Cold Case

“Oh, no?” Matt growled. “Computer, what happened to the New Jersey map projection?”

“That display was terminated,” the computer’s silver voice reported.

“How?”

“The display was terminated,” Matt’s computer repeated.

Matt rose from his chair. Great. He didn’t have the cryptic message. He didn’t even have a record of it. And, of course, he didn’t have a clue as to who sent it. Could it be the second hacker in the group of mystery enthusiasts? Could it be Deep Throat?

Whoever sent the message might be all of the above. The thing was, he or she wanted a physical meeting. No hiding behind virtual masks or proxies. The setting was the Buffalo Bridge, a landmark spanning Rock Creek — right on the border of Georgetown. It was within walking distance from Georgetown University, and not all that far from Father Flannery’s parish. It was probably one of the simmers — and Matt wanted to talk to them, too….

Matt wrote a note to his parents, explaining that he had some important research to do. Then he slipped on a coat. If he expected to get down to the Buffalo Bridge in time, he’d have to push it—

Dashing out of the house, Matt had reached the sidewalk before he became aware of the man running up behind him. Actually, the guy was hard to ignore. He was puffing like a set of bellows.

And the gun he held was boring into Matt’s back, right through his coat.

“Turn. Slowly.” Matt didn’t know what made it scarier — the one-word commands, or the fact that the gunman was still gasping for breath.

“Walk. It’s the open car door.”

Matt did as he was commanded, retracing his steps. He couldn’t miss his destination. The late-model black car had its door open, throwing a funnel of light into the winter evening darkness.

“Inside.”

The pistol stayed in Matt’s back all the way down. Then it transferred to his ear as he sank into the plushly upholstered seat. He kept his head still, but his eyes ached as they strained to the left for a glimpse of his kidnapper.

It was an old guy, once athletic, now fat, and red-faced from the brief run from his car to intercept Matt. The man was bald, with iron-gray hair, and looked vaguely familiar. Where had Matt seen him before?

Not him, but a younger version, grinning in a faded flatfilm photograph.

“Clyde Finch,” he gasped.

“You don’t know when to stop, do you, Junior?” Finch’s gun hand stayed rock-solid against Matt’s head while his other hand fumbled in his pocket. It came out holding a fistful of clinking metal that Finch tossed into Matt’s lap. “Put ’em on.”

Matt glanced down. Handcuffs! Stiffly, unwillingly, he again did as he was commanded.

Still holding the gun on Matt, Finch brought his free hand down hard on each of Matt’s wrists, squeezing the cuffs tightly so they bit into Matt’s flesh.

“Now you’ll be less likely to try something stupid.” Finch used a foot to push Matt to the far side of the car. He grunted as he joined his prisoner in the back seat.

The snub-nosed pistol that covered Matt was right out of an old detective flick. It had none of the clean lines of the automatics favored by the stars of cop shows and spy movies. No, this was an ugly old Smith & Wesson, a nasty little machine built to create death at close ranges.

“That cannon you’re carrying has to be ancient.” Matt forced the words out between dry lips.

“More than twice as old as you are,” Finch replied. “It was my backup piece when I was on the Haddington force. But don’t worry. The ammo is new. And this old fart knows a few new tricks. I sent you that message to see if you were too nosey to live. And you took the bait. Since you recognized me, it’s time to take you out.”

“Don’t be crazy,” Matt replied. “You can’t shoot me in a car.”

“Why not?” the old man demanded. “This sucker has tinted windows, and it’s soundproofed better than some places I’ve lived.” He grinned, showing off a set of tobacco-stained teeth. “Besides, cars are always disposable — and replaceable.”

“I guess, nowadays, that’s not as easy,” Matt sniped back — the only thing he could do with his hands cuffed. “Not as easy, say, as ditching a red ’65 Corvette in a wildlife sanctuary, and stealing a replacement.”

Finch jumped as if he’d been stabbed, his red face going pale. He brought up the pistol. Matt had no doubt where he was about to aim. He stared at the stubby little weapon as it swung toward him.

But Finch’s gun arm suddenly twitched back the way it had come. The man’s whole body hunched forward, his hand like a claw on the butt of the gun. The pistol went off, its discharge deafening in the small area of the closed car. A bullet tore into the upholstery of the car seat back in front of them.

Recoil sent the snub-nosed pistol flying from Clyde Finch’s hand. But he didn’t go for the gun. Instead, Finch slumped back in his seat, clutching at his chest, his breath coming in shallow, agonized pants.

17

A heart attack, Matt thought, looking at Clyde Finch’s gray, sweaty face. The old man’s expression was a mask of terror as Matt reached for him. Finch heaved, and a small trickle of vomit leaked from the side of his mouth. He said something — at least his lips moved — but Matt’s ears, still stunned by the noise of the gun going off, couldn’t hear.

“Do you have pills?” Matt realized he was shouting, but he couldn’t help himself.

Finch nodded, fumbling his coat open. Matt went for tissues to wipe the old man’s mouth — and realized he was still handcuffed.

“Where are the keys for these?” Matt shouted.

The gray-faced man was picking feebly at a vest pocket. Matt reached over. His fingers felt like they belonged to someone else, half-starved for blood by the tightly locked cuffs. Finally he brought out an inch-long metal cylinder with a key chain attached.

Matt examined the cylinder. Apparently, it was supposed to open at a twist — some sort of airtight pillbox. “If I try to open this with my fingers feeling like sausages, we may lose the pills inside,” he said, rattling the keys. “Will one of these open the cuffs? You’d better hope they do….”

Finch’s waxy lips formed an O as Matt struggled to unlock his cuffs.

Finally finding a small key that seemed to fit the locks on the cuffs, Matt wiggled it around until he had it firmly in the lock, then tried to turn it. He finally succeeded, leaving the cuffs dangling from one wrist while his free hand went for tissues. He managed to get Finch’s mouth clean, stretching the sick man full-length on the backseat. As he knelt over him, Matt’s knee landed on the snub-nosed pistol still lying on the floor. He kicked it under the front seat while he opened the pillbox, setting one of the tiny tablets inside under the stricken man’s tongue.

Matt didn’t know what effect the cold outside air would have on Finch, but it couldn’t be good for him to be breathing cordite fumes. He opened the door to clear the car interior, dug out his wallet-phone, and punched in 911.

Moments later Matt leaned against the car fender as paramedics trundled Finch into an ambulance. The emergency services people hadn’t said anything about the bullet hole in the front seat. Matt had no idea what the ER doctors would make of the empty shoulder holster Finch was wearing.

He tried to kill me, and I end up saving his life, Matt thought, still feeling shell- shocked. He headed up the walkway to his house, his feet moving faster and faster as he neared the door. By the time he got inside, Matt was running. He tore down the hallway to his room, one hand digging for his wallet and the card Nikki Callivant had given him.

Matt almost punched his computer console into life. Reading from the card, he barked out Nikki Callivant’s private communications code.

A moment later Nikki’s elegant face appeared in the holographic display. “Matt?” she said in surprise. He could still barely hear her.

“Does your Grandpa Clyde use a short-barreled Smith and Wesson?” he demanded.

“Why are you shouting? What’s—”

“I’m shouting because I’m half-deaf! Your dear great-grandfather kidnapped me — tried to use that gun on