Cold Case

“My own experience with investigation comes from a lifetime of reading — and what little I managed to do in the sim,” Father Flannery admitted ruefully.

“You felt I was giving away clues when I gave Jones that piece of paper?”

The priest hunched a little over the wheel. “Perhaps more like giving away an advantage,” he admitted. “You’d found out those names, and Jones hadn’t. Knowledge is power. When you pointed that the hacker would have the names already, I felt a little foolish. And when you talked about the free flow of information, I became ashamed of myself. Obviously, I’m not a good detective, Matt.”

“I don’t know that I am,” Matt said, a little embarrassed. “But I do think that all of us — all the innocent parties, at least — will have to work together to identify the bad sport among us, and hopefully get him or her stopped.”

“And what happened to Ed Saunders — what you said to Jones—?” Father Flannery flashed Matt a worried look.

“Look, my dad and I found Saunders.” Matt began rubbing his arms against a sudden chill. “It had to be an accident — a coincidence. What I said to Kerry Jones was more like a swift kick to his — um, smugness,” he finished lamely.

“Tactics”—Flannery smiled—“mixed with a bit of irritation. In my trade, that’s all too familiar.”

Matt laughed. “Let’s hope we do better with Oswald Derbent.”

“Also known as Lucullus Marten.” They were across the bridge now. Father Flannery gave the car a little gas and began steering a course away from the city.

In the quiet suburban neighborhood, the house stood out — both as the oldest structure in the area and, probably, as the local eyesore. Most towns would end up debating whether or not places like this should be declared historic landmarks. But Virginia had way too much history already. Unless a famous ancient general had been born in that gaunt-looking farmhouse — or died in there — nobody would be talking about preservation. They’d be more likely to discuss whether it should be bulldozed before it fell down on its own.

The wooden house desperately needed a fresh coat of paint, and several of the window shutters hung at odd angles. Floorboards creaked alarmingly as Matt and Father Flannery stepped onto the porch. But the structure took the weight, and the noise probably saved them the effort of reaching for the doorbell. Matt saw curtains twitch behind one of the windows.

Before Father Flannery managed to pull his finger from the cracked plastic bell button, the front door swung open just a bit. Even the partial view that Matt got showed a man who’d been seriously shortchanged by life. The top of his head barely came up to the level of Matt’s shoulder, and the man’s flesh seemed to pull extra-tightly over his small, skinny bones. The man had gotten an extra helping of forehead, and his baldness gave the strange impression that his skull had simply outstretched his thinning hair.

Eyes like shiny brown buttons took them in. When they focused on Matt, the pinched features on the man’s face seemed to tighten even more.

“You,” he said.

“Oswald Derbent?” Father Flannery asked.

“I am he,” the man at the door answered. From the first time, Matt caught a connection to the Lucullus Marten he’d known from the sim. Derbent had a surprisingly deep voice for such a slight frame. And his diction was perfect.

“You might as well come in,” Derbent growled after they’d introduced themselves. “I’d almost congratulate you, except that I imagine your success was due more to technology than deduction.”

His glare shifted to examine Matt. “No doubt this is due to your ridiculous performance with that champagne bottle.”

“Exactly.” Matt nodded, surprised to find himself falling into Monty Newman’s responses.

“Ah, well. If you’ve found me, I expect you’ve found the others. Perhaps now they’ll see the advantages of joint action instead of sordid self-interest.”

Derbent led them into what once had been the front parlor of the farmhouse. The furniture was old, the upholstery shabby, so the late-model computer-link couch stood out in almost shocking contrast. But Matt barely noticed that at first. What struck him were the walnut bookshelves that covered every wall.

They ran from floor to ceiling, pushing the few other furnishings into a cramped grouping in the center of the room. Even the spaces over and under the windows had been pressed into service, so they seemed recessed in a foot-thick frame of dark wood. The light that came into the parlor had a strange quality, as if they were sitting in a shadow box.

The funereal scene took a moment to get used to. Matt noticed that a pair of floor lamps flanked what looked like the most comfortable armchair, but the dim glow they shed was barely enough to navigate by once the door was shut. The lights should have been using hundred-watt bulbs. Matt figured the output was more on the range of forty.

“Not exactly bright in here,” Father Flannery commented, groping his way forward.

“It’s sufficient for my needs,” Derbent testily replied. “No need to enrich the local utilities.” He gestured, a shadowy figure except for those fierce, shining eyes. “I enjoy an economical style of life. My parents passed away, leaving me this house free and clear. Since then, I’ve been able to use their legacy and my savings to live as I choose.”

Just like the housebound recluse he played in the sim, Matt thought. What does he raise on the upstairs floor instead of cactus? Dust bunnies?

Derbent stepped over to the bookshelves most illuminated by the lamps. “Of course, most of my time is taken up with my…collection.”

That last word got a brief pause and an even deeper pronunciation than usual — the sort of tone people usually reserve for love or religion.

Matt squinted, trying to make out the faded print on the books’ spines. What a surprise — old mysteries.

He spotted a familiar title on a paperback, Triple Jeopardy. Beside it was a hardcover book, Too Many Killers. These were all Lucullus Marten stories. Matt eagerly read on. “Wow! You even have Death of a Druid! I never managed to find a library that had that one.”

“It’s been out of print since the 1970s,” Derbent replied. A trace of pride crept into his voice. “Tracking that title down took some effort, but I wanted all forty-seven of the Marten books. Of course, these are just for pleasure, my reading copies. I have a full set in hardcover — mint — safely stored away. Some of those have never even been opened.”

So what are they safe from? Matt wondered in puzzlement. Eye tracks?

Derbent sat in his chair, a volume in his lap. His hand gently ran over the book’s leather cover in the way others might have caressed a loved one.

“Looking back, I suppose it was a mistake to take part in Mr. Saunders’s little mystery. But I was eager to put to use what I had learned from years of reading. I had tried my hand at writing some tales of deduction”—his lips pursed in disgust—“but publishers are no longer interested in that sort of story. Bah!”

The hand resting on the book clenched into a fist, then relaxed. “The chance to step into the skin of my hero was most seductive. I enjoyed the experience.”

Derbent glanced at Matt. “Despite your youth, you showed a definite flair for extracting information. Quite… passable.”

Matt couldn’t hide his smile at hearing Lucullus Marten’s watchword when he praised Monty Newman’s efforts.

Derbent’s hand tightened again. “And then this nonsense.”

“Yes,” Father Flannery said. “It only seems to get worse.” He hesitated. “Your suggestions about Mr. Saunders’s death—”

Derbent smiled. “Were they a ploy to get you and the others to agree to my proposal, or were they motivated by a justified suspicion?” He shrugged. “It may just be the fear of a man who rarely leaves his house. On the other hand, even a paranoid could have enemies. How have the others reacted to being unmasked?”

“We haven’t caught up with Milo Krantz,” Matt said. “Apparently, he’s a long-distance trucker.”

“A trucker.” Derbent shook his head mournfully.