by Tom Clancy
Matt looked over out the top of the letter for the address and name of the law firm, and got a quick glimpse of the list of what he guessed were Ed’s sim users before Martin Gray covered the addresses. A line of names ran down the left in the body of the letter, with addresses on the right. “That’s the firm,” he said. “As I told you before, I don’t know the real names of the sim users, only the names of the characters they were playing.”
Even as he spoke, though, Matt was frantically trying to memorize those real names now. He only caught one name and address, and another name from the next line.
T. Flannery he thought, trying to memorize the next part. 2545 Decatur Place. The next name was K. Jones, and that was all that Matt’s sleep-deprived and shock-dulled brain managed to hold on to. He repeated them silently until they seemed to be echoing in his head. “You think one of these people did…that?” Matt gestured again out the window. More police had arrived, taking pictures and checking the area. Now they stepped back to let the paramedics slip Ed Saunders into a body bag.
“I don’t know. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t necessarily be here, except that the sector sergeant is a friend of mine…and I happened to be in the neighborhood.” Detective Gray shrugged. “Whenever anybody who’s not directly under a doctor’s care passes away, the case is treated as a possibly suspicious death.”
Matt shook his head. “Boy, I thought school was tough — but if you need a doctor’s note for this!”
His half-punchy comment got a laugh out of Martin Gray. Then the expression on the police officer’s face sobered.
“Yeah, well,” David’s dad said. “On the other hand, Mr. Saunders isn’t really going to care about it, now…is he?”
Leif was lying in bed, surrounded by books about the Callivants, when the chimes announcing an incoming call began to ring. He swung both feet to the floor and activated his bedroom console. A second later a holo image swam into view — a very pink-faced Matt Hunter. Before he could speak, Leif erupted in a thunderous sneeze.
“I guess I wasn’t the only one who was out in the weather,” Matt said, massaging his cheeks. “I still can’t quite feel my face.”
“Sounds charming,” Leif sneezed again and scrabbled for a tissue to wipe his runny nose.
“Not as charming as what you’ve got,” Matt shot back with a grin. “You don’t look your usual suave self.”
Leif looked down at the old sweatsuit he was using as pajamas, his nose wrinkling from the pungent scent of the herbal rub his mother had insisted on slathering over his chest. “Just be glad you can’t smell me.” He looked keenly at his friend. “What sent you out into the howling blizzard? Is it something to do with your problems?”
Matt nodded. “I’ve got a new one now. Ed Saunders is dead and the cops are investigating.”
Leif stopped dabbing at his nose. “You think one of your playmates resented this deadline of his that much?”
“Who knows? As far as I can tell, he didn’t let us know how things had turned out. When I tried to call, I got his automatic message system. Dad and I finally took the Metro, hoping to talk this out face-to-face. We were half a block from his address when we found him — literally in the gutter.”
“What happened? Murder most foul? Hit-and-run? A falling icicle?” Leif was downright disappointed when he heard that Saunders had most likely been the victim of a fatal slip on the icy sidewalk.
“David’s dad has no sense of drama,” Leif complained.
“I’m sure that’s the last thing he wants in his job,” Matt agreed. When he went on to describe the letter and the attached list, Leif’s interest quickened.
“The List of Ed Saunders,” he said in a throbbing voice. “No, it’s not going to work as a title. “The List of Edward Saunders. Or maybe The Curious Case of Edward Saunders.”
“Be hard to top the book you’ve got in your hand,” Matt replied. “What is that? Political Crimes and Misdemeanors?”
Leif held up the book he’d brought along with him. “Just something I borrowed from Mrs. O’Malley,” he said. “It’s got some stuff about the death in Haddington.”
“That’s the last thing I have to worry about,” Matt said. “Right now I have to see how this death in Washington affects what’s going on with the Callivant lawyers.” Matt hesitated for a second. “I got a look at that list you were kidding about.”
“Really? I don’t suppose there was anybody you recognized.” Leif grinned. “I always figured Maj Greene for a secret Lucullus Marten fan.”
Matt shook his head. “No friends, no enemies, no obvious murderers. Just a bunch of unknown names.”
Leif looked expectantly at his friend’s image. “So did you copy them all down? We could check them out.”
“I got one name and address, and one more name.” He looked embarrassed.
“That’s it?” Leif asked.
“Hey, I’d just struggled through a storm with a lawsuit hanging over my head, I found a body and gave CPR to a cold corpse, and when I was just about frozen stiff, then I was put as a possible homicide suspect into a police car with the heater doing overtime. I had just about zonked off when David’s dad started talking to me.”
“At least you got two out of five.”
Matt scowled. “More like one out of five. Do you know how many K. Joneses there are in this city?”
Leif laughed, then coughed. “Not to mention the surrounding suburban counties. I take it that’s the name that didn’t have the address?”
Matt nodded. “The other is T. Flannery.” He reeled off the rest of the address.
“Decatur Place?” Leif closed his eyes, calling up a mental map. “That’s a street up by Dupont Circle. Pretty nice address.” The area was in Northwest Washington, where developers now waged a continual war with people who wanted to preserve the old buildings in the neighborhood. “Have you checked it out?”
“There’s no listing for a T. Flannery at that address,” Matt replied.
“And why would anybody give an unlisted connection, even for a noncommercial test sim like Saunders was running?” Leif felt his lips twitch into a smile. “I begin to see why you decided to call me.”
Still maintaining his connection with Matt, Leif warmed up his computer and began giving some orders. Besides communications codes, he had access to a wider range of trace programs and databases — some of them even legal — than Matt did.
“The city directory doesn’t show a T. Flannery living at that address,” Leif announced, looking at the print display now floating beside the image of Matt’s head. “No rent records, or condo mortgages. But I’ve got clear indications of electrical bills, water bills, and sewage lines going to the property. It’s not empty land. So who owns that chunk of D.C.?”
A second later, and he was taking in the results of his search, frowning.
“What is it?” Matt said, leaning forward as if he could peer around Leif and see whatever he was reading.
“The owner of the property at 2545 Decatur is the Roman Catholic Diocese of Washington. It’s St. Adelbert’s Church.” Leif glanced at his friend. “Which means you either misread the list — or T. Flannery is using a fake address.”
“The list was printed out,” Matt said. “That address was probably the only part of the letter that hadn’t been scratched over and edited.” He thought for a moment, then shook his head decisively. “I don’t think I messed it up.”
“Then we have somebody hiding behind a church. Somebody—” Leif’s triumphant speech was interrupted by another sneeze.
“Gesundheit,” Matt said. “I’m glad I’m only here in holoform. I’d hate to catch what you’re spreading.”
“Thanks for all the sympathy,” Leif said with considerable irony. “We’re looking here at somebody who would maybe make a reasonable suspect for prying around in sealed records,” Leif pressed on, then went for broke. “Somebody who might even have a reason to shut Saunders up — permanently.”
“Oh, plea
se!” Matt burst out. “That was an accident. Tomorrow’s news reports are going to be full of the statistics from this storm. X number of inches of snow. X number of car accidents. So many people injured by mishaps on the ice.”
“And so many dead.” Leif tilted his head, a look of grudging admiration on his face. “If you wanted to get rid of somebody, it would be a perfect time.”
“Even David’s father hinted that he didn’t see anything more than an accident — and he’s a homicide detective.” Matt crossed his arms, the man with the proof.
“A homicide detective called to a scene where usually you get a couple of patrol cops, the local sergeant, and somebody from the medical examiner’s office. That’s the way they do it in New York.” An elderly neighbor of the Andersons had abruptly dropped dead in their condominium lobby. Although she was wealthy — anybody who lived at that address would have to be — that was as far as the NYPD went on a case of doubtful death.
Matt, however, wasn’t really listening. He was still wrestling with the problem of another address. “Could this T. Flannery be homeless?” he suggested. “I know the problem’s a lot better than it used to be, but it’s not completely fixed. I know that churches sometimes offer the homeless a place to stay.”
“And, of course, access to their computer systems, so the homeless folk can play detective games,” Leif added, shaking his head. “It doesn’t add up, Matt.”
He turned back to his computer. “Well, there’s one way we can find out.” He asked for the communications code for St. Adelbert’s Roman Catholic Church, then told his system to connect with that number.
A second later the image of a young man in a sport shirt appeared beside Matt. The guy was sitting behind a office desk, holding some papers. “St. Adelbert’s Church,” he said pleasantly.
“I’m trying to get hold of a T. Flannery, and this was the number I was given,” Leif responded.
The young man on the other end of the connection smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid Father Tim is at the hospital right now. All those accidents this evening. Is it something about the youth ministry? I could help you with that. Or would you like to leave a message?”
“A message for Father Tim. Yes, maybe that’s the best way.” Leif fought to control the grin tugging at his lips. He gave his name and communications code. “Tell him it’s about a mystery — a sorrowful mystery.”
7
Matt was actually sitting in Leif’s room — as he said to Leif, getting in a little face time despite the risk of infection — when Father Flannery called back. At the first sound of his voice Matt knew immediately who he played in the sim.
The priest was younger than his counterpart. He had the same pinkish coloring as Spike Spanner, but was much slimmer, with a head of wavy reddish-brown hair. His eyes were much milder than the two-fisted P.I. he portrayed. But they sharpened when they focused on Matt. “Mr. Anderson, I presume?”
“A reasonable assumption,” Leif said, “considering that you saw him unmasked at Mr. Saunders’s virtual office. But I’m Leif Anderson, and I’m just an interested bystander in the situation. My friend is Matt Hunter.”
“Young man, are you sure you aren’t a party to our sim? You don’t look like Lucullus Marten, but you certainly managed to sound like him right then,” the priest said suspiciously. “You also sound like this note I just got via virtmail.”
He held up a printout of the same message that had sent Matt out into the cold to confer with his friend. It was simple enough:
Should you appear at the address below at seven P.M. this evening, you will learn something to your advantage.
Beneath that were the coordinates for a Net site. No letterhead, no return address, and as far as the boys had been able to trace it back, the message had apparently bounced at random through the international webwork of computers for hours without ever initiating from anywhere.
“I got one of those, too,” Matt said.
“The wording sounds like something a golden age detective would use in a newspaper ad looking for a witness.” Father Flannery still regarded them suspiciously. “I could see it coming from Lucullus Marten.”
“Or from Milo Krantz,” Matt replied.
“Let’s face it. Notes like that go back to Sherlock Holmes. We have to expect that whoever is playing the characters in this sim would know about that tradition.” Leif nodded politely. “Including you, Father.”
“I can assure you I had nothing to do with the illegal computer entries which started this trouble,” Father Flannery said stiffly. “I’m willing to open my computer for an audit to prove my statements.”
Matt looked at Leif, who looked away. Not many people would allow their private files to be pawed open by strangers.
“I’m inclined to accept Father Flannery’s word,” Matt said.
“Then we know the true identities of two of the six players in Ed Saunders’s sim,” Leif said. “Matt, I know you’re too much of a straight arrow to go hacking in government files, or even in Mr. Saunders’s computer. Somebody, most likely the original hacker, must have raided Saunders’s files. That would be child’s play, if what Sauders told us is correct, compared to some of the official record storehouses that were cracked before the sim was shut down and this whole mess started. Saunders’s computer is the most likely source of the address list for your virtmail messages. And I’d bet that most, if not all, of the participants in the sim got the same message.”
Father Tim nodded, obviously following Leif’s logic. “But I would guess you’re innocent of sending the message, because you called me and left your number before I received the message. Why go through such an elaborate rigamarole when you’d already contacted me directly?” He still didn’t look friendly or happy. “That only leaves the question of how you got my real identity and address when you’ve only seen me in proxy form in the sim.”
“Father Tim, I don’t know if you’ve heard this, but Ed Saunders is dead. My father and I were the ones who discovered the body,” Matt said. “I had discussed the problem of the potential lawsuit with my parents, and when the deadline passed with no word, we went out into some nasty weather for a little face-to-face.” He shuddered. “But we were too late to talk with him.”
“A horrible accident,” Father Tim said gently. “I read about it in The Washington Post.”
“While they were questioning me, the police showed me the hard copy of a letter Ed had been drafting to answer the lawyers,” Matt went on. “I managed to see two names and one address. Yours.”
“Lucky me,” the priest said. Then he laughed and shrugged. “Two out of six. Monty Newman would say that was good baseball, but poor detecting.”
Leif chuckled. “Spike Spanner might get away with a crack like that, too.” He paused. “How did you wind up choosing a rough diamond like the Spikester, Father Flannery?”
“I discovered the Spikester, as you call him, in an old flatfilm television series in the last century.” The priest shrugged. “I became a fan. Over the years I tracked down all the episodes and the various films and books.”
“Wasn’t there also a Spike Spanner holo series a little while back?” Matt asked.
Father Flannery made a disgusted noise. “It had a former male model prancing around in it, trying to convince people that he was tough. The old versions were much better.” Then he shrugged and grinned. “Still, I decided that if a silly male model could do it, why couldn’t I?”
Leif chuckled. “Spanner isn’t exactly a ‘turn the other cheek’ kind of guy.”
“More like a ‘kick rump before somebody tries to kick thine,’” the priest said with a laugh. “Playing the character helped me vent off some of the frustration of my job, I admit. Some of my friends from the seminary play sports to do the same thing.”
“So your superiors would have no problem with what you were doing?” Leif pressed.
“About what I do for entertainment, no,” Father Flannery’s face darkened. “About being acc
used of illegally hacking into secure government databases to win a sim mystery — now that would bring up lots of problems.”
Matt pointed to the printout still in Flannery’s hand. “Will I see you — or rather, Spike — at seven o’clock?”
Father Flannery nodded unhappily. “I’m curious enough, or desperate enough, to go. Although I’d prefer to know who my host was.”
“If I were you, I’d like to know who the whole cast of characters was, while I was at it.” Leif’s eyes got a faraway look. “Maybe I’ll take a whack at that myself.”
For someone actually traveling its electronic pathways, the Net could be a neon kaleidoscope, an ever-shifting cityscape whose vibrant colors glared against a blacker-than-black backdrop.
Leif had decided to take a crack at the offer he’d made while Matt was visiting. He waited until Matt left, shortly after Father Flannery had cut his Net connection. Matt was a little annoyed, since Leif wouldn’t discuss how he intended to expose the identities of the mystery role-players. But Leif figured some things were easier if you didn’t know all the details. That was especially true of Mr. Straight-Arrow Matt Hunter, who’d told Martin Gray and his father about the anonymous message before heading over to tell Leif. Not that the cops were likely to tell Matt what — if anything — they planned to do with the information. Or whether they’d in fact decide to take action. Matt said that Mr. Gray hadn’t been too interested — it seemed that the police were leaning very strongly toward accidental death rather than homicide in the case of Ed Saunders. No, Leif figured, if he and Matt wanted a real answer to the mystery, they’d have to find it themselves.
As soon as Matt was out the door, Leif warmed up his computer. The person he wanted to contact was not at the last address Leif had for him, so he had a little searching to do.
Finally Leif got what he wanted, sat in his computer-link couch, closed his eyes, and gave the order. After a moment of nasty mental static, he was flying through the Day-Glo buildings of the Net. His hurtling course took him to a relatively quiet section of the garish metropolis, far from the fanciful sites of the big corporate players. His destination was in one of the much simpler, almost boxlike virtual constructions that offered a Net presence for smaller businesses.
