Stone Cold Dead James Ziskin (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📖

The evening sky was clear, and the mercury had fallen below freezing again. I chatted with Stan and Pat for over an hour while the search went on inside. Brossard had called a lawyer, Joe Murray, who was inside making sure the search was kosher. Deputy Spagnola showed up a while later with some coffee for his pals, and Stan offered me his. I told him I’d just had some before arriving, but I wouldn’t mind holding the cup for him. My hands were cold.

Finally, at eight o’clock, the sheriff and DA exited the apartment building with Joe Murray in tow. They made their way over to a red-and-white Chevrolet sedan and proceeded to unlock it with some keys the sheriff was holding. Using flashlights, two deputies climbed inside the car and scanned the floor and seats for evidence. They shoved their hands between the seat cushions, examined the glove box, and then popped open the trunk. They spent a good forty-five minutes going over the car, without any success. At least none that I could see from my distant vantage point.

In the end, Joe Murray was beaming, obviously happy with the results of the search. He bade the sheriff and the DA good night and went back inside to confer with his client. Frank and Don made their way over to me and the deputies.

“You boys can head back to the jail,” said the sheriff. “Don and I have discussed it, and I want you to release Ted Russell. We don’t have anything on him.”

“Just let him go?” asked Pat Halvey.

“Yes. And give him a ride home.”

“Let me guess,” I said once Stan and Pat had gone. “Nothing in the car.”

“Nothing,” said the sheriff.

“Well, what can you expect after four weeks?” said the DA. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t think we’d find anything tonight. If he’s guilty, he’s had plenty of time to dispose of the evidence.”

“Do you think he’s guilty, Don?” I asked.

The Thin Man looked up at the sky and gave it a good think. “I’d put my money on him,” he said. “Proving it is going to be a lot harder, though. No witnesses and no physical evidence linking him to the girl.”

“And no indication that he even left the office early that day,” said the sheriff. “We interviewed the staff and his boss a couple of hours ago. No one can remember that at all.”

“So you think I’m wrong?” I asked.

The sheriff looked down at me and pursed his lips. “No, Ellie. I think you’re right. He’s your man. I spoke to the Hudson chief of police by phone this afternoon. He said Brossard was one of their top suspects. Had the girl in his office for some kind of detention after school that day. But there was another student. A boy, a senior, in the office with them as well. Brossard told the police he dismissed the girl first, but the boy said he was sent away first. Later, the kid changed his story to match Brossard’s, and the cops just couldn’t break their alibis.”

“My God,” I whispered. “That poor girl.”

“Yeah. So now we’ve got to figure out how to nab this guy.”

“You’re going to need some proof,” said the DA. “Because as things stand now, he walks.”

I arrived home a little past ten. I read and reread the AP article Norma had dug out of the archives. It was only twenty lines long, and there was no mention of Louis Brossard or the other student. Still, to no avail, I tried to wring some kind of clue out of that old story. Then I retraced in my head Darleen’s steps on the day she died, hoping for inspiration. But still nothing. Not even a couple of stiff drinks helped. Brossard was guilty, I was convinced. But I had no hope of proving it.

I switched on the television to clear my mind. What’s My Line? or This Is Your Life. I switched it off again, and the phone rang. It was after ten thirty on a Monday. Well past normal New Holland visiting hours.

“I’ve got to speak to you,” came a vaguely familiar voice from the other end. I couldn’t place it immediately. Shaking and vulnerable, the inflection was confusing me. Then he said it was urgent and called me “Miss Stone.”

“Where are you, Ted?” I asked.

“Fiorello’s,” he answered. “Please. I need to see you right away.”

“I’m in the upstairs apartment across the street. Number forty-six.”

Moments later, the bell rang, and I descended the stairs to open the newly installed door. Ted Jurczyk stood in the cold night air, breathing heavily, as if he’d just finished running line drills on the basketball court. When our eyes met, he started to cry.

“Come on in, Ted,” I said, wrapping an arm around him.

I made him some hot chocolate and waited for him to compose himself. Something had knocked him for a loop. Finally, he wiped his eyes and drew a restorative breath.

“Tell me. What happened?” I asked.

He looked up at me, eyes and nose red, lips chapped. “She’s gone,” he said, and more tears spilled over his eyelids. “I can’t believe she’s really dead.”

I put a hand on his and let him talk.

“I was still hoping, you know. Just hoping she’d left like she said she would.”

“She told you she was leaving?”

He nodded. “The day she disappeared. I met her by the bus. I’m sorry I lied to you that night at the gym,” he said. “I was so scared. I was sure you would try to pin the whole thing on me.”

“I wasn’t gunning for you, Ted.”

“I know that now,” he said, wiping his nose on a napkin.

“What did Darleen say to you that day?” I asked. “It must have been pretty important to risk missing her bus.”

Ted Jurczyk reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a brown paper bag. He placed it on the kitchen table.

“What’s that?”

“It’s Darleen’s diary.”

“She gave this to you?” I asked, picking up the