Cold Case

11

Even without being grounded, Leif wouldn’t have gone far from his computer console tonight. He was impatiently waiting for a report from P.J. and Megan.

The call came much earlier than he expected, though. In spite of that, the call announcement chime had barely sounded once before Leif shouted at his computer to accept the connection.

Megan O’Malley’s face swam into focus in the holographic display over the console — as did the rest of her upper half.

Leif sliced the air with a loud wolf whistle. “Whoa! Nice dress, O’Malley!”

She gave him a look and pulled the little jacket she wore more tightly closed. “We decided to bail early on the Junior League thing. It’s a school night, after all.”

“At least you weren’t thrown out,” Leif said. “Or nearly drowned. Any luck in bumping into the snobby one?”

“Most of the time we saw her, she was trying to be polite and seemed quite human,” Megan replied. “I had a couple of minutes alone with her, rattled her cage a bit, and got a brief taste of what you received.”

“What did you do?”

When he saw Megan’s suspiciously sweet smile, Leif braced himself. “I took your advice,” she said, “and told her that you were a friend of mine. She began to get a little snotty, but that changed after I mentioned Priscilla Hadding.”

Leif leaned toward her image. “Don’t stop there.”

“It shook her up. But I didn’t get the chance to take advantage of that. This older guy stepped in and hauled her off. That was the last shot I got at her.” Megan shrugged. “Another reason to blow out of there early.”

She squinted at him. “We’d already met Nikki’s grandfather.”

“Walter G.?”

Megan nodded. “But the guy who showed up to rescue her — she called him Grandpa, too. What gives with that?” Before he could make a comment, she hurried on. “Yeah, of course she has two sets of grandparents. But now that I come to think of it, I’ve never seen nor heard of anybody but the Callivant side — and I looked in all the same books you did.”

“You’d have to look farther afield than that,” Leif said, “if it’s who I think it is. This guy. Balding, iron-gray hair, built like a football player gone to seed?”

Giving him a suspicious glance, Megan nodded. “Sounds like you know him.”

“As it happens, I do. That gentleman is her great-grandfather, Clyde Finch. He’s the head of security for the Callivant clan.”

“He looks only a little older than Walter G.”

“Less than twenty years older, as a matter of fact. Clyde was divorced and came to live in the Callivant compound with his sixteen-year-old daughter Marcia when he took the job as head of security. Less than a year later Walter G. Callivant married Marcia Finch. It was a big, but well-hushed, scandal. Walter G. was all of nineteen at the time, and Marcia was barely seventeen.”

“Nnggggyuck!” Megan said in disgust. “Marriage at that age! She was only as old as we are! What was that all about?”

Leif shrugged. “I can think of at least two reasons, one of them being undying love at first sight. As for the other major possibility — well, the math supports it.”

She gave him another look. “I can only imagine.” Then she looked thoughtful. “We really don’t see much of Grandma Callivant in the popular press, do we?”

“Only photographed in carefully controlled family gatherings,” Leif said.

“Sounds like that happens to a lot of Callivant women.” Megan sounded grim. “What have they got in that compound, a harem?”

“Find out, in Secrets of the Rich and Well-Guarded!” Leif replied in his best holo-announcer’s voice. “Speaking of well-guarded, you might enjoy this historical footnote. Can you name the first cop on the scene in Priscilla Hadding’s death?”

“Was that in the Herzen book?” Megan asked. “I didn’t read that one.”

“You didn’t miss much,” Leif said. “But the fact was mentioned in passing. The cop, by the way, was a fellow called Clyde Finch.”

Megan’s eyebrows rose. “As someone in Matt’s ill-fated sim might say, ‘Is this a clue?’”

The Washington weather was no longer icy. It had gone back to the usual winter standard — mild, gray, and damp — when Matt set off for school the next morning. Even though Bradford Academy was far away from Foggy Bottom, wisps of the gray stuff floated past the windows of the autobus Matt rode on the way to class.

Matt’s morning turned out to be equally gray. The problems that had haunted him lately had eaten into his study time. He was completely unprepared for the chemistry pop quiz. And he’d barely skimmed the reading for English — which showed all too obviously in class discussion. All in all, his morning’s academic performance would have won him an Oscar for the role of Least Prepared Student of the Year.

As soon as he finished eating lunch, Matt headed outside. The weather hadn’t improved any, but he found himself in need of some fresh air.

Matt was standing in the parking lot, looking up at the cloudy sky and thinking that he ought to hit the library before the afternoon nailed him, too, when Andy Moore appeared at his elbow.

“Hunter, you sly devil, you,” Andy said in admiring tones. “You didn’t tell us you’d made a new conquest.”

“What are you talking about?” Matt snapped, not in the mood for his friend’s clowning.

“Your new girlfriend stopped by in her car.” Andy jerked his head in the direction of the street, where a small knot of guys clustered around a gleaming double-parked car. “She specifically asked for Matt Hunter — hey! I heard her!” he protested as Matt swung on him.

“If this is some stupid prank—” Matt began as he headed for the group, Andy trailing behind.

“If it is, it’s not one of mine,” Andy assured him. “I just wish I’d thought of it,” he added in an undertone.

Gritting his teeth, Matt reached the group around the car. Then he saw why so many people were there, gawking. It was a brand-new bronze Dodge concept car, one that looked as if it had just rolled out of the pages of the latest car netzine. Half of the guys were checking out the car. The rest were staring in disbelief at the driver.

She wore a denim jacket, the kind that came lined with an old horse blanket. Matt could tell, because it was way too large on her, and she’d rolled back the sleeves. A bilious green scarf was wound around her neck and up to her chin, and the hat she wore defied all attempts at classification. It was hand-knitted and shapeless, covering all of her hair. The color was somewhere between brown and orange, and the knitter had tried to end up with a flower at the top, but had failed and turned it into a sort of blobby pom-pom.

In spite of the clouds the girl wore sunglasses. Matt’s grandmother once had a pair like them — they were built to go on over regular eyeglasses, and they hid the top third of her face as effectively as a mask.

Matt looked hard at what little of the girl’s face that remained uncovered, trying to find some feature he could recognize. Do I know anybody who’d rig themselves out like this for a gag? he wondered. Megan? Maj Greene? Who’d put them up to it? Andy swears this isn’t one of his gigs. Who else? Leif? Nah, not his style.

Unable to come up with an answer, and positive this was about to blow up in his face, Matt pushed forward. “I’m Matt Hunter,” he said. “Who are you?”

The girl didn’t answer, but for a brief second, she raised the sunglasses from her face. Behind the big, clumsy lenses were a pair of beautiful eyes so blue they were almost violet.

Matt remembered Leif describing eyes like that — and on whom. Without another word, he got into the car.

Nikki Callivant started the engine and pulled away down the street. “It seems I need to talk to you,” she said in a toneless voice.

“Not for too long, I hope,” Matt said, glancing at his watch. “I need to be back in class in about twenty minutes.”

“Is there someplace nearby where we can stop?”

“Rock Creek Park isn’t too far away,” Matt replied. “We could probably find a place to pull up and not even have to leave the car.”

She nodded and began steering the car, following Matt’s directions.

“I guess I have to congratulate you on your — um — disguise,” Matt said as they parked.

“It’s something my mother taught me. It distracts people from noticing one’s face — especially the press. Your hat can never be too ugly.” She gave him a smug smile. “I picked this stuff up at a resale shop.”

Matt glanced again at her crowning glory. “I hope they — er — fumigated it before they put it out for sale.”

Instantly Nikki tore off the knitted monstrosity. Her light-brown hair flew around her face, and the sunglasses tumbled into her lap.

“Well, there was an honest reaction, at least,” Matt said. “What do you need to speak to me about?”

“I met a friend of yours last night,” the girl replied. “She said you were in trouble with my family. Something about a mystery — and an old family problem.”

“Please understand, I didn’t set out to get in trouble with your family,” Matt began. “Nor did any of my friends. We were just playing a game. This fellow developed a new mystery sim, but he based it on an old case.”

Nikki made a face. “I can guess. The situation in Haddington, all those years ago. I don’t know why we didn’t just close down the house there. Some adviser or other probably thought it would look bad. A tacit admission of responsibility.”

The girl’s delicate features froze into an even more bitter expression. “As children, we were coached to stay well away from poor, half-crazy Mrs. Hadding. The police and publie prosecutor won’t talk to her anymore. If the media even discuss what happened, they call it a ‘cold case.’ More advisers at work. Public relations. No one can disgrace the Callivant name.”

She shook her head. “Even with the assassinations, there are four generations of Callivants in our house. Maybe that’s too many. It’s made us — well, I don’t know what it’s made us.”

“I know what some people would say,” Matt said.

“People!” Nikki scoffed. “They say that public service is my family’s business. But if it is, it’s only true for the boys. I thought things might have changed when my father didn’t run for office. But, of course, he went to work for the government.”

“What does your dad do?”

“National security,” Nikki replied. “Threat analysis, covert this, international that—we never get to hear about it.”

“He’s a what — a spy?” Matt couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“According to my dad, he drives a desk and spends a lot of time worrying about budgets.”

So did Captain Winters, Matt suddenly thought. Although sometimes his days got a bit more exciting.

“Whatever your father does, it sounds like another road to power,” he finally said.

“Some power.” Nikki’s lips tightened. “Dad might have escaped some of the family traditions, but he expects me to follow right in line — making the perfect appearances at the right parties with a smile plastered on my face and lots of Callivant charm.”

She thumped her chest. “I want to be the Callivant woman who runs for something instead of standing gracefully at somebody else’s campaign kickoff. I’ve got girl cousins who could do just as good a job as the guys in the family. But you’ll never hear about them. No public arguments. Family solidarity.” She nearly spat the words. “Nobody dares disgrace the Callivant name.”

“Or gets away with it?” Matt asked.

She didn’t reply to that comment, confusion all too evident in her blue eyes.

Matt went on to describe the strange deaths of Ed Saunders and Harry Knox.

Nikki Callivant shrank away from him in her seat, those strange blue eyes growing wider. “That’s crazy,” she said. “My family uses lawyers, P.R. people — sometimes strings are pulled. But you’re suggesting—”

“I’m just asking if you don’t think it’s a strange coincidence that two people connected to a small sim based on your family scandal died within a week of each other,” Matt cut in. He shook his head. “I’m not accusing your family of anything. But I don’t know what’s going on, and it makes me edgy. Maybe they were accidents. If so, I’m sorry I disturbed you with this. I suppose I should be glad you went out of your way to talk to me, even if I may be saying things you don’t want to hear.”

“I’ve been getting a bit of that lately,” Nikki ruefully admitted. “Most of it from friends of yours. But it comes along at a time when I’ve been asking a lot of questions about my family — I guess I’ll just have to add these questions in with my own.”

She reached under the denim jacket. “I really wish you hadn’t used that fumigation line. Now I’m itching like crazy.” Still scratching, she pulled out of the parking place and headed back to the school.

At least, Matt thought, she didn’t lose control of the car while she drove him back to school one-handed.

Matt was in his room, working on his homework, when the chimes of an incoming call rang out. He closed out his classwork file and ordered the computer to make the connection.

Captain James Winters’s face appeared over the console. “Matt, something turned up in relation to those — ah — cases you mentioned to me.”

“New information?” Matt eagerly leaned forward.

“More like old information.” Winters ran a hand over his chin. “I decided to run a check on the names you gave me, to see if any of those people had a criminal record.”

“And Harry Knox did?”

“A juvenile record. It seems back in 1999 Knox was a Script Baby.”

Matt blinked. “A what?”

“He was seventeen at the time, exploring the early version of the Net, and found a crude set of hacking tools. They were called ‘scripts,’ developed by talented, or at least successful, crackers for use by less experienced — even inexperienced — would-be hackers.”

“Was Harry Knox experienced?”

“No. That’s probably why he got caught. His incompetence is probably what saved him. He wasn’t able to do much damage, and the courts were disposed to be lenient with young people on a first offense.”

“Anything else?” Matt asked.

“Nothing that we found out,” Winters replied. “Maybe he was scared straight. On the other hand, once a hacker—”

“Always a hacker.” Matt finished the saying.

“Among the things we recovered from the wreck of his truck was a laptop computer,” Winters went on.

That would either put Knox way on the trailing edge of technology, or on a recent dead end. Leif’s father had tried to revive the idea of portable, full-powered units, but people were happier with their home consoles and their little palm computers. People who liked playing with techno-toys went for the machines, however. A lot of kids from Net Force had picked up laptops at a deep discount — superbrains like David Gray. “Old or new?” Matt asked.

“It was a late-model unit, damaged in the crash and the dunking,” Winters said. “A police technician noticed a certain amount of wear and tear on the input/output connections. Apparently when he was on the road. Knox plugged the laptop into motel systems rather than networking with his home computer.”

“That would argue a certain amount of technical ability,” Matt offered.

Winters nodded. “Which would seem to point to him as the hacker in your group of sim enthusiasts.” He frowned. “But it only suggests his guilt. There’s no hard proof.”

And since there was no hard proof of hacking — not even a legal complaint — Net Force couldn’t get officially involved. Winters had probably pushed the investigative envelope just by looking into the past of the late Harry Knox.

“Thanks for letting me know about this,” Matt said.

“For whatever good it does.” Winters gave a helpless shrug and signed off.

Seems like I’m collecting a lot of interesting but useless stuff. Matt thought. He filed the latest information in the same mental bin as his conversation with Nikki Callivant. Then he ordered his computer back to the trig problem he’d been trying to solve. Possible clues were always interesting, but right now, homework had to take first priority.

His homework was done and the house was filling with spicy smells when Matt came into the living room that evening. Dad was cooking chicken fajitas for dinner, judging from the scents of frying peppers, onion, and garlic — lots of garlic.

Matt’s stomach rumbled, reminding him it had been a while since lunch, as he headed for the main computer console. It was time for the local news.

A holographic projection appeared — the HoloNews logo, clouds floating behind it, while urgent, staccato music came from the living room speakers. “News music,” Matt’s father had called it once.

“That’s a little loud,” Matt’s mother said, coming in behind him. He told the computer to tone down the sound as she came to stand beside him, wrinkling her nose at the kitchen smells. “Another night at the garlic festival, I see.”

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.