Read Online Hard Fall: A gripping, noir detective thriller (Thomas Blume series of Hard-Boiled Mysteries, Book 1) by P.T. Reade - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: P.T. Reade
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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.
I bounded up his porch and knocked on the door with much more authority than I had showed upon my first visit. I didn’t let the austere nature of the house or the fact that Atkinson had a stellar record interfere with my thought process. It was going to be all business this time.
He answered the door still dressed in his pajamas. It was just after nine in the morning, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so motivated at such an early hour.
“I had asked you to call if you needed anything else,” he growled through the door.
“I know. But I had one more thing I needed to ask. Just to check up on. And I had to head out this way anyhow.”
His facial expression told me that he was skeptical about this. He was pretty sure I was lying, but he slowly opened the door anyway. I walked in, thanked him, and watched him shut the door behind us. I had no illusions that this man would get physical with me, and even as old as he was, with his training he could still do some damage.
I found myself wishing I still had my Glock but I couldn’t have risked trying to bring my old service pistol to London. This country hated guns almost as much as it hated personal privacy.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Blume?” Atkinson asked, clearly irritated. He stood firmly by the door, making it clear that I would not be invited further into his home.
“I need a reference for a job application,” I quipped. “I heard you hand them out to just about anyone that asks.”
“Huh?” he asked,
“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.
I bounded up his porch and knocked on the door with much more authority than I had showed upon my first visit. I didn’t let the austere nature of the house or the fact that Atkinson had a stellar record interfere with my thought process. It was going to be all business this time.
He answered the door still dressed in his pajamas. It was just after nine in the morning, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so motivated at such an early hour.
“I had asked you to call if you needed anything else,” he growled through the door.
“I know. But I had one more thing I needed to ask. Just to check up on. And I had to head out this way anyhow.”
His facial expression told me that he was skeptical about this. He was pretty sure I was lying, but he slowly opened the door anyway. I walked in, thanked him, and watched him shut the door behind us. I had no illusions that this man would get physical with me, and even as old as he was, with his training he could still do some damage.
I found myself wishing I still had my Glock but I couldn’t have risked trying to bring my old service pistol to London. This country hated guns almost as much as it hated personal privacy.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Blume?” Atkinson asked, clearly irritated. He stood firmly by the door, making it clear that I would not be invited further into his home.
“I need a reference for a job application,” I quipped. “I heard you hand them out to just about anyone that asks.”
“Huh?” he asked,
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