Cold Case

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.

“I’ve got the D.C. police report on what happened to Edward Saunders,” Winters said. “According to this, the medical examiner found nothing that wasn’t consistent with accidental death.”

So, Matt thought, David’s dad is going to close the book on that case.

Another couple of commands, and Winters read silently for another moment. “And it looks as if the police are leaning toward accident to explain what happened on the bridge as well. Driving conditions were bad — ice doesn’t melt as easily on bridges as it does on roads.”

He looked a little disgusted as he read on. “And among the debris they found in the cab of that truck were several empty beer cans. Mr. Knox apparently had elevated levels of alcohol in his bloodstream. He shouldn’t have been behind the wheel.”

A sudden image of the beery trucker slamming past him flashed into Matt’s mental view. No shape to drive, an accusing voice whispered in the back of his head. And he was running away from you!

Matt didn’t know how he looked, but obviously something of his thoughts showed on his face.

“Are you okay?” Winters asked.

“We had gone down to that truck stop, Father Flannery and I, to try and talk to Knox. He knew what I looked like — I’d showed up for Saunders’s virtual meeting without a proxy. What if Knox was sitting there, drinking beer, and saw me coming? Trying to ditch me got him killed!”

Captain Winters shook his head. “There’s one thing I learned in combat — never blame yourself for what other people do.” Again, he read the invisible report. “In this case, you shouldn’t blame yourself at all. One of the other truckers at that diner heard Knox on his wallet-phone. Some sort of rush job had come up. That’s why he hurried off.”

Matt took a long, shaky breath. “That’s a relief,” he said. Then he frowned. “I don’t suppose we know where he was rushing off to?”

“The police haven’t found that out yet,” Winters admitted. “But—”

“Doesn’t it seem a little funny to you that Saunders and Knox died within just a few days of each other?”

“Between the Marines and this job, some days all I seem to see are coincidences and conspiracy theories. I’ve seen guys go through complete combat hitches without a scratch — until their last day. I’ve seen unlucky helicopters whose gunners always got killed. I’ve had a string of apparent suicides turn out to be murders.” He shook his head. “And I’ve had thirty-seven people named Smith die within three days — and they had all synched in to the same Net site. Our computers popped that one up. We hit it from every direction we could think of.”

“And?” Matt asked.

“No family connection, no geographic connection, they didn’t even know one another. No record of anything like that happening before, and it hasn’t happened since. So far as we were able to conclude, it was just dumb luck. A whole bunch of Smiths had their number come up in the big computer in the sky.” Winters leaned toward his pickup, his eyes going for contact with Matt’s. “You see what I’m saying?”

Matt nodded. “A pair of people makes for a pretty small sample.” He sighed. “I just wish—”

“There’s nothing we can do, Matt,” Winters said gently. “No evidence of Net crime…” His voice trailed off, and he gave another command. “I think I’ll just take a look into the hacking complaint regarding those court records, though.”

Matt stifled a laugh at that one. Getting Net Force involved in such a small-potatoes case would be like using a shotgun to silence a buzzing fly — overkill to the nth degree.

Now Winters was frowning, staring at his invisible data screen again. “Could you repeat the name of the girl who died?”

“Priscilla Hadding,” Matt said. “It happened in Haddington — it’s a suburb of Wilmington.”

“I’m checking the town, the county, Wilmington city government, and now the state — that’s odd…there seems to be no mention of intrusion into any court records involving the case — nor of any investigation.”

“Shouldn’t some cops somewhere in Delaware be doing something?” Matt asked.

The captain shrugged. “When it comes to families like the Callivants, local law enforcement tends to walk softly.” His eyebrows rose. “The same probably goes for federal agencies.”

“Then I guess the best I can do is hope that nothing else happens to the people from Saunders’s sim,” Matt said gloomily. Then he sat up straighter. “I’d like to send a copy of my files on the sim and the names and addresses of the people involved to you, though.”

He gave a command, and Winters glanced past him again, taking in the new reading matter.

“Who helped you get these — Leif Anderson?” the captain waved a hand. “…On second thought, I don’t want to know. I suppose I don’t want to know what you used to get the names, either.”

“Um — probably not,” Matt said, silently thanking heaven for such things as small potatoes. “But I know I feel better that you have it.”

That evening Megan did her best to make an entrance as she came into the living room. Tonight, P.J. Farris would be taking her to a formal dance. He’d sat talking with her parents while she made her last-minute preparations and rose as she walked in.

“You look — wow — great!” he said, smiling.

She returned the compliment. “So do you.”

Both of them avoided the word pretty—a sore point with P.J. His good looks had stuck him with too many nicknames like “Pretty Boy”—Megan had called him that more than once herself, when she got mad at him.

Tonight, though, he looked like a teen idol who had escaped from some holodrama or other. His tuxedo fit perfectly and was obviously not a rental job.

Megan had gone to considerable trouble, too. Her brown hair, usually on the wild side, had been cut and curled into something resembling stylishness. She really liked her gown, even though it was more classic style than cutting edge. This year’s cutting edge had sliced a lot off the top of feminine formal wear, to the point where one of her friends had actually fallen out of her dress at an embarrassing moment during the most recent dance. Megan’s gown, which had a close-fitting strapless midnight blue silk bodice that swirled into a deliciously romantic long velvet skirt, showed off just enough of her figure to keep men interested without risking arrest for indecent exposure. Best of all, a little bolero-style jacket made sure she wouldn’t freeze her assets off.

P.J. was a good sport, ignoring comments from Megan’s brothers and even posing as her dad took way too many pictures. Anything to replace that portrait of her trying to hide her fury while standing beside Andy Moore in his tacky tux. She still wasn’t sure he hadn’t rented the awful thing on purpose, just to embarrass her.

Instead of a coat, Megan had a fine wool cape her mom had produced from somewhere. She arranged it around her shoulders, holding it together with a silver pin. Then, giving one arm to P.J. and waving with the other, she stepped out the door, heading for P.J.’s waiting limo.

Catching their reflection in the car’s window, she had to grin. “We really do clean up well, don’t we?”

P.J. gallantly handed her into the car. “Remind me to get a copy of one of those shots from your father,” he said. “I want Leif to eat his heart out.”

“As if,” Megan grumbled, settling onto the backseat. Eager to change the subject, she reached out as P.J. sat beside her. “I think your tie is a little off to the — oh!”

Her attempt to adjust the black bow untied it instead, leaving P.J. with two lank strips of silk dangling across the lace front of his shirt.

He glanced at the door that had just shut behind them. “Well, at least you waited until we got out of your parents’ sight before you started undressing me,” he said.

Megan shot a horrified hand to her mouth. Then giggles began infiltrating their way from behind its cover. “I–I thought it was one of those one-piece things,” she gasped.

P.J. shook his head. “A gentleman is supposed to know how to fix his own tie.”

“Do you?” Megan asked. “I mean, did someone else—?”

“My mommy stopped helping me get into my clothes some years ago,” P.J. interrupted, straightening out the ends of the tie. Then, trying to use his window as a mirror, he began trying to reconstruct the knot.

When his third attempt failed, Megan timidly said, “You’re going to get that all crumpled. May I—?”

P.J. shook his head, leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and began working all over again, by feel.

Megan stared in disbelief. “You got it! All you have to do—”

“No!” P.J. said, bringing up both palms to block Megan’s helping hands. Then, a bit more gallantly, “If you don’t mind, I’ll adjust it myself.”

Arriving at an old-line hotel in downtown Washington, they walked under the canopy on an actual red carpet and took the elevator to the ballroom floor. They checked their coats, P.J. gave in their tickets, and Megan stood in the doorway, staring at the crowd. It was amazing — horrifyingly dowdy dresses decked out with drop-dead jewelry, doubtless family heirlooms dragged out once in a great while from safe-deposit vaults. Some of the men had tuxes that made that rag Andy Moore had worn look like high fashion.

And then there were the young women in the kind of outfits that Megan had only seen in magazines and HoloNews fashion coverage. Her fingers picked at the hem of her jacket. All of a sudden, her gown didn’t seem as great as it had back home.

What am I doing here? a panicky voice demanded in the back of her brain. This is just like the Leets looking down their noses at me in school — only multiplied by about fifty years and a thousand percent snobbishness!

P.J. appeared beside her, taking Megan’s arm. “I heard that gasp. Pretty awful, isn’t it?” he commented in a low voice. “It could be worse. At least most of the money here is old and a bit reserved. Back home we have the good ol’ boys in the gold lamé western-cut dinner jackets, and lots of women with big hair and rhinestones. Or was that even what you were gasping at? Maybe you were just reacting to what the band is doing to that song?”

Megan finally focused on the twelve-piece combo at the front of the room. They were playing away, the sound getting muddled with the noise of a thousand conversations. Even listening carefully, it took her a moment to decipher the music. It had been a hot tune a couple of months ago. Everybody had been downloading it. As for this version, however…well, she’d heard better in cheap elevators.

Shaking his head, P.J. began walking in. “And this is probably the best thing we’re going to hear tonight,” he warned.

Megan found herself laughing. What did she have to fear from people with such awful taste in music? Bring the snobs on!

Even so, she had to hand it to P.J. As he began introducing her to people in the crowd, he slowly worked his way up the social ladder. In between dances and breaks for what the Junior League thought of as refreshments, he brought Megan to congressional aides and some lobbyists. Next she met social and political friends of P.J.’s father. Then came members of Congress, and finally some of Senator Farris’s colleagues.

At last they joined one of the crowds swirling around the celebrity guests. Even the rich and socially prominent liked to suck up to famous people, Megan discovered — at least, the younger generation did. P.J. steered her expertly to the eye of the storm.

For all intents and purposes, it was a reception line. Nikki Callivant, doing her best to be gracious in a gown that only brilliant engineering design could have kept in place, was shaking hands and chatting with a pair of women in equally modish costumes. Beside her, a tallish, pleasant-faced man with gray hair pressed the flesh with the women’s husbands. Behind them was a burly, balding red-faced man who looked as if he couldn’t wait for this hoedown to be over.

P.J. aimed first for the tall man. “Senator,” he said, shaking hands.

“As in once and future,” the man replied with a laugh.

“I remember my father introducing me to you on the Senate floor,” P.J. went on. “I’m P.J. Farris.”

“Trav Farris’s son?” The man’s interest now matched his geniality. “Well, you’ve certainly grown.” He rolled his eyes. “To state the obvious. And who is this delightful young lady?”

“Megan O’Malley.”

“Walter G. Callivant. A pleasure to meet you.” The older man took Megan’s hand in a warm clasp. It took her a moment to match the smiling face before her with the rather harassed figure in HoloNews clips that had provided so much material for the comedians.

Well, he didn’t spill a drink on me, or spit when he talked, Megan thought.

“Some people get depressed when they discover that colleagues’ children have grown up behind their backs,” Callivant said. “I like to think of it as a glimpse into the future.” He shook his head. “I also hope that wasn’t something from an old campaign speech. Let me introduce you to someone more your own age. Nicola!”

Walter G. stepped over and neatly disentangled Nikki Callivant from the pair of fawning socialites. “May I present my granddaughter, Nicola. Nikki, meet Megan O’Malley and P.J. Farris. I worked with this young man’s father, Trav Farris.”

“The senator from Texas,” Nikki said quickly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Right — I’m sure it’s very nice.” P.J. laughed, looking at the zoo around them.

Nikki’s smile broke through her company manners. “At least my grandfather knew you.” Megan could barely hear her voice over the chatter around them.

“How can you stand it?” Megan asked.

Now Nikki’s smile became rueful. “This event will help several charities my family supports, and the money is desperately needed. If I have to risk pneumonia and smile until my face hurts, it’s a small price to pay. It’s the least we can do—”

And it’s an election year, Megan thought. She almost yelped as an elbow caught her in the ribs. There were other people who wanted to touch a Callivant, and Megan and P.J. were holding up the line.

“Perhaps I’ll see you later,” Nikki called after them. Then she turned to the next set of hand-grabbers.

“If I hold my breath till that happens, my face will match my gown,” Megan muttered as they made their escape. “Nikki and her grandfather are doing better business than some of the refreshment stands.”

“Which would you rather have?” P.J. asked mockingly. “The glow of personal contact with the Callivant clan, or mediocre domestic champagne and a scrap of mystery meat in puff pastry?”

“They’re on display like prize hogs.”

“It’s for charity,” P.J. said. “And I suppose it beats sticking your head through a hole in a sheet and having people throw pies at you.”

“I suppose it’s also for politics.” Megan glanced at him. “Walter G. wants his party’s nomination for senator.”

They both looked at the older man shaking hands with lots of young and not-so-young Junior League supporters. “I’d say he’s doing pretty well with the trust-fund constituency,” P.J. observed.

“But they’re cramping our style,” Megan complained. “How are we even supposed to talk to her again?”

“As opportunity allows.” P.J. sighed. “Look at me — here I am, wasting all those good-cop lines I’ve been studying. Shall I practice them on you? Would you like to dance?”

Megan’s opportunity to talk to Nikki came, of all places, in the ladies’ room. The winter prom had shown her some of the dangers of high formal fashion. Besides nearly falling out of some of the more extreme gowns, girls had tripped on their long, swirling skirts or sprained their ankles falling off the high, slender spike heels that were all the rage.

Destroyed hems, ripped hose, and torn seams were common. Sometimes they’d speared the fabric with their own high heels, other times a clumsy date had stepped on their skirts, sometimes a stranger got too close at the wrong moment. But the worst combination had proven to be haute couture and plumbing. One girl had even flushed a bit of her skirt down the toilet, which had left her stuck in the ladies’ room and had caused a flood. Almost everyone had to depend on friends for help in either temporarily escaping from or rearranging their fashionable formal wear in “the ladies’ lounge.”

High society had the same problem as high school prom girls, Megan discovered, but the hotel provided female attendants to give whatever assistance was needed.

Unfortunately, at that moment the system had broken down — or maybe some designer’s creation had. A young woman was screaming that one of the attendants had destroyed her new Modeschau gown while helping her into the stall.

Women in formal gowns and uniformed attendants alike were all gawking at the disturbance, so that everybody except Megan missed Nikki Callivant about to have her own fashion disaster. Megan acted fast — two quick steps and a grab prevented the socialite’s gown from being destroyed that evening. Megan helped a pink-faced Nikki get back to normal, and a few minutes later they were in front of the big plate-glass mirror repairing their lipstick and making a few final adjustments to their dresses before heading back out to the ballroom.

Nicola Callivant’s face was still a little flushed from her recent misadventure. “Thanks again for your help. I wish I had the sense to wear something like you have on — something sensible—”

“You mean something off-the-rack and unfashionable?” Megan asked as they left the lounge for the ballroom.

The other girl blinked, then cocked her head. “You say what you think, don’t you?”

“Even when people don’t want to hear it,” Megan agreed. “For instance, did you know that P.J. and I are friends of Leif Anderson?”

Nikki Callivant nearly had another disaster, tripping on her skirt in midstep. “What?”

“We all belong to the Net Force Explorers,” Megan went on as if nothing had happened. “Leif’s not as bad as you seem to think. He has his good points. For instance, he’s very loyal to his friends.”

“How nice.” Nikki Callivant’s voice grew cold.

Megan plowed right ahead. “We’re trying to help another friend who seems to have gotten into some trouble with your family. A classmate of mine from Bradford Academy — a guy named Matt Hunter. He was playing in a mystery sim that turned out to touch on a forty-year-old skeleton in the Callivant family closet. The death of a girl named Priscilla Hadding—”

Nicola Callivant had stopped asking questions or making comments. She just stared at Megan, her mouth open.

“Is there a problem here?” The interrupting voice was gruff, but the burly man’s moves were smooth as he moved to separate Megan and Nikki. It was the balding, iron-haired man who’d stood in boredom behind Nikki and her grandfather. He didn’t took bored now. Icy blue eyes backed up his question.

“It’s nothing, Grandpa,” Nikki said. “Just the usual madhouse in the ladies’ room.”

The older man took her arm. “I don’t know why you object to having a female operative come along—” Megan lost whatever else he said in the party noise as they walked away.

Grandpa? Megan thought. Who the frack is that guy?