The Devil You Know Read Online Free PDF Page A

to believe that, so be it.
    In the end, he let me approach the Bergers while the search parties started bushwhacking around the back of the house. The Bergers looked at me with deer-in-the-headlights eyes as I approached. I have that effect on some folks. Ben escorted me, saying, “Mr. and Mrs. Berger, this is Nick Englebrecht. I asked him to be here today. He’s a psychic detective.”
    Ben was using the soft voice you use to calm frightened horses. I tried for an approximation because normally I sound like I’m gargling razor blades. “Mr. and Mrs. Berger,” I said, shaking Mr. Berger’s hand. Despite his impressive height, my hand entirely enveloped his. Thom Berger looked at it, and I thought of that old wives’ tale—small hands and feet means equally small equipment. I have large hands and feet, just in case you’re wondering. Mrs. Berger stared at me and through me like I wasn’t there.
    “You’re a real detective?” Thom Berger said. He looked me over skeptically. I guess the Dick Tracy trench coat hadn’t won him over.
    “I’m retired but I do odd jobs for Ben.” Not the actual truth, but close enough to pass. “Can we go inside for a moment?”
    The Bergers’ kitchen was pristine white and blue. The tile gleamed and there were spotless pots and pans hanging over an island large enough to do the Watusi down. It had a glistening magazine-layout look that suggested that the Bergers ate out a lot. That or they had a terrific maid. Thom led us to one of those breakfast nook thingies that look like they belong in a high-end restaurant and said, “I’m afraid I gave Zanita the day off. Can I get you gentlemen anything? Coffee?” His eyes flicked nervously over us and he flinched when he moved. I hate flinchy people.
    “Tea, if you have it,” I said.
    “I only have coffee, I’m afraid,” Thom said, indicating the coffeepot that I’m sure his underpaid Mexican housekeeper had set up earlier today. I was going into cliché overload here.
    I waved my hand. “Pass.”
    Ben took a coffee and I got out the notebook I normally use to mark down incoming shipments to the shop. On his way back to us with Ben’s coffee, Thom said, again sounding flinchy, “You sure you don’t want a coffee, Mr. Englebrecht? I thought that was all cops drank?”
    “I used to drink it,” I told him.
    “What happened?”
    “I saw my partner killed in front of me. I can’t stomach the stuff anymore.”
    Thom looked at me blankly. He had no idea what to say to that. Good.
    I said, “Can you tell me in detail what happened to little Cassandra?”
    Thom looked at his wife, sitting on the edge of the booth and staring fixedly at her fingers where her nail polish was rubbing off. “I’ve been over all this with Sheriff Oswell already.”
    “But not me,” I said.
    He looked over at Ben, who nodded. “Tell him, Thom. He does know his stuff . . . even if he is a little spooky looking.”
    Thom locked eyes with me and we shared a moment of profound dislike between us. Then he told me pretty much the same story that Ben had told me earlier. When we got to Cassandra’s disability, I interrupted. “How do you spell that?” I asked, and dutifully wrote down Tay-Sachs Disease in the notebook for later Googling. I had never heard of it before.
    “It’s a neurological disorder that prevents Cassandra from walking or speaking,” Thom explained. “She has to be hand fed, bathed and carried.”
    “She’s five years old?”
    “That’s correct.”
    “So there’s no chance she wandered off? Crawled off, maybe?”
    “Cassie can’t crawl,” the mother, Rebecca Berger said, suddenly coming alive. Her voice was soft but focused. “She can’t do anything without help. I know someone took her, I just know it!” She glared at me as if this were somehow my fault.
    “Rebecca,” Thom said softly. “He’s trying to help.”
    “Then why isn’t he out there helping?” she barked.
    I ignored her outburst. I wasn’t about