More Twisted by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online

Jesus. What a nightmare.
    “Mr. Monroe?” the largest of the deputies asked, eyeing his suitcase. “Charles Monroe?”
    “Yes. What is it?”
    “I wonder if we could talk to you for a moment.”
    “Sure. I—What’s the matter?”
    “Can we come in?”
    “I, well, sure.”
    “Where you going, sir?”
    He suddenly realized that he didn’t have a clue.
    “I . . . I don’t know.”
    “You’re leaving but you don’t know where?”
    “Little domestic problem . . . . You know how it is.”
    They stared at him, stone-faced.
    Monroe continued. “I guess I’m going to the city. Manhattan.”
    Why not? It was as good a place as any.
    “I see,” the smaller deputy said and then glanced at his towering partner. “Out of state,” he said significantly.
    What did he mean by that?
    The second deputy asked, “Is this your MasterCard number, Mr. Monroe?”
    He looked at the slip the officer was holding out. “Uhm, yes it is. What’s this all about?”
    “Did you place a mail order yesterday with Great Northern Outdoor Supplies in Vermont?”
    Great Northern? Monroe had never heard of them. He told the officers this.
    “I see,” said the large cop, not believing him.
    “You do own a house on Harguson Lake outside of Hartford, don’t you?”
    Again he felt the sizzling chill in his spine. Cathy was looking at him—with a look that said nothing would surprise her any longer.
    “I—”
    “It’s easy enough to check, sir. You may as well be honest.”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “When did you get it, Charles?” Cathy asked in a weary voice.
    It was going to be a surprise . . . Our anniversary . . . I was just about to tell you  . . .
    “Three years ago,” he said.
    The shorter of the deputies persisted, “And you didn’t have an order sent by Great Northern via overnight delivery to the house on that property?”
    “An order? No. What order?”
    “A hunting knife.”
    “A knife? No, of course not.”
    “Mr. Monroe, the knife you ordered—”
    “I didn’t order any knives.”
    “—the knife ordered by someone claiming to be Charles Monroe and using your credit card and sent to your property was similar to the knives that’ve been used in those murders in the area.”
    The South Shore Killer . . .
    “Charlie!” Cathy gasped.
    “I don’t know anything about any knives!” he cried. “I don’t !”
    “The state police got an anonymous tip about some bloody clothes on the shore of Harguson Lake. Turned out to be your property. A T-shirt from the victim two days ago. We also found another knife hidden near the T-shirt. Blood on it matches blood from the victim killed two months ago near Route fifteen.”
    God, what was going on?
    “No! This is a mistake! I’ve never killed anyone.”
    “Oh, Charlie, how could you?”
    “Mr. Monroe, you have the right to remain silent.” The large deputy continued with the rest of the Miranda warning, while the other slipped the cuffs on him.
    They took his wallet from his pocket. His cell phone too.
    “No, no, let me have the phone! I get to make a call. I know I do.”
    “Yeah, but you have to use our phone, sir. Not yours.”
    They led him outside, fierce grips on his biceps. Struggling, panicky. As they approached the squad car Monroe happened to look up. Across the street was a slightly built man with sandy hair. A pleasant smile on his face, he leaned against a tree as he watched the excitement.
    He seemed very familiar . . .
    “Wait,” Monroe cried. “Wait.”
    But the sheriff’s deputies didn’t wait. They firmly shepherded Monroe into the back of their car and drove out of the driveway.
    It was as they passed the man and Monroe glanced at him from a different angle that he recognized him. It was the commuter—the one who’d sat next to him on thetrain yesterday morning. The rude one who’d asked him to be quiet.
    Wait . . . Oh, no. No!
    Monroe began to understand. The man had heard all of his conversations—with Shapiro,