Cold Case Part 9

He sighed. "Well, first I guess we'd better see what Knox has to say."

They didn't have many problems finding O'Dell's. There were signs giving the turnoff for miles ahead on the road. Big rigs were parked all around the complex of small buildings. This wasn't just some sort of greasy spoon. The place had pretty much everything a trucker could need-food, a motel setup, gas pumps, even a combination pharmacy and convenience store. O'Dell's was obviously more than the joint in the old joke-the place with the sign that said EAT HERE AND GET GAS EAT HERE AND GET GAS.

Matt and Father Flannery stopped by the sleeping accommodations first. They were told the boss was in the restaurant, and n.o.body at O'Dell's gave out any information without the boss's say-so.

Reaching for the door to the diner, Matt had to jump back as a big, swag-bellied guy came pus.h.i.+ng out. The flying door just missed Matt, and the big guy's shoulder brushed Father Flannery aside. Maybe the cloud of beer fumes explained why the guy had to turn making an exit into a pickup game of tackle football.

Matt shook his head as he caught the door on the rebound. He and the priest stepped into the glorified diner and were a.s.saulted by a collection of delicious smells-coffee, pie, bacon, steak...

All of a sudden Matt was reminded that it had been a long time since his after-school gla.s.s of milk. They asked the counterman if the boss was around, and he replied that she was in the back. "Be with you in a minute."

Father Flannery immediately grabbed a stool and asked for a cup of coffee. After a moment's thought Matt ordered a chocolate shake. A round-faced, heavyset woman brought their orders over. "I'm Della O'Dell," she said. "What can I do for you fellas?"

"Della O'Dell," Matt echoed.

The woman grinned, transforming her face into a thing of beauty. "Great, isn't it? Sometimes I really have to wonder what my parents were thinking."

"I understand you let truckers use your place as a convenience address," Father Flannery said.

"Some, Padre," Della said guardedly.

"It's important that we get in touch with a fellow named Harry Knox-"

"Hard Knocks Harry? He was here just a minute ago." Della turned to the counterman. "Wilbur, where did he go?"

The man held up a bill. "I dunno, but he left a twenty."

"Maybe he went to get something from his rig," Della said. "Hard to miss. It's got a huge red stripe running around the top-"

"Like that truck pulling out there?" Matt pointed to the window. A big rig roared onto the highway, the rumble of its engine making the whole diner shake.

"What in perdition is his trouble?" Della O'Dell wanted to know. "Harry said he was turning down that Florida run. What's he doing now?"

"About fifty-five, I'd say," Wilbur said, watching the truck rapidly disappear.

Matt looked at Father Flannery. "What do you say, Spike?" he murmured. "You up for a high-speed chase?"

The priest shook his head. Instead, he turned to Della. "Is that pie over there as good as it smells?"

A while afterward they were heading back to Was.h.i.+ngton. "I wouldn't say that was a complete complete loss," Flannery said, patting his stomach. loss," Flannery said, patting his stomach.

The hot apple pie-a la mode-had gone down very easily, Matt had to admit. Less satisfying was the reason for the fast exit Harry Knox had pulled. "He must have caught sight of me coming across the parking lot," Matt said.

"In that case, it doesn't speak very well for 'Hard Knocks Harry,'" the priest said. "As the basic manual of my profession says, 'The guilty flee where no man pursueth.'"

"I guess it's just as well we didn't try to pursue," Matt said, gesturing to the slow-moving traffic all around them. "A high-speed chase would have been out of the question in this mess."

They crawled along the road until they reached the Francis Scott Key Bridge, where police officers haloed by the glowing lights of emergency vehicles diverted the traffic to one lane.

"Must have been an accident," Matt said, peering into the glare. "I think a whole section of the retaining wall is gone-"

Then, c.o.c.ked at a drunken angle, he saw the rear end of a truck trailer sticking up from the water beyond. The cab and engine were completely submerged. But Matt couldn't miss the big red stripe running around under the roof of the rig. Wherever Harry Knox was headed, he obviously wasn't in a hurry now.

10.

Matt couldn't eat supper when he got home that evening-and it had nothing to do with ruining his appet.i.te with pie. He tossed and turned all through the night, and the next morning, even though it was Sat.u.r.day, he tried Captain Winters's office number at Net Force.

Actually, Matt wasn't surprised when the captain answered. Winters often put in extra hours to clear the week's paperwork off his desk. It was a little weird to see him in a sweater instead of business wear, but the maintenance staff tended to skimp on the Pentagon's heat during the winter weekends.

"What's up, Matt?" The captain's gaze sharpened as he took in the expression on his caller's face. "Or should I say 'what's the matter?'"

Matt tried to tell his whole story-not very coherently, he feared. Words poured from his lips. Winters had to calm him down and asked several questions before he'd finished.

"So, at least two people involved with this sim have died?"

Matt could only nod.

The captain turned away, barking orders to his computer. He continued to stare past Matt's right ear, actually reading a data display that didn't show from the captain's desk pickup.

"I've got the D.C. police report on what happened to Edward Saunders," Winters said. "According to this, the medical examiner found nothing that wasn't consistent with accidental death."

So, Matt thought, David's dad is going to close the book on that case David's dad is going to close the book on that case.

Another couple of commands, and Winters read silently for another moment. "And it looks as if the police are leaning toward accident to explain what happened on the bridge as well. Driving conditions were bad-ice doesn't melt as easily on bridges as it does on roads."

He looked a little disgusted as he read on. "And among the debris they found in the cab of that truck were several empty beer cans. Mr. Knox apparently had elevated levels of alcohol in his bloodstream. He shouldn't have been behind the wheel."

A sudden image of the beery trucker slamming past him flashed into Matt's mental view. No shape to drive No shape to drive, an accusing voice whispered in the back of his head. And he was running away from you! And he was running away from you!

Matt didn't know how he looked, but obviously something of his thoughts showed on his face.

"Are you okay?" Winters asked.

"We had gone down to that truck stop, Father Flannery and I, to try and talk to Knox. He knew what I looked like-I'd showed up for Saunders's virtual meeting without a proxy. What if Knox was sitting there, drinking beer, and saw me coming? Trying to ditch me got him killed!"

Captain Winters shook his head. "There's one thing I learned in combat-never blame yourself for what other people do." Again, he read the invisible report. "In this case, you shouldn't blame yourself at all. One of the other truckers at that diner heard Knox on his wallet-phone. Some sort of rush job had come up. That's why he hurried off."

Matt took a long, shaky breath. "That's a relief," he said. Then he frowned. "I don't suppose we know where he was rus.h.i.+ng off to?"

"The police haven't found that out yet," Winters admitted. "But-"

"Doesn't it seem a little funny to you that Saunders and Knox died within just a few days of each other?"

"Between the Marines and this job, some days all I seem to see are coincidences and conspiracy theories. I've seen guys go through complete combat hitches without a scratch-until their last day. I've seen unlucky helicopters whose gunners always got killed. I've had a string of apparent suicides turn out to be murders." He shook his head. "And I've had thirty-seven people named Smith die within three days-and they had all synched in to the same Net site. Our computers popped that one up. We hit it from every direction we could think of."

"And?" Matt asked.

"No family connection, no geographic connection, they didn't even know one another. No record of anything like that happening before, and it hasn't happened since. So far as we were able to conclude, it was just dumb luck. A whole bunch of Smiths had their number come up in the big computer in the sky." Winters leaned toward his pickup, his eyes going for contact with Matt's. "You see what I'm saying?"

Matt nodded. "A pair of people makes for a pretty small sample." He sighed. "I just wish-"

"There's nothing we can do, Matt," Winters said gently. "No evidence of Net crime..." His voice trailed off, and he gave another command. "I think I'll just take a look into the hacking complaint regarding those court records, though."

Matt stifled a laugh at that one. Getting Net Force involved in such a small-potatoes case would be like using a shotgun to silence a buzzing fly-overkill to the nth degree.

Now Winters was frowning, staring at his invisible data screen again. "Could you repeat the name of the girl who died?"

"Priscilla Hadding," Matt said. "It happened in Haddington-it's a suburb of Wilmington."

"I'm checking the town, the county, Wilmington city government, and now the state-that's odd...there seems to be no mention of intrusion into any court records involving the case-nor of any investigation."

"Shouldn't some cops somewhere in Delaware be doing something?" Matt asked.

The captain shrugged. "When it comes to families like the Callivants, local law enforcement tends to walk softly." His eyebrows rose. "The same probably goes for federal agencies."

"Then I guess the best I can do is hope that nothing else happens to the people from Saunders's sim," Matt said gloomily. Then he sat up straighter. "I'd like to send a copy of my files on the sim and the names and addresses of the people involved to you, though."

He gave a command, and Winters glanced past him again, taking in the new reading matter.

"Who helped you get these-Leif Anderson?" the captain waved a hand. "...On second thought, I don't want to know. I suppose I don't want to know what you used to get the names, either."

"Um-probably not," Matt said, silently thanking heaven for such things as small potatoes. "But I know I feel better that you have it."

That evening Megan did her best to make an entrance as she came into the living room. Tonight, P.J. Farris would be taking her to a formal dance. He'd sat talking with her parents while she made her last-minute preparations and rose as she walked in.

"You look-wow-great!" he said, smiling.

She returned the compliment. "So do you."

Both of them avoided the word pretty- pretty-a sore point with P.J. His good looks had stuck him with too many nicknames like "Pretty Boy"-Megan had called him that more than once herself, when she got mad at him.

Tonight, though, he looked like a teen idol who had escaped from some holodrama or other. His tuxedo fit perfectly and was obviously not not a rental job. a rental job.

Megan had gone to considerable trouble, too. Her brown hair, usually on the wild side, had been cut and curled into something resembling stylishness. She really liked her gown, even though it was more cla.s.sic style than cutting edge. This year's cutting edge had sliced a lot off the top of feminine formal wear, to the point where one of her friends had actually fallen out of her dress at an embarra.s.sing moment during the most recent dance. Megan's gown, which had a close-fitting strapless midnight blue silk bodice that swirled into a deliciously romantic long velvet skirt, showed off just enough of her figure to keep men interested without risking arrest for indecent exposure. Best of all, a little bolero-style jacket made sure she wouldn't freeze her a.s.sets off.

P.J. was a good sport, ignoring comments from Megan's brothers and even posing as her dad took way too many pictures. Anything to replace that portrait of her trying to hide her fury while standing beside Andy Moore in his tacky tux. She still wasn't sure he hadn't rented the awful thing on purpose, just to embarra.s.s her.

Instead of a coat, Megan had a fine wool cape her mom had produced from somewhere. She arranged it around her shoulders, holding it together with a silver pin. Then, giving one arm to P.J. and waving with the other, she stepped out the door, heading for P.J.'s waiting limo.

Catching their reflection in the car's window, she had to grin. "We really do clean up well, don't we?"

P.J. gallantly handed her into the car. "Remind me to get a copy of one of those shots from your father," he said. "I want Leif to eat his heart out."

"As if," Megan grumbled, settling onto the backseat. Eager to change the subject, she reached out as P.J. sat beside her. "I think your tie is a little off to the-oh!"

Her attempt to adjust the black bow untied it instead, leaving P.J. with two lank strips of silk dangling across the lace front of his s.h.i.+rt.

He glanced at the door that had just shut behind them. "Well, at least you waited until we got out of your parents' sight before you started undressing me," he said.

Megan shot a horrified hand to her mouth. Then giggles began infiltrating their way from behind its cover. "I-I thought it was one of those one-piece things," she gasped.

P.J. shook his head. "A gentleman is supposed to know how to fix his own tie."

"Do you?" Megan asked. "I mean, did someone else-?"

"My mommy stopped helping me get into my clothes some years ago," P.J. interrupted, straightening out the ends of the tie. Then, trying to use his window as a mirror, he began trying to reconstruct the knot.

When his third attempt failed, Megan timidly said, "You're going to get that all crumpled. May I-?"

P.J. shook his head, leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and began working all over again, by feel.

Megan stared in disbelief. "You got it! All you have to do-"

"No!" P.J. said, bringing up both palms to block Megan's helping hands. Then, a bit more gallantly, "If you don't mind, I'll adjust it myself."

Arriving at an old-line hotel in downtown Was.h.i.+ngton, they walked under the canopy on an actual red carpet and took the elevator to the ballroom floor. They checked their coats, P.J. gave in their tickets, and Megan stood in the doorway, staring at the crowd. It was amazing-horrifyingly dowdy dresses decked out with drop-dead jewelry, doubtless family heirlooms dragged out once in a great while from safe-deposit vaults. Some of the men had tuxes that made that rag Andy Moore had worn look like high fas.h.i.+on.

And then there were the young women in the kind of outfits that Megan had only seen in magazines and HoloNews fas.h.i.+on coverage. Her fingers picked at the hem of her jacket. All of a sudden, her gown didn't seem as great as it had back home.

What am I doing here? a panicky voice demanded in the back of her brain. a panicky voice demanded in the back of her brain. This is just like the Leets looking down their noses at me in school-only multiplied by about fifty years and a thousand percent sn.o.bbishness! This is just like the Leets looking down their noses at me in school-only multiplied by about fifty years and a thousand percent sn.o.bbishness!

P.J. appeared beside her, taking Megan's arm. "I heard that gasp. Pretty awful, isn't it?" he commented in a low voice. "It could be worse. At least most of the money here is old and a bit reserved. Back home we have the good ol' boys in the gold lame western-cut dinner jackets, and lots of women with big hair and rhinestones. Or was that even what you were gasping at? Maybe you were just reacting to what the band is doing to that song?"

Megan finally focused on the twelve-piece combo at the front of the room. They were playing away, the sound getting muddled with the noise of a thousand conversations. Even listening carefully, it took her a moment to decipher the music. It had been a hot tune a couple of months ago. Everybody had been downloading it. As for this version, however...well, she'd heard better in cheap elevators.

Shaking his head, P.J. began walking in. "And this is probably the best thing we're going to hear tonight," he warned.

Megan found herself laughing. What did she have to fear from people with such awful taste in music? Bring the sn.o.bs on!

Even so, she had to hand it to P.J. As he began introducing her to people in the crowd, he slowly worked his way up the social ladder. In between dances and breaks for what the Junior League thought of as refreshments, he brought Megan to congressional aides and some lobbyists. Next she met social and political friends of P.J.'s father. Then came members of Congress, and finally some of Senator Farris's colleagues.

At last they joined one of the crowds swirling around the celebrity guests. Even the rich and socially prominent liked to suck up to famous people, Megan discovered-at least, the younger generation did. P.J. steered her expertly to the eye of the storm.

For all intents and purposes, it was a reception line. Nikki Callivant, doing her best to be gracious in a gown that only brilliant engineering design could have kept in place, was shaking hands and chatting with a pair of women in equally modish costumes. Beside her, a tallish, pleasant-faced man with gray hair pressed the flesh with the women's husbands. Behind them was a burly, balding red-faced man who looked as if he couldn't wait for this hoedown to be over.