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, please!” 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
“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.”
