thin coating of ice and snow to reveal bare dirt.
Most of the original address plaques had disappeared, replaced with glued plastic numbers or tacked-up cardboard handwritten signs. The doorway Matt and the priest sought didn’t even have that. They had to guess they had the right place, counting up and down from the neighbors’ numbers.
The doorbell didn’t ring. Matt gently eased the storm door open — it looked ready to fall off in his hand — and knocked.
“Gimme a minute!” a female voice yelled from inside. Shortly afterward, the inner door opened, and Matt was confronted by a woman in a housecoat. She carried a baby in one arm. A two-year-old peeked from behind her left leg.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying any,” the woman said. Her eyes fastened on Father Flannery’s Roman collar. “And that goes double for holy rollers.” She paused for a second, and then a sickening smile spread over her fleshy features. “Unless, of course, you’re here about our financial problems. I’ve applied to several churches for help. It’s all I could do, until the lawyers make my husband do the right thing.”
“That would be Harry Knox?” Father Flannery said.
“It was,” the woman said. “I threw him out of here weeks ago, and he hasn’t been back. The divorce should be a done deal. I’ll get the real estate, he keeps the truck and pays to keep us going. But until the checks start coming—”
“Do you know where Mr. Knox is?” Matt interrupted.
When she saw that there wouldn’t be an immediate handout, Mrs. Knox’s flabby features tightened. “What do you need to bother with Harry for? This is where the money’s needed.”
“There are things we have to check,” Father Flannery put in diplomatically.
“His mail’s been going to a truck stop out Fairfax way.” The woman spoke angrily. “Place called O’Dell’s. I suppose he’s livin’ it up with some waitress or something.”
Catching the change in mood, the infant and the two-year-old began to whimper.
“Shut up, the two of you!” Mrs. Knox snapped at the kids before returning her attention to her unexpected guests. “You go see him and do whatever you got to do. What I need is money!”
Before Matt or Father Flannery could say anything, the door slammed shut in their faces.
Both were silent as they got back into the car. The priest started the engine, and they pulled away.
“Fairfax. That’s on the other side of D.C.,” Matt said.
“Which will probably make it last on our list,” Father Flannery said. A moment or two of silence passed, then he spoke up again. “I haven’t read many Milo Krantz stories. Wasn’t he a confirmed bachelor?”
“A lot of the old-time detectives were woman-haters,” Matt agreed. “Like Lucullus Marten.”
“But not like Monty Newman,” the priest said with a smile.
Matt shrugged. “The way I read it, Monty liked women too much to settle down with just one. And if what we just saw is typical, he made the right choice.”
They left the beltway for a southbound parkway that finally led into Rock Creek Park, the steep, tree-filled valley that cut Georgetown off from the rest of Washington. Then Father Flannery’s car was gently bouncing along the narrow, cobblestone streets, that, along with the eighteenth-century houses, gave Georgetown so much of its charm.
Even the growth of telecommuting and virtual tourism hadn’t managed to thin the traffic clogging those streets, however. And parking, especially near Georgetown University, remained an aggravating problem. Matt and Father Flannery faced a stiff walk before they finally reached their destination, a dormitory on the university campus. Leif’s tracing program had followed both Mick and Maura Slimm to the student housing here. In real life they were Kerry Jones and Suzanne Kellerman, a pair of college sophomores.
Father Flannery’s collar went a long way toward getting them past the resident assistant, and soon they were in Kerry Jones’s dorm room. There were two guys in the room, the lanky redhead who answered their knock and the blond young man sitting cross-legged on an unmade bed. The old flatfilm poster taped up over his head was a giveaway clue — it heralded the opening of
Jones was a blond guy with a cheerful face, penetrating blue eyes, and patchy fuzz around his chin — a failing attempt to grow a beard. He was built like a football halfback, rather than Mick Slimm’s elegant but lethally wiry form.
The young man’s eyes sharpened with recognition when he saw Matt. “Can you give us a few minutes alone?” he asked his roommate, who shrugged and went out the door.
“So,” Jones said, “you tracked me down. Grab a seat — wherever you can. If I’d known I’d be having visitors, I’d have neatened up the place a little.”
The room was decorated in Early Poverty: beds, desks, and dressers obviously provided by the university — sturdy, utilitarian furniture built to survive successive classes of college students. The computer-link couches were reasonably high-end, but then Matt’s own research into college choices told him that most schools provided reduced-rate equipment which students could buy.
Father Flannery sat on one of the couches — the one without the scattering of books and papers — while Matt perched on the roommate’s bed.
“So, you’re Kerry Jones,” Matt said.
“That’s me,” Jones cheerfully admitted.
“And, according to our information, Suzanne Kellerman is at class right now,” Father Flannery said.
“Okay.” Kerry Jones spread his hands. “You found us. Big deal. Neither Suze nor I think the situation has changed since the big meeting. We don’t see any reason to join in the defensive alliance your fat friend suggested.”
Jones turned to Father Flannery. “Is that what you look like with your fat suit off?” He pointed to the Roman collar. “Or is that a new disguise you’re wearing? Pretty sleazy trick to squeeze your way into the dorm.”
“I
Kerry Jones looked a little shocked. “Sorry, Father. I didn’t expect to be playing out the Van Alst case with a priest. Not to mention a priest whose proxy uses brass knuckles.”
“I never—” Flannery began.
Matt decided to step in before Jones managed to side-track their talk into a discussion of the sim.
“We’ve got a different mystery to deal with right now — and I hope there’ll be no need for brass knuckles.”
Jones’s face twisted with impatience. “I know I’m not the nimrod who went hacking into the Callivant files. And Suze has even less reason. I’m the one who got us signed up for the sim — for obvious reasons.” He pointed to the poster over his bed, then to the desk beside the window — the one with the more elaborate computer console and the one neat part of the entire room — the ranked racks of computer datascrips climbing the wall. “I’m an old- time film buff. Each scrip contains a flatfilm movie — most of them mysteries. Suze is a…good friend.”
Jones shrugged. “She must like me, because she puts up with watching stuff from my collection. The Slimm movies are our favorites. Suze thought it would be cool to come in as Maura, doing the whole thirties thing, being witty and wearing gorgeous gowns—” He grinned. “As soon as I assured her that everything wouldn’t be in black and white.”
“Are you sure she’ll still like you when that law firm starts putting pressure on her?” Matt asked.
“Suze is pre-law, and she pretty much knows what they can and can’t do,” Jones replied. “We don’t even know if Saunders got his letter off. Even if he did, we’ve got the best defense. We’re innocent.”
“And that’s enough for you?” Father Flannery burst out. “You don’t want to find out who’s behind all this trouble?”
Jones looked about to say something, then swallowed his words. “Look, Father,” he finally said. “This is no game. In real life, I leave the investigating to the professionals. The cops think that our pal Saunders died in an accident. If the Callivant lawyers want to find the hacker, let them hire somebody to do the job. Suze and I have nothing to hide. They can’t find any evidence of something we never did.”
His lips curled dismissively. “And if Ol’ Fatso is right with his paranoid fantasy about the forces of darkness gathering against us…well, it’s like I said before. Suze and I can guard each other’s backs.”
