Cold Case nfe-15 Read online

  Matt grinned and shrugged. “It goes better with his south of the border stuff than with other recipes he tries.”

  Mom had to agree with that.

  A pair of anchorpeople busily went about the business of bringing their viewers up to date on events in the world and in Washington. It must have been a slow news day. Three items, and already they’d turned to the chopper-cam for a fire shot.

  Matt’s father remembered when the news wars had taken to the air, with the networks and news services hiring helicopters to carry their cameras. Sometimes these flying camera people turned in exciting footage — car chases, train wrecks, huge demonstrations. Most days, however, they wound up showing traffic jams, or on really dull days, the biggest fire in the metropolitan area.

  Today was apparently a very slow day. The eye in the sky hadn’t even been able to find a large factory or apartment building burning away. Instead, they focused on flames roaring through a small wooden home surrounded by suburban houses. From the actions around the pumper trucks below, the local firefighters had given up any hopes of saving the place. Their hoses were aimed at keeping the blaze from spreading to any of the nearby houses.

  “The structure dates back more than a hundred and fifty years, always in the same family,” the chopper reporter’s voice intoned against the faint whine of the engine. “The town of Travers Corners loses a little bit of history today.”

  Hearing the name of the town jarred Matt into paying more attention. He and Father Flannery had been there, not so long ago.

  Matt frowned, trying to reorient himself from the overhead view. Yes. Illuminated in the glare of the inferno, he began to pick out familiar locations. That house over there, and that one…

  The place being devoured by flame was Oswald Derbent’s book-filled home.

  12

  Some of what Matt was feeling must have shown on his face. “What’s wrong?” his mother asked.

  “That.” Matt pointed to the HoloNews display. “That house. It belongs to Oswald Derbent — another of the players in the mystery sim. Father Flannery and I were visiting there just the other day.”

  “I see,” Marissa Hunter said, clearly upset by the news. Then, “Where are you going?”

  Matt turned back, halfway across the living room. “I think I need to call this in, don’t you? To more than one person.” He glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “But I’ll be done before Dad starts serving supper.” The previously savory aromas made his now-leaden stomach simply sink farther.

  Stepping into his room, Matt snapped a command at his computer. The call went though, the display over the console swam into focus, and Captain James Winters looked out — still in his office, even at this hour.

  The captain’s expression went from surprise to concern when he saw Matt.

  “That list I sent you—” Matt paused, trying to clear a suddenly hoarse throat.

  “Someone else had an — incident?” Winters finished for him. The Net Force agent did not look happy at all.

  “Oswald Derbent. HoloNews was just showing pictures of his house — what’s left of it — doing an amazing imitation of an open-pit barbecue.”

  Winters looked annoyed with himself. “I directed my computer to flag any police calls connected to those names,” he said. “I’ll have to amend that to include all emergency services.”

  “Can you find out what happened?”

  The captain nodded cautiously. “I’ll make some inquiries and get back to you. It probably won’t be tonight,” he warned. “Arson investigations need daylight. And there will be an arson investigation.”

  “You think there’ll be anything by the time I get home from school?” Matt asked.

  “Preliminary findings, though not a finished report. I’ll call with whatever I can get,” Winters promised. “Do me a favor, huh? Be careful! And tell your friends to watch their backs. I’ll see what I can do from my end.”

  They cut their connection, and Matt gave a new series of commands to his computer. Soon he was composing a virtmail message to go out to the other sim participants — proposing a meeting, same place as last time, for tomorrow at six P.M.

  He’d just finished when his father’s voice came floating back. “Dinner is served!”

  I’m betting that my former rivals have Net agents out ready to pounce on any news mentions of our names, he thought, shutting the system down. But maybe by then I’ll be able to tell them a little more than the official story. Free flow of information, after all.

  Bradford Academy’s cafeteria was crowded, so Matt decided to do a good deed. He carried David Gray’s lunch tray as well as his own. David grimly stumped along on his cane through the mob scene.

  “That leg has to he getting better soon,” Matt tried to console him.

  “The magnetic therapy helps the bones knit faster,” David admitted with a grimace. “But it also leaves an itch where I can’t scratch.”

  They reached the table that Andy Moore was holding for them. Matt looked at the two trays, both of which held a sandwich and a soda. “Do you remember which one is yours?”

  David sighed. “Does it matter?”

  He had a point. They might go to a better-than-average school, but the cafeteria menu was, to put it mildly, lame. Matt gave David his choice and began munching unenthusiastically on a mustard sandwich (at least that was all he tasted) when Megan O’Malley plumped down in the seat beside him. A cup of soup slopped on the tray she carried — proof of her intrepid nature, Matt thought. Soup from that kitchen…he didn’t want to think what was in it.

  “How’s it going?” Megan asked.

  “Not well.” Matt took a sip from his gel-pack of soda. “Another name on the List of Ed Saunders has a red mark beside it.”

  Andy leaned across the table. “Sounds like a good title for one of your dad’s books, Megan,” he suggested through a mouthful of potato salad.

  “The line’s been used,” David Gray said, taking a taste of his sandwich and making a face. “Just without the name Ed Saunders.”

  “Forget that,” Megan said. “What happened?”

  “The guy who played my boss in the sim — his house burned down last night.”

  Megan shook her head. “I hate to say it, Hunter, but the people from your sim seem awfully…accident-prone.”

  “Not Mister Matt over there,” Andy put in. “He’s just rolling in good luck. Did I tell you about the mystery girl in the hot car who came by looking for him?”

  “You told me,” David said in a long-suffering voice. “Or was it the hot girl in the mystery car you mentioned?”

  “Is that for real?” Megan asked Matt.

  Feeling the color rise in his face, he shrugged. “Yeah. Not only that, but the girl was a friend of yours — Nikki Callivant.”

  Megan choked and nearly sprayed Andy with a mouthful of soup. “What? How?”

  “I can only give you the why,” Matt said. “You mentioned this school and my name when you got together at that charity do. So she came to check me out.”

  “Sure she wasn’t stalking you?” Andy ostentatiously used his napkin to wipe soup droplets off the table.

  “Shut up, Moore,” Megan and David growled almost in unison.

  “I think I’d leave any stalking jobs to her father,” Matt said. “He’s some kind of muckety-muck in national security.”

  “That does it!” Andy exclaimed. “For this election, my money will be on Walter G. Callivant.”

  “You clown,” David groused. “Walter G. is a national joke.”

  “He’s really not—” Megan began.

  But Andy blithely went right on. “Callivant Lite is the candidate for me. If there are going to be any dirty tricks in this campaign, his side will have access to the best government technology.”

  He laughed, but quickly shut up when he saw nobody else thought it was funny.

  Matt shook his head. Maybe Andy finally realized what he had to say wasn’t exactly in the best of taste.
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br />   “Andy,” he said, “for my sake, you’d better hope that you are wrong. Because, otherwise, the list of people in that sim who might be victims is getting awfully short. I could be next.”

  Any illusions Andy may have created about luck were quickly dispelled when Matt got home. He opened the door to find a cream-colored envelope lying on the rug — honest to gosh snail-mail! It was so unexpected, he nearly stepped on it.

  Then Matt picked the thing up and recognized the return address. He’d seen it on the letterhead of the law firm that had been making Ed Saunders’s life miserable.

  The other shoe drops, Matt thought gloomily, slitting the envelope open. It’s funny how legal people have stuck to paper. Is it just tradition?

  As he read the couple of paragraphs on expensive stationery, he came up with a new theory. If he’d gotten an electronic letter like this, he’d have simply yelled for his computer to vaporize it.

  The letter was addressed both to Matt and his parents, and it demanded that Matt cease and desist all activities which might be construed as harassing the firm’s clients (never named), including (but not limited to) attempts at fraternization, telecommunication, and unauthorized abstraction of personal or legal information, to name a few.

  And what exactly would authorize abstraction of information look like? Matt silently wondered as he read on.

  Failure to knock off the above activities, or ones like them, would result in civil action in the courts, and possible criminal complaints, specifically for the continuing offense of felonious use of computer equipment for the purposes of illegally obtaining sealed records pertaining to the firm’s clients.

  Carefully refolding the heavy document, Matt took it into the kitchen to post on the refrigerator door. Initially he’d intended to raid the fridge as well, but all of a sudden that cafeteria sandwich wasn’t sitting too well in his stomach.

  The sudden chime of the call announcer sent the paper flying one way and the refrigerator magnet flying another. “Nerves,” Matt muttered as he scooped them both up, plunked the magnet in place, and then went to the living room computer console.

  Captain Winters’s face appeared when Matt ordered the computer to make the connection.

  “Did you have someone watching for me?” Matt asked. “I just got in.”

  The captain shook his head. “Guess my sense of timing is on today. I managed to get a look at a draft of the report on last night’s fire as it came into the Fairfax County Department of Public Safety.”

  “And?” Matt said.

  “It wasn’t easy for the investigators to sift through all that debris,” Winters went on. “Did you know how much paper was in that wood-frame house? I didn’t think people did that anymore. Must have been a regular firetrap.”

  An image popped up in Matt’s mind — all those lovingly shelved books. Oswald Derbent must have skimped his whole life to have collected so many.

  Matt forced himself back to the present. “What did the investigators have to say about the cause of the fire?”

  “As far as they can determine, the blaze started in one of the lamps in the front parlor — or reading room, or library, whatever you want to call it,” Captain Winters said. “The socket on that style of lamp is safety rated for one hundred watts, but there was a two hundred-watt bulb in there. It burned too hot, drew too much power through the wiring, and burst into flames.”

  Matt put his hands behind his back — he didn’t want Winters to know how his fingers were knotting together. “I was in that room just days ago,” he said, “and Derbent kept it as dim as a church. He had two lamps, and they were burning forty-watt bulbs. I think he considered bright light an extravagance, and maybe a risk that might make his precious books fade. Or maybe he was just cheap — he said he was tight with a buck.”

  James Winters sighed. “I’ll relay that to the authorities, but I doubt they’ll act on it. Maybe Derbent got hold of a brighter bulb at a discount store and figured the savings on the price of the bulb offset the higher electricity cost to run it — or maybe he was just going blind from reading all those books and decided to up the wattage.”

  “Or maybe somebody could have gotten into his house — his nice, dry-as-kindling, wooden, paper-filled house — and stuck an industrial-strength bulb in that old lamp.”

  Winters’s face looked as if it were carved from stone. “Without evidence to the contrary, the public safety people are classifying the fire as accidental.”

  “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of evidence left to support that,” Matt said bitterly. “Just like the last two ‘accidents.’”

  “There were no traces of accelerants, no oily rags, and the only signs that the place had been disturbed could be attributed to Derbent himself, who apparently discovered the fire and called it in.”

  Matt swallowed. “He was there? The news didn’t say anything about Derbent, so I assumed he wasn’t home. How is he? How did he take it?”

  Winters glanced at an off-screen display. “Oswald Derbent came home from a local store to find the fire pretty well established. He ran inside — why, the local fire people have no idea.”

  To save his books. Matt thought. “What happened?”

  “The ceiling fell on him. Firefighters managed to get him out of the place, and he’s in the hospital.” Winters hesitated. “He’s not expected to make it. If he dies, they plan on ruling it accidental death.”

  “Uh-huh!” Matt said. “Some accident!”

  The captain winced as if he’d been punched. “Matt!” He took a deep breath and moderated his tone. “I have to accept what’s reported. I can’t just throw Net Force into this until we have some evidence of wrongdoing that falls under our jurisdiction.”

  “And how does it stack up with the incidents I reported to you?” Matt demanded. “Put them together, and I’d say something stinks! Don’t you think three people dead out of seven in unrelated accidents inside of a couple of weeks constitutes evidence of wrongdoing?”

  “I’m not disagreeing.” The muscles along Winters’s jawbone bunched. “In this job I’m supposed to think like a cop. But I also have to make sure each I is dotted and every “T” crossed. I can’t take official notice of something until I have solid evidence that a crime has taken place. ‘Information received’ doesn’t make the burden of proof.”

  His eyes speared into Matt’s. “I pushed on this one, Matt. Talked to the chief investigator out there. You can imagine how pleased he was to find a federal agent nosing into his case. I told the guy that several of Derbent’s associates had recently suffered apparent accidents and advised him to keep a careful eye out for suspicious elements.”

  Winters shook his head. “And the verdict still came back as ‘fire by accidental causes.’”

  Matt could see that the man on the other end of the connection wasn’t happy. It was obvious that Captain Winters had his hands tied. For that matter, what could Matt himself do?

  “I’m glad you tried,” Matt finally said. “If I find anything out. I’ll get it to you right away. Until then, I hope you’re keeping — well, maybe not an eye on us. Call it a Net search.” Matt smiled, but there was no humor in his voice as he said, “I’d hate to electrocute myself turning off this system and have you be the last to know.”

  When six o’clock came, Matt had to force himself to keep the meeting he’d set up. Flying quickly through the garish big-business sector of the Net, he only slowed when he approached the dead storage area. Matt went in carefully, activating the icons for his best dirty-work detectors. The programs found nothing out of place.

  Sighing, he slid into the interior of the virtual structure — the dark, echoing warehouse space created by the mystery hacker.

  Father Flannery was there ahead of him, standing in the cone of light from one of the overhead lamps. The priest hadn’t bothered to don his Spike Spanner proxy. Matt acknowledged the decision with a wry smile. He hadn’t come as Monty Newman, either.

  “It’s a couple of min
utes after six,” Flannery said, looking at his watch. “How long do you want to allow for people to straggle in?”

  Even as he spoke, two more figures suddenly appeared. Matt recognized Kerry Jones. The girl beside him had to be Suzanne Kellerman. Instead of the pert, brown-haired Maura Slimm. Suze Kellerman was tall and blond — and if she’d ever had any of the fictional sleuthette’s wise-cracking spirit, it had worn thin in the last few days.

  “Both of us have quarterly exams we should be studying for,” Jones growled. Apparently, he’d been elected as the couple’s spokesperson. “I hope you people won’t waste—”

  He looked around. “Where’s Derbent?”

  “He won’t be coming.” Matt tried to keep his face calm as he made his report. “Not only was his house burned down, but he was injured, too.” He had to look away. “From what I hear, he isn’t — he won’t—”

  “Oh, Lord!” Father Flannery was blessing himself when Matt turned back.

  Suze Kellerman stared at him with wide blue eyes. Jones’s big, genial face looked grim, his mouth a thin white line.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Hunter, but this time you’ve gone too far. Calling us here to boast about what you did—”

  “What are you saying?” Father Flannery burst out.

  “I’m saying that computer-boy over there fits the classic profile for a hacker — someone whose technical ability outstrips his conscience and maturity,” Jones accused. “You made a big mistake this time with your order — excuse me, your invitation. You signed it.”

  Matt stared at him for a moment, reining in his temper before he spoke. In his experience, answers that began, “Listen, Barfbrain!” usually caused more trouble than they were worth.

  “I signed the virtmail so you’d know I wasn’t the hacker,” he finally said. “There’s some stuff you ought to hear — information that didn’t or won’t make the news.”

  “Information you managed to find out…somehow.” Kerry Jones managed to make the simple statement sound like an accusation.