shut my computer down and went into the kitchen.
I popped a beer and began searching through the refrigerator and cupboards for something to make. Rice, noodles, vegetables, a little tofu, some leftover ziti from last night—
My phone buzzed. Retired detective Baer. “Hello, Mr. Baer, how are you?”
“Good, good. I just called to let you know—I got curious and looked that kid, Delvecchio, up after you called? It turns out he was released from prison about a month ago.”
“Really?”
“The sentence was 20 years, but it got knocked down on appeal—the kid’s family hired good lawyers, I guess—and he ended up serving 12. Go figure, huh?”
“Yeah.” I sat down at the table. “And it’s just about the 13th anniversary of the murder, isn’t it?”
“Is it? Let me—yeah, you’re right. It’s coming up. You think that’s important?”
“It could be.” I stared at the open refrigerator door, still half focused on dinner. “I don’t know. But thanks for letting me know.”
“Sure thing. I got to go. Wife’s calling.”
We hung up. I took a beer out of the refrigerator and shut the door. Then I sat there thinking for a few minutes. Or maybe longer.
I got a text from the messenger service that the laptop had been delivered. That was fast, but Rogers Park isn’t that far north. Then my phone buzzed with a call. Cristin Ward again. I hid a sigh as I answered.
“I want to meet him,” she told me.
“Tyner? Are you sure?”
“I want to look him in the face. If he knew Jeremy, I want to see him. I have something to tell him.” Her voice trembled, but behind it lay something solid and stony that I didn’t want to argue with.
But I tried. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Or if I can even set it up.”
“Please try. It’s important.”
I bit my lip. “I saved his number from his call. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
Rachel came home while I was still sitting there thinking. And worrying. “Hi.” She waved a hand in friont of my eyes. “Lost in thought? Or have you been possessed again? I don’t want to do an exorcism on an empty stomach.” She opened the fridge for a beer.
“I got one of those emails from Tyner. And I’m not sure that’s even the worst thing that happened today.” I told her about going out to meet Arreguin and Getty, finally making contact with Tyner, Baer’s phone call, and my client’s demand. “On the plus side, I think I understand what happened 13 years ago and why Tyner is killing people. On the minus side—” I shook my head. ”I have to set up a meeting with a murderer.”
“Yikes.” Rachel grabbed a beer from the fridge. “I mean, I get not wanting to tell your client to go to hell, but just—wow. She must really have balls. Unless she’s just stupid.”
“She sounded pretty determined.” I put my phone on the kitchen table. “Let’s do this.”
The next morning:
In person, Chad Tyner was skinny, blond-haired, with yellowish eyes and bony arms in a green T-shirt. He kept his arms crossed defensively, staring at the three of us—me, Cristin Ward, and Rachel.
Yes, Rachel had insisted on coming to the coffee shop. I’ve learned not to argue with her about stuff like this.
Cristin Ward wore a crisp white blouse and a laptop case slung over one shoulder. She had a latté in front of her that she hadn’t touched. Tyner had an espresso. Rachel and I had regular coffee.
“What’s going on?” Tyner leaned across the table. “Who are you again?”
“Cristin Ward. My husband was Jeremy Ward.” She cocked her head, as if analyzing his face for flaws. “Do you remember him?”
“Maybe.”
“You killed him.”
Tyner smirked. “Why would I do that?”
“Because of Miranda Sherman,” I said.
He shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I took out my phone. “In college you found a symbol for an old Egyptian grave-robbing curse and figured out how to send it in an email so that it would kill whoever saw it.” I showed him an image of the symbol Derek had found. “Look familiar?”
He chuckled. “Keep going. This is fun.”
I showed him the photo of the trivia team. “The night of the trivia contest, you were a little drunk and feeling good—or maybe you were feeling ignored by the rest of the group? Either way, you decided to show off. So you send an email to Miranda Sherman and told everyone at the table that you’d just killed someone. Was she the first? I’m wondering how you knew it would work. Or if you cared.”
Tyner frowned, but kept his mouth shut.
“Miranda died, but someone found her body and took it home for—well, some disgusting activities. His name was Glen Delvecchio. The cops caught him, and he went to prison, but he got out about a month ago.”
Tyner’s face was stony now, but he blinked when I when I spoke Delvhecchio’s name.
I sipped my coffee. “He must have seen some trace of your email on Miranda’s phone. The police found your name in her contacts, but they didn’t connect you with the case. But Delvecchio knew you’d done something to her, and he had a lot of time in prison to figure it out. So when he got out of prison, he contacted you and accused you of killing Miranda.”
Tyner shook his head. “I never heard of him.”
“That’s why you jumped to the wrong conclusion. The only people who had any ideas you’d killed someone were the guys on the trivia team. So you decided to send them all the same kind of email you sent to Miranda and make sure they didn’t start talking. You killed two people, and tried to kill the rest of them.”
Cristin bit her lip, but didn’t speak.
I glanced at Rachel. She’s not a mind reader or human lie detector, but she can pick up things. She nodded.
Tyner sat back. “Maybe I did. This Delvecchio? I don’t know him. But if—if—that happened, well, what are you going to do now?”
“How did you work it?” Rachel asked. “With the curse and the email. You can’t just send a picture and have it kill somebody.”
He sighed. “I’m not admitting anything, all right? But let’s just say—look, I’m smart. Real smart. And I was into a lot of stuff in college. Obscure, arcane shit. Spells and things. Ancient history. You can find stuff like that. But I majored in computer science. Software, mostly. And you can find different ways of sharing information, not just in text or images, but in bursts. Like QR codes, right? So maybe, maybe someone could combine that and make—something special.” He smiled. “Someone smart could do that.”
“Was Miranda the first? Was it an experiment to see if it would work? Or did you send it to other people before her?”
Tyner rolled his eyes. “This wouldn’t be the kind of thing you can test on a hamster or a lab rat. Think about it. People die, though. They die all the time. I’m sorry—” He looked at Cristin Ward directly for the first time. “I’m sorry for whatever happened to Jeremy. But you can’t get me blamed for it. Nobody will believe you. Really.”
I wanted to throw my coffee in his face. But it was lukewarm by now, and it wouldn’t solve anything anyway. “Maybe not, Chad. But we know. Ms. Ward here knows. And we just wanted you to be sure we know.”
He laughed. “Fine. Are we done?” He stood up.
“Not quite.” Cristin took out her phone. “I’m sending you something.” She tapped at the screen. “Just—a picture. Of Jeremy. And our kids. Something for you to remember and think about. For the rest of your life.”
He laughed again. “I’m sure I’ll treasure it always. Okay, that’s it. I’m out of here.” He turned and headed for the door.
I watched him go. Rachel scowled. Tyner opened the door and stepped out onto the street.
“We should probably warn Delvecchio,” I started, but Cristin raised a hand.
“Wait for it,” she said quietly.
On the sidewalk Tyner reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. He tapped, frowning, ignoring a woman pushing her baby in a stroller. Then he turned north, peering down at his screen—
And collapsed on the sidewalk.
The woman yanked her stroller backward as Tyner’s forehead hit the pavement. She looked up, confused, and turned her head back and forth, looking for some explanation of what was going on. Someone inside the coffee shop stood up and pulled out their phone, pushing through the door to the street, where Tyner lay motionless.
I turned to Cristin Ward. “Did you—?”
She tapped her phone a few times, then rubbed her eyes. “I wanted to look him in the eyes. I wanted to see what he was.” She sipped her latté. “Nothing’s really gone on the internet. I wasn’t sure I could find it. But it was in a cloud file, hidden away. I was careful with it. And then I wasn’t sure I could—do it.”
Her eyes faded to a thousand-yard stare. “But then he—he apologized to me? For murdering my husband? And laughed about it?” She shook her head. “I know. I know. But I just couldn’t let him—walk away like that.”
Rachel put a hand on her arm. “I think we understand.”
“Yeah.” I watched as the guy from the shop tried to give Tyner chest compressions, and the woman with the stroller stared in horror.
I can’t say I approve of murder, even in revenge as justifiable as this. But I wasn’t going to argue with Cristin or Rachel on this. And not just because one was my client and the other was my wife. I sipped my coffee. It was already cold.
Cristin stood up. “Thank you.” Her voice was quiet. “You can send me an invoice whenever it’s ready.”
I nodded. “Sure thing.”
“You okay?” Rachel squeezed my hand as Cristin walked away.
I looked away from the scene on the street. “It’s probably justice. I just wish I didn’t feel like an accessory.”
She gazed out the window. “He was—proud. Of being smart enough to do it and get away with it. If there was any other way . . .”
“But there wasn’t.” At least he wouldn’t hurt anyone else. I stood up. “Let’s go home.”
# # #
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