Read Online 3 Strange Bedfellows by Matt Witten - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Matt Witten
Ads: Link
precocious—he could already add and subtract better than most politicians—but was he reading computer manuals now?
Meanwhile the kid was saying, "All you have to do is access the People Tracker database."
"Access the what?"
"I'll show you," Derek said, jumping up from the table and racing to the computer room. His little brother put down his cup so quickly that milk sloshed onto the table, and then he ran to the computer room, too.
"You haven't been excused yet," Andrea called out, but Derek and Bernie either didn't hear her or didn't want to. She turned to me. "I don't think you should discuss your murder investigation in front of the kids."
"Why not? Even if we try to hide it, they'll just find out anyhow."
"But don't talk about it any more than you have to. I don't want them getting all upset and doing their weird nighttime stuff."
I knew what she meant. At our house, when the going gets tough, Derek walks in his sleep and Bernie pees in his bed. The last time our household got all caught up in a murder investigation, it took us months to get back to normal. So I promised Andrea to try to avoid talking about homicides from now on, at least at the dinner table.
After we got that settled, we trooped into the computer room. We watched with growing amazement as Derek's hands flashed here and there all over the keyboard, and the screen showed one incomprehensible (to me) message after another, until finally a message came up that I did understand. It was Ducky Medwick's home address in Clifton Park, New York.
"Incredible," I said, as Derek printed it out. "You're a genius."
"No, I'm not," he said, shrugging. "Any kid in my class could do this."
He may have been right. And that's the frightening part.
I tried to call Will to report in, but his phone was busy for half an hour. Probably off the hook again, so he could steal some sleep. I knew from experience, being wrongly accused of murder can kind of disrupt your sleep schedule.
Since I couldn't talk to Will, I spent some time playing Ms. PacMan with the kids—the one thing I really enjoy doing on the computer. Then after I put them to bed, I buzzed down to Ducky's house in Clifton Park. I guess I should take a moment to describe Clifton Park, though I really don't want to, because it's the dullest place in America. There's no downtown to speak of, no civic life, no volunteer fire department… just a lot of shopping malls.
On the positive side, Clifton Park does have some nicely built 70s-era ranch houses. Medwick, his wife, Linda, and their childre n, Barbara and Terry, ages thirteen and eleven—my kid had gotten all this info off the Internet somehow—lived in an especially sprawling ranch house on an especially large property at the end of an especially secluded cul-de-sac. The house probably cost an especially large sum of money. Personally, you couldn't have paid me to live there.
But hey, Ducky probably wouldn't have wanted to live in my house, with its nine ty-year-old quirks and occasionally obstreperous neighbors.
I walked up to the front door, setting off a motion detector that turned on the porch light. To calm my nerves, I conscientiously remembered to picture Ducky sitting on the toilet constipated.
But when the door opened, as far as its chain would allow, it wasn't Ducky standing there. It was his wife, Linda. I stared at her through the three-inch opening, my jaw hanging down in surprise.
Ducky's wife was the same hot babe I'd seen in the Hack's office, packing up his personal effects with tears in her eyes.
"Ms. Medwick?" I said hesitantly.
"Who are you?"
"My name's Jacob Burns. I'm looking for your husband."
"He's not here."
"Do you know when he'll be back?"
"What do you want?"
I want to nail him for murder . "I want to talk to him about an important matter. I'm with the Daily Saratogian . Here's my card." I handed her one of my two-year-old "Jacob Burns, Writer" cards from my wallet.
"I'll let him know," she said, and shut
Meanwhile the kid was saying, "All you have to do is access the People Tracker database."
"Access the what?"
"I'll show you," Derek said, jumping up from the table and racing to the computer room. His little brother put down his cup so quickly that milk sloshed onto the table, and then he ran to the computer room, too.
"You haven't been excused yet," Andrea called out, but Derek and Bernie either didn't hear her or didn't want to. She turned to me. "I don't think you should discuss your murder investigation in front of the kids."
"Why not? Even if we try to hide it, they'll just find out anyhow."
"But don't talk about it any more than you have to. I don't want them getting all upset and doing their weird nighttime stuff."
I knew what she meant. At our house, when the going gets tough, Derek walks in his sleep and Bernie pees in his bed. The last time our household got all caught up in a murder investigation, it took us months to get back to normal. So I promised Andrea to try to avoid talking about homicides from now on, at least at the dinner table.
After we got that settled, we trooped into the computer room. We watched with growing amazement as Derek's hands flashed here and there all over the keyboard, and the screen showed one incomprehensible (to me) message after another, until finally a message came up that I did understand. It was Ducky Medwick's home address in Clifton Park, New York.
"Incredible," I said, as Derek printed it out. "You're a genius."
"No, I'm not," he said, shrugging. "Any kid in my class could do this."
He may have been right. And that's the frightening part.
I tried to call Will to report in, but his phone was busy for half an hour. Probably off the hook again, so he could steal some sleep. I knew from experience, being wrongly accused of murder can kind of disrupt your sleep schedule.
Since I couldn't talk to Will, I spent some time playing Ms. PacMan with the kids—the one thing I really enjoy doing on the computer. Then after I put them to bed, I buzzed down to Ducky's house in Clifton Park. I guess I should take a moment to describe Clifton Park, though I really don't want to, because it's the dullest place in America. There's no downtown to speak of, no civic life, no volunteer fire department… just a lot of shopping malls.
On the positive side, Clifton Park does have some nicely built 70s-era ranch houses. Medwick, his wife, Linda, and their childre n, Barbara and Terry, ages thirteen and eleven—my kid had gotten all this info off the Internet somehow—lived in an especially sprawling ranch house on an especially large property at the end of an especially secluded cul-de-sac. The house probably cost an especially large sum of money. Personally, you couldn't have paid me to live there.
But hey, Ducky probably wouldn't have wanted to live in my house, with its nine ty-year-old quirks and occasionally obstreperous neighbors.
I walked up to the front door, setting off a motion detector that turned on the porch light. To calm my nerves, I conscientiously remembered to picture Ducky sitting on the toilet constipated.
But when the door opened, as far as its chain would allow, it wasn't Ducky standing there. It was his wife, Linda. I stared at her through the three-inch opening, my jaw hanging down in surprise.
Ducky's wife was the same hot babe I'd seen in the Hack's office, packing up his personal effects with tears in her eyes.
"Ms. Medwick?" I said hesitantly.
"Who are you?"
"My name's Jacob Burns. I'm looking for your husband."
"He's not here."
"Do you know when he'll be back?"
"What do you want?"
I want to nail him for murder . "I want to talk to him about an important matter. I'm with the Daily Saratogian . Here's my card." I handed her one of my two-year-old "Jacob Burns, Writer" cards from my wallet.
"I'll let him know," she said, and shut
Similar Books
