Cold Case nfe-15

by Tom Clancy

  “Are you annoyed? Was I stepping on your toes?”

  The priest shook his head in bemusement. “No. I’m just shaken up, and unprepared for this, and I think I’m a little envious at the easy way you’re handling things.”

  “Believe me, Father, I’m just feeling my way. Leif and I — and several of our friends — have had a chance to see how the pros do it. We belong to the Net Force Explorers—”

  Flannery’s head swung toward him. “Net Force is involved in this?”

  The blare of a car horn brought his attention back to the road. They rolled ahead for a car length, then stopped again.

  “My friends and I are Net Force Explorers,” Matt quickly explained. “We watch and learn from various professionals in Net Force. Sometimes we do public-service stuff. We don’t have any police powers. But we’ve seen how cases were handled by Net Force Agents.”

  And sometimes stuck our noses in — when it seemed necessary, he silently added. But this was strictly personal. Right now Matt was just trying to spare himself, his parents, and the innocent sim participants from the consequences of a hacker’s actions. And when Leif or anybody else offered help, Matt would accept it gladly.

  “My own experience with investigation comes from a lifetime of reading — and what little I managed to do in the sim,” Father Flannery admitted ruefully.

  “You felt I was giving away clues when I gave Jones that piece of paper?”

  The priest hunched a little over the wheel. “Perhaps more like giving away an advantage,” he admitted. “You’d found out those names, and Jones hadn’t. Knowledge is power. When you pointed that the hacker would have the names already, I felt a little foolish. And when you talked about the free flow of information, I became ashamed of myself. Obviously, I’m not a good detective, Matt.”

  “I don’t know that I am,” Matt said, a little embarrassed. “But I do think that all of us — all the innocent parties, at least — will have to work together to identify the bad sport among us, and hopefully get him or her stopped.”

  “And what happened to Ed Saunders — what you said to Jones—?” Father Flannery flashed Matt a worried look.

  “Look, my dad and I found Saunders.” Matt began rubbing his arms against a sudden chill. “It had to be an accident — a coincidence. What I said to Kerry Jones was more like a swift kick to his — um, smugness,” he finished lamely.

  “Tactics”—Flannery smiled—“mixed with a bit of irritation. In my trade, that’s all too familiar.”

  Matt laughed. “Let’s hope we do better with Oswald Derbent.”

  “Also known as Lucullus Marten.” They were across the bridge now. Father Flannery gave the car a little gas and began steering a course away from the city.

  In the quiet suburban neighborhood, the house stood out — both as the oldest structure in the area and, probably, as the local eyesore. Most towns would end up debating whether or not places like this should be declared historic landmarks. But Virginia had way too much history already. Unless a famous ancient general had been born in that gaunt-looking farmhouse — or died in there — nobody would be talking about preservation. They’d be more likely to discuss whether it should be bulldozed before it fell down on its own.

  The wooden house desperately needed a fresh coat of paint, and several of the window shutters hung at odd angles. Floorboards creaked alarmingly as Matt and Father Flannery stepped onto the porch. But the structure took the weight, and the noise probably saved them the effort of reaching for the doorbell. Matt saw curtains twitch behind one of the windows.

  Before Father Flannery managed to pull his finger from the cracked plastic bell button, the front door swung open just a bit. Even the partial view that Matt got showed a man who’d been seriously shortchanged by life. The top of his head barely came up to the level of Matt’s shoulder, and the man’s flesh seemed to pull extra-tightly over his small, skinny bones. The man had gotten an extra helping of forehead, and his baldness gave the strange impression that his skull had simply outstretched his thinning hair.

  Eyes like shiny brown buttons took them in. When they focused on Matt, the pinched features on the man’s face seemed to tighten even more.

  “You,” he said.

  “Oswald Derbent?” Father Flannery asked.

  “I am he,” the man at the door answered. From the first time, Matt caught a connection to the Lucullus Marten he’d known from the sim. Derbent had a surprisingly deep voice for such a slight frame. And his diction was perfect.

  “You might as well come in,” Derbent growled after they’d introduced themselves. “I’d almost congratulate you, except that I imagine your success was due more to technology than deduction.”

  His glare shifted to examine Matt. “No doubt this is due to your ridiculous performance with that champagne bottle.”

  “Exactly.” Matt nodded, surprised to find himself falling into Monty Newman’s responses.

  “Ah, well. If you’ve found me, I expect you’ve found the others. Perhaps now they’ll see the advantages of joint action instead of sordid self-interest.”

  Derbent led them into what once had been the front parlor of the farmhouse. The furniture was old, the upholstery shabby, so the late-model computer-link couch stood out in almost shocking contrast. But Matt barely noticed that at first. What struck him were the walnut bookshelves that covered every wall.

  They ran from floor to ceiling, pushing the few other furnishings into a cramped grouping in the center of the room. Even the spaces over and under the windows had been pressed into service, so they seemed recessed in a foot-thick frame of dark wood. The light that came into the parlor had a strange quality, as if they were sitting in a shadow box.

  The funereal scene took a moment to get used to. Matt noticed that a pair of floor lamps flanked what looked like the most comfortable armchair, but the dim glow they shed was barely enough to navigate by once the door was shut. The lights should have been using hundred-watt bulbs. Matt figured the output was more on the range of forty.

  “Not exactly bright in here,” Father Flannery commented, groping his way forward.

  “It’s sufficient for my needs,” Derbent testily replied. “No need to enrich the local utilities.” He gestured, a shadowy figure except for those fierce, shining eyes. “I enjoy an economical style of life. My parents passed away, leaving me this house free and clear. Since then, I’ve been able to use their legacy and my savings to live as I choose.”

  Just like the housebound recluse he played in the sim, Matt thought. What does he raise on the upstairs floor instead of cactus? Dust bunnies?

  Derbent stepped over to the bookshelves most illuminated by the lamps. “Of course, most of my time is taken up with my…collection.”

  That last word got a brief pause and an even deeper pronunciation than usual — the sort of tone people usually reserve for love or religion.

  Matt squinted, trying to make out the faded print on the books’ spines. What a surprise — old mysteries.

  He spotted a familiar title on a paperback, Triple Jeopardy. Beside it was a hardcover book, Too Many Killers. These were all Lucullus Marten stories. Matt eagerly read on. “Wow! You even have Death of a Druid! I never managed to find a library that had that one.”

  “It’s been out of print since the 1970s,” Derbent replied. A trace of pride crept into his voice. “Tracking that title down took some effort, but I wanted all forty-seven of the Marten books. Of course, these are just for pleasure, my reading copies. I have a full set in hardcover — mint — safely stored away. Some of those have never even been opened.”

  So what are they safe from? Matt wondered in puzzlement. Eye tracks?

  Derbent sat in his chair, a volume in his lap. His hand gently ran over the book’s leather cover in the way others might have caressed a loved one.

  “Looking back, I suppose it was a mistake to take part in Mr. Saunders’s little mystery. But I was eager to put to use what I had learned from years of re
ading. I had tried my hand at writing some tales of deduction”—his lips pursed in disgust—“but publishers are no longer interested in that sort of story. Bah!”

  The hand resting on the book clenched into a fist, then relaxed. “The chance to step into the skin of my hero was most seductive. I enjoyed the experience.”

  Derbent glanced at Matt. “Despite your youth, you showed a definite flair for extracting information. Quite…passable.”

  Matt couldn’t hide his smile at hearing Lucullus Marten’s watchword when he praised Monty Newman’s efforts.

  Derbent’s hand tightened again. “And then this nonsense.”

  “Yes,” Father Flannery said. “It only seems to get worse.” He hesitated. “Your suggestions about Mr. Saunders’s death—”

  Derbent smiled. “Were they a ploy to get you and the others to agree to my proposal, or were they motivated by a justified suspicion?” He shrugged. “It may just be the fear of a man who rarely leaves his house. On the other hand, even a paranoid could have enemies. How have the others reacted to being unmasked?”

  “We haven’t caught up with Milo Krantz,” Matt said. “Apparently, he’s a long-distance trucker.”

  “A trucker.” Derbent shook his head mournfully.

  “The Slimms turned out to be a pair of college students,” Father Flannery reported.

  “A fair match to the giddiness of the characters.” Derbent nodded to the priest. “As Spike Spanner, Father, you personify the golden age principle of the least likely suspect.”

  “The students — at least the young man, he did the talking — refuse to take part in any effort to find the hacker.” Matt took out the list of the sleuths and their alter egos. “I’ll leave this with you, no matter what you decide. I already left it with the students.”

  Oswald Derbent reached for the paper. “I’ll join you in your search, although I don’t know how useful my support will be.”

  “It will mean half of us are interested in the truth,” Father Flannery said.

  “A fine sentiment,” Derbent said, “as long as you don’t examine the motives behind it. Mine are simple. The six of us will either be the investigators or the investigated.” The little man shook his head. “We face a mystery, but no data — a word I prefer to the traditional clues. That means we — and perhaps our truck-driving associate, if he throws in with us — will have to keep digging in one another’s pasts until we turn up the telltale fact — or flaw.”

  Oswald Derbent’s dark, shiny eyes had a bitter expression. “One thing I’m sure of — this mystery will be much less enjoyable than the one we signed up for.”

  “That Derbent really has a way of putting things,” Father Flannery said as they drove deeper into the Virginia countryside.

  Matt nodded. “For him to play a reclusive genius — maybe it was typecasting.”

  “What he said about the three of us having to dig — I don’t know that I can do it,” the priest said.

  “Are you going over to Kerry Jones and Suze Kellerman’s side — the one that favors ignoring trouble until it goes away?” Matt asked.

  “About having someone else do the investigating? It’s tempting,” Flannery admitted. “But I don’t know if anything will be done — or how. Derbent made it clear that he’s not leaving his house to pound the pavement for clues. I’m frankly doubtful as to what I can do.”

  “I think I hear an and coming,” Matt said.

  “That leaves you — and whatever your friends can do — to clear up this mess.”

  Matt shifted in his seat. “Do you think I’m up to the job?”

  “I don’t think you should be expected to do it alone,” the priest replied. “Perhaps if this Knox fellow goes in with us — giving us a majority of the people involved — we could approach the lawyers, agree to cooperate in an investigation…”

  Sounds like he thinks Kerry and Suze are the real hackers, Matt thought. If the real hacker is one of the others, will they agree? He glanced over at the man driving the car. How do I know I’m not riding with the hacker right now? I just don’t buy it, though, and I have to trust my instincts. They’re all I’ve got on this case.

  He sighed. “Well, first I guess we’d better see what Knox has to say.”

  They didn’t have many problems finding O’Dell’s. There were signs giving the turnoff for miles ahead on the road. Big rigs were parked all around the complex of small buildings. This wasn’t just some sort of greasy spoon. The place had pretty much everything a trucker could need — food, a motel setup, gas pumps, even a combination pharmacy and convenience store. O’Dell’s was obviously more than the joint in the old joke — the place with the sign that said EAT HERE AND GET GAS.

  Matt and Father Flannery stopped by the sleeping accommodations first. They were told the boss was in the restaurant, and nobody at O’Dell’s gave out any information without the boss’s say-so.

  Reaching for the door to the diner, Matt had to jump back as a big, swag-bellied guy came pushing out. The flying door just missed Matt, and the big guy’s shoulder brushed Father Flannery aside. Maybe the cloud of beer fumes explained why the guy had to turn making an exit into a pickup game of tackle football.

  Matt shook his head as he caught the door on the rebound. He and the priest stepped into the glorified diner and were assaulted by a collection of delicious smells — coffee, pie, bacon, steak…

  All of a sudden Matt was reminded that it had been a long time since his after-school glass of milk. They asked the counterman if the boss was around, and he replied that she was in the back. “Be with you in a minute.”

  Father Flannery immediately grabbed a stool and asked for a cup of coffee. After a moment’s thought Matt ordered a chocolate shake. A round-faced, heavyset woman brought their orders over. “I’m Della O’Dell,” she said. “What can I do for you fellas?”

  “Della O’Dell,” Matt echoed.

  The woman grinned, transforming her face into a thing of beauty. “Great, isn’t it? Sometimes I really have to wonder what my parents were thinking.”

  “I understand you let truckers use your place as a convenience address,” Father Flannery said.

  “Some, Padre,” Della said guardedly.

  “It’s important that we get in touch with a fellow named Harry Knox—”

  “Hard Knocks Harry? He was here just a minute ago.” Della turned to the counterman. “Wilbur, where did he go?”

  The man held up a bill. “I dunno, but he left a twenty.”

  “Maybe he went to get something from his rig,” Della said. “Hard to miss. It’s got a huge red stripe running around the top—”

  “Like that truck pulling out there?” Matt pointed to the window. A big rig roared onto the highway, the rumble of its engine making the whole diner shake.

  “What in perdition is his trouble?” Della O’Dell wanted to know. “Harry said he was turning down that Florida run. What’s he doing now?”

  “About fifty-five, I’d say,” Wilbur said, watching the truck rapidly disappear.

  Matt looked at Father Flannery. “What do you say, Spike?” he murmured. “You up for a high-speed chase?”

  The priest shook his head. Instead, he turned to Della. “Is that pie over there as good as it smells?”

  A while afterward they were heading back to Washington. “I wouldn’t say that was a complete loss,” Flannery said, patting his stomach.

  The hot apple pie—à la mode — had gone down very easily, Matt had to admit. Less satisfying was the reason for the fast exit Harry Knox had pulled. “He must have caught sight of me coming across the parking lot,” Matt said.

  “In that case, it doesn’t speak very well for ‘Hard Knocks Harry,’” the priest said. “As the basic manual of my profession says, ‘The guilty flee where no man pursueth.’”

  “I guess it’s just as well we didn’t try to pursue,” Matt said, gesturing to the slow-moving traffic all around them. “A high-speed chase would have been out of the question i
n this mess.”

  They crawled along the road until they reached the Francis Scott Key Bridge, where police officers haloed by the glowing lights of emergency vehicles diverted the traffic to one lane.

  “Must have been an accident,” Matt said, peering into the glare. “I think a whole section of the retaining wall is gone—”

  Then, cocked at a drunken angle, he saw the rear end of a truck trailer sticking up from the water beyond. The cab and engine were completely submerged. But Matt couldn’t miss the big red stripe running around under the roof of the rig. Wherever Harry Knox was headed, he obviously wasn’t in a hurry now.

  10

  Matt couldn’t eat supper when he got home that evening — and it had nothing to do with ruining his appetite with pie. He tossed and turned all through the night, and the next morning, even though it was Saturday, he tried Captain Winters’s office number at Net Force.

  Actually, Matt wasn’t surprised when the captain answered. Winters often put in extra hours to clear the week’s paperwork off his desk. It was a little weird to see him in a sweater instead of business wear, but the maintenance staff tended to skimp on the Pentagon’s heat during the winter weekends.

  “What’s up, Matt?” The captain’s gaze sharpened as he took in the expression on his caller’s face. “Or should I say ‘what’s the matter?’”

  Matt tried to tell his whole story — not very coherently, he feared. Words poured from his lips. Winters had to calm him down and asked several questions before he’d finished.

  “So, at least two people involved with this sim have died?”

  Matt could only nod.

  The captain turned away, barking orders to his computer. He continued to stare past Matt’s right ear, actually reading a data display that didn’t show from the captain’s desk pickup.