Cold Case

maybe a risk that might make his precious books fade. Or maybe he was just cheap — he said he was tight with a buck.”

James Winters sighed. “I’ll relay that to the authorities, but I doubt they’ll act on it. Maybe Derbent got hold of a brighter bulb at a discount store and figured the savings on the price of the bulb offset the higher electricity cost to run it — or maybe he was just going blind from reading all those books and decided to up the wattage.”

“Or maybe somebody could have gotten into his house — his nice, dry-as-kindling, wooden, paper-filled house — and stuck an industrial-strength bulb in that old lamp.”

Winters’s face looked as if it were carved from stone. “Without evidence to the contrary, the public safety people are classifying the fire as accidental.”

“I’m sure there’ll be plenty of evidence left to support that,” Matt said bitterly. “Just like the last two ‘accidents.’”

“There were no traces of accelerants, no oily rags, and the only signs that the place had been disturbed could be attributed to Derbent himself, who apparently discovered the fire and called it in.”

Matt swallowed. “He was there? The news didn’t say anything about Derbent, so I assumed he wasn’t home. How is he? How did he take it?”

Winters glanced at an off-screen display. “Oswald Derbent came home from a local store to find the fire pretty well established. He ran inside — why, the local fire people have no idea.”

To save his books. Matt thought. “What happened?”

“The ceiling fell on him. Firefighters managed to get him out of the place, and he’s in the hospital.” Winters hesitated. “He’s not expected to make it. If he dies, they plan on ruling it accidental death.”

“Uh-huh!” Matt said. “Some accident!”

The captain winced as if he’d been punched. “Matt!” He took a deep breath and moderated his tone. “I have to accept what’s reported. I can’t just throw Net Force into this until we have some evidence of wrongdoing that falls under our jurisdiction.”

“And how does it stack up with the incidents I reported to you?” Matt demanded. “Put them together, and I’d say something stinks! Don’t you think three people dead out of seven in unrelated accidents inside of a couple of weeks constitutes evidence of wrongdoing?”

“I’m not disagreeing.” The muscles along Winters’s jawbone bunched. “In this job I’m supposed to think like a cop. But I also have to make sure each I is dotted and every “T” crossed. I can’t take official notice of something until I have solid evidence that a crime has taken place. ‘Information received’ doesn’t make the burden of proof.”

His eyes speared into Matt’s. “I pushed on this one, Matt. Talked to the chief investigator out there. You can imagine how pleased he was to find a federal agent nosing into his case. I told the guy that several of Derbent’s associates had recently suffered apparent accidents and advised him to keep a careful eye out for suspicious elements.”

Winters shook his head. “And the verdict still came back as ‘fire by accidental causes.’”

Matt could see that the man on the other end of the connection wasn’t happy. It was obvious that Captain Winters had his hands tied. For that matter, what could Matt himself do?

“I’m glad you tried,” Matt finally said. “If I find anything out. I’ll get it to you right away. Until then, I hope you’re keeping — well, maybe not an eye on us. Call it a Net search.” Matt smiled, but there was no humor in his voice as he said, “I’d hate to electrocute myself turning off this system and have you be the last to know.”

When six o’clock came, Matt had to force himself to keep the meeting he’d set up. Flying quickly through the garish big-business sector of the Net, he only slowed when he approached the dead storage area. Matt went in carefully, activating the icons for his best dirty-work detectors. The programs found nothing out of place.

Sighing, he slid into the interior of the virtual structure — the dark, echoing warehouse space created by the mystery hacker.

Father Flannery was there ahead of him, standing in the cone of light from one of the overhead lamps. The priest hadn’t bothered to don his Spike Spanner proxy. Matt acknowledged the decision with a wry smile. He hadn’t come as Monty Newman, either.

“It’s a couple of minutes after six,” Flannery said, looking at his watch. “How long do you want to allow for people to straggle in?”

Even as he spoke, two more figures suddenly appeared. Matt recognized Kerry Jones. The girl beside him had to be Suzanne Kellerman. Instead of the pert, brown-haired Maura Slimm. Suze Kellerman was tall and blond — and if she’d ever had any of the fictional sleuthette’s wise-cracking spirit, it had worn thin in the last few days.

“Both of us have quarterly exams we should be studying for,” Jones growled. Apparently, he’d been elected as the couple’s spokesperson. “I hope you people won’t waste—”

He looked around. “Where’s Derbent?”

“He won’t be coming.” Matt tried to keep his face calm as he made his report. “Not only was his house burned down, but he was injured, too.” He had to look away. “From what I hear, he isn’t — he won’t—”

“Oh, Lord!” Father Flannery was blessing himself when Matt turned back.

Suze Kellerman stared at him with wide blue eyes. Jones’s big, genial face looked grim, his mouth a thin white line.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Hunter, but this time you’ve gone too far. Calling us here to boast about what you did—”

“What are you saying?” Father Flannery burst out.

“I’m saying that computer-boy over there fits the classic profile for a hacker — someone whose technical ability outstrips his conscience and maturity,” Jones accused. “You made a big mistake this time with your order — excuse me, your invitation. You signed it.”

Matt stared at him for a moment, reining in his temper before he spoke. In his experience, answers that began, “Listen, Barfbrain!” usually caused more trouble than they were worth.

“I signed the virtmail so you’d know I wasn’t the hacker,” he finally said. “There’s some stuff you ought to hear — information that didn’t or won’t make the news.”

“Information you managed to find out…somehow.” Kerry Jones managed to make the simple statement sound like an accusation.

“Father Flannery knows I’m with the Net Force Explorers,” Matt began. “I pulled a few strings on our behalf.”

“Net Force is tracking down whoever’s behind this?”

Hating to kill the fragile look of hope shining on Suze Kellerman’s face, Matt gently said, “I’ve tried to bring them in, but as far as Net Force is concerned, there’s no actual evidence of any Net crime committed.” He glanced at Jones. “I did talk to an agent — which you can verify—”

“Count on it,” Jones bluntly replied.

“Anyway, he got an advance look at the report from the fire investigators.” Matt went on to pass on what Winters had told him.

“Wait a minute!” Father Flannery protested. “We both saw those lamps — if you can call it seeing, considering the dim light they threw. No way on earth could either of them have been burning the bulb you’re talking about.”

“Just as I said to the Net Force agent.” Matt tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. “I’ll pass along the answers he gave me, which he got from the fire investigators — a replacement bulb, a mistake—”

“Could he have had the lights dim on purpose that day?” Suze suggested. “Maybe he was hiding his face —”

Matt shook his head. “Not likely. Derbent had no idea we were coming—” He broke off. “Unless one of you contacted him while we were on the way.”

The college kids shook their heads. “Kerry told me about your visit when I came out of class — that’s across campus from our dorm.”

Jones nodded. “I beat feet over there as soon as you guys left.”

“Besides, we saw Derbent’s face clearly,” Flannery put in. “When he answered the door, he stood in the sunshine. You can’t call that hiding.”

“Speaking of hiding — or at least, of information a person wouldn’t like to get out — one of our detective