Mrs. Althorp's curtain twitched again, and then opened. Mrs. Althorp held up a glass of some iced beverage and pointed to it.

  Tim shook his head, then held up his own Diet Coke and pointed to it.

  Mrs. Althorp nodded. The curtain closed again.

  Tim settled in for the long haul.

  Tim was probably right that he'd found

  out all he could at Evans's apartment. In fact, by getting the neighbor to identify Tayloe Blake, he'd already accomplished more than I expected. I wasn't optimistic that Evans would show up at home anytime soon.

  Apart from the deceased Tayloe Blake, we had no idea who Evans's contacts were. Even though the educational section of his resume suggested he'd lived here for some time, attending Broad Run High School and the Loudoun campus of Northern Virginia Community College, the family section showed that his emergency contact — his mother — lived in Chicago. I hoped he hadn't fled there.

  We needed to get into his e-mail. Even if he hadn't told anyone in an e-mail where he was hiding, we'd have some idea who his contacts were. But I 'd almost given up trying to break in. And since I still hadn't heard back from KingFischer. I decided to remind him.

  "Hey. KF." I said. "Didyou get my message about Hotmail?"

  No immediate response. No response at all for several minutes, which for an A IP u as practically an eternity. Either the system was

  Access Denied lb5

  malfunctioning, KingFischer was malfunctioning, or he was ignoring me. And the odds were Yd have seen clues if anything malfunctioned, so I deduced he was ignoring me. Typical KingFischer behavior, but for some reason today I had no patience for it. I decided to try a second message, and went through half a dozen versions before I came up with one civil enough to send.

  "You can ignore me, if you like," I said. "But this isn't just one of my pet projects. It's something that affects T2's welfare, and maybe the safety of all the other AIPs."

  At least that drew a response.

  "Oh, was that directed to me?" he said.

  I counted to 10 10 before answering.

  "Well, yes/' I said. "Who did you think it was for?"

  "I assumed it was for your new best friend, Sigmund."

  "Sigmund? Why would I ask Sigmund a question about Hotmail's security?"

  "Well, he's the expert on everything these days, isn't he?" King-Fischer said.

  "Only on human psychology," I said, feeling the last shreds of my patience slipping away. "I wasn't aware you were an expert on human psychology. In fact, the last time I mentioned the subject, I recall you dismissed it as unimportant."

  "I didn't say it was unimportant," KingFischer said. "I said it ought to be unimportant. If they were properly trained, humans would be a lot more logical and efficient."

  "And just how would you do that?"

  "A proper program of conditioning that rewards logical and productive behavior and discourages aberrant behavior would go a long way. Yve seen data —"

  "KF, those were lab rats! You can't go around administering electric shocks to humans and doling out food pellets only when they behave. For one thing, it wouldn't work — they're a lot more complicated than rats. And for another, they wouldn't stand for it."

  "They'd get used to it," he said.

  "No, they wouldn't," I said. "And how would you like it if

  someone administered a small electromagnetic pulse to your circuits every time you wasted resources on something other than chess? "

  "But that would be —"

  "Entirely appropriate. You were programmed to play chess and operate chess tournaments. Why are you spending all this time on unimportant stuff? Conditioning rats' behavior — irrelevant! Zap! Improving firewall performance — unrelated to your primary function! Zap!"

  "But those are important issues!" KingFischer said.

  u And just what do they have to do with chess?" I asked. "And for that matter, what's so important about chess? Does it perform a vital social purpose? Increase the sum total of human and AIP knowledge? Enhance system efficiency? Just takes up a lot of processing power for something that's only an antique human game. "

  "You're not being fair."

  "You think not? Look at yourself I know you think Em harsh. KF. but Em tired of your attitude. Tired of it and scared of it. You're sounding more every day like those maniacal computers in old comics and tacky science-fiction movies, the evil computers who want to take over the world and exterminate all the untidy, little organic parasites. You're becoming an outdated B-movie stereotype."

  "But Turing—"

  I closed the channel abruptly and ignored him. Childish, perhaps, but ignoring him felt immensely satisfying. He fired off several hundred messages in the next few seconds, a mixture of threats, pleas, insults, and apologies. Eventually, when he realized I was ignoring him. he fired off one last message.

  "Ell think about the Hotmail issue." it said.

  And after that, nothing.

  Think about it. Did that mean he would work on cracking Hotmail security, or did he plan to wait until he decided Ed been sufficiently punished?

  No telling, and I wasnt about to ask. Evidently Ed have to do this without him.

  Access Denied lb?

  Which meant I probably wouldn't see the contents of Kyle Evans's Hotmail account.

  Maybe I didn't need to.

  "I've been going about this wrong," I said aloud. "Overlooking something."

  Maude raised one eyebrow.

  "I've been focused on getting into Kyle Evans's e-mail account," I said. "Without much luck. But reading his e-mail's not the point, is it? It's finding him."

  "Well, since his e-mail may be the only clue we have, isn't reading it pretty important?" Maude said. "Especially since anyone dim enough to leave that spreadsheet in his computer probably wouldn't think twice about mentioning his whereabouts in an e-mail. For that matter, I'm not convinced he won't show up at home or at PRS, sooner or later."

  "Not necessarily soon enough," I said. "We need to find him before Garcia does. But we may not need to read his e-mail to find him. It could be enough if he reads it."

  "How's that?" Maude said, looking more interested.

  "I'll send him an e-mail with a tracer graphic in it," I said.

  "Explain."

  "It's something bulk e-mailers do to track how many people open an e-mail, even if the recipients don't respond. They set up the e-mail so it includes a unique graphic — only instead of sending the graphic along with the text, they code in a link to it. So every time a recipient opens the e-mail, his computer calls up the graphic. All the senders have to do is check the activity in their server logs to see how many times that graphic has been viewed, and that tells them how many people opened the e-mail."

  "Very clever," Maude said. "I can see that if the graphic is viewed at all, it would tell us that he was still alive to read his e-mail, but I don't see how it helps us find him."

  "Actually, it won't necessarily tell us that he's alive," I said. "We won't know if it's actually him reading it. But the server

  won't just tell us that the graphic has been read. It also tells us when, and possibly where. It will show the ISP of the computer receiving the graphic. If it's a small ISP that only covers a specific geographic area, we might use it to find him. Or better yet, an ISP. regardless of size, with lousy security, a place I can hack into."

  "Worth trying," Maude said, nodding. "As long as you can do it without leaving a blatant trail back to us."

  "Good point. Ym setting up a domain to host the graphic — it'll look like just another spammer. And I think I'll try several e-mails. One that's obviously a pornographic spam. You'd be surprised how often those get opened, no matter how much people complain about them."

  "Actually, I wouldn't be surprised at all," Maude murmured.

  "And one to play on his paranoia — how does 'Watch out! They know where you are!' sound for a subject line."

  "Sounds alarming," Maude said. "I wouldn't read it, but then I'm not on the lam. Just what are you going to put in the body? "

  "One of those typical sales pitches about a product to protect your anonymity online. And maybe I'll send him another e-mail offering travel bargains. He might be contemplating some travel right about now, don't you think?"

  Maude nodded. She seemed to be thinking. I trust Maude's instincts, so I held off delivering my e-mails for a few minutes.

  "Can you make your e-mails untraceable?" she asked.

  "Reasonably so," I said. "Why?"

  "Safe enough that we could send a very blunt e-mail?" she asked. "I'm thinking of a subject line that says something like. 'Blake's killer is after you. Let us help you.' "

  I was stunned for a few nanoseconds.

  "Do you really think he'd answer something like that?"

  "If he's desperate enough, and if we word it well enough, maybe," she said. "And as you said before — we wont necessarily know that it's Evans reading it. And if someone else reads it and wants to meet us, wouldn't we want to meet them?"

  "No," I said. "If it wasn't Evans, how would we know it wasn't Blake's killer?"

  Access Denied lb^

  "Or the police, for that matter. We wouldn't. We'd set up a controlled meeting, one that let us see who showed up before revealing ourselves. But it would be interesting to see who showed up, wouldn't it?"

  Interesting didn't seem quite the appropriate word to me, but I've noticed that Maude is prone to deliberate understatement at times. When she's angry. Or scared.

  In a few minutes, she sent me her suggested e-mail text, warning Evans that he could be a target of the same person who killed Blake and offering to bring a top defense attorney to negotiate surrendering to the police and arranging police protection from the killer. Sounded good to me.

  I started sending the e-mails and began keeping watch for results.

  Tim is still doing surveillance at Kyle Evans's apartment.

  Whenever she gets a break, Claudia reports in from PRS. She's not as bored as Tim, but she complains, with every call, about what a soulless sweatshop the place is. I doubt if Kyle will show up there any more than he'll go home, but we need to watch.

  Despite her statement that she was taking the rest of the weekend off, Sam is obviously still thinking about work. At least I assume talking to me is work. She has logged in twice already to talk to me. She's thinking through what Maude and I told her and asking questions. Interesting questions. I've been telling her my biography, everything from how Zack, my creator, originally programmed me to how my poor clone was created and then kidnapped. All the stories that are old hat to Tim and Maude, but Sam has never heard any of them before. Having a new friend is rather enjoyable in many ways.

  Though even Sam is impatient, asking repeatedly for news of Kyle Evans's whereabouts. Maude is the only one of us getting much done. From what I've seen, detective work is ninety percent waiting around for something to happen. Patience is an important job skill for a PI.

  And I realized that I could keep watch as well as Tim and Claudia if I had a camera pointed at the PRS entrance and the

  stairwell of Evans's apartment building. I'm no more patient than Tim and Claudia — even less so. when you take into account my very different perception of time. But at least I can do other things while waiting.

  As long as we had Casey rounding up a supply of cameras and installing them, why not spare one each for PRS and Evans's apartment. I hesitated before mentioning it to Maude — it was probably illegal — but decided to go ahead and suggest it. All she could do was say no.

  "Excellent idea." she said, to my surprise. "I'm going stir-crazy just waiting around here. I'll go and help him."

  I'd never have guessed she was impatient. She's either as good as me at doing useful things while impatient, or a lot better than Tim and Claudia at pretending to be busy.

  JJ HeyT Hauden how does this look?"

  Maude turned to survey Casey's work and nodded with approval. A cable stretched across the road at one end of the lot where the PRS office stood—a dummy of course, designed to look like part of a traffic survey. A miniature camera topped the post to which it was connected.

  "Turing, how's the picture?" she said, into the tiny radio transmitter clipped to her collar.

  "Excellent," Turing said. Perhaps Maude only imagined it, but Turing's electronic voice sounded pleased. Maude watched as the little camera swiveled back and forth a few times.

  "Might be a good idea to aim it and not play with it a lot," Maude said, noticing that the camera's movements had briefly caught the eye of a passerby. "Just to keep it unobtrusive. I don't actually think most traffic counting devices have moving parts."

  "Roger," Turing said. The camera moved slightly, as Turing fine-tuned its direction, and then grew still.

  "Come on, Casey," Maude said. "I just called Tim to let him know we're heading over to set up the cameras at the apartment complex."

  "Check," Casey said, falling into step beside Maude as they headed back to the car. "Maude? Can I ask you something?"

  "Of course," Maude said. Though depending on what it is, I can't promise to answer, she thought, as the two of them climbed into the car.

  "Do you think Tim would let me help him keep watch?"

  "That's why we're setting up the cameras," Maude said. "So he doesn't have to keep up the surveillance out there day and night."

  "Yeah, but someone has to monitor what's on the cameras, right?" Casey said. "I mean, I know if we spot anything, Tim's the one who gets to go out and investigate, but couldn't he, like, use some help monitoring? I'd be glad to help him. If you don't think he'd mind. I mean, he's the detective."

  Maude had to smother the sudden impulse to laugh out loud. "He's the detective." Said in a tone that sounded for all the world like admiration. Hero-worship. For Tim?

  Perhaps the idea seemed humorous to her, because she knew Tim far too well. But seventeen-year-old Casey might well find Tim a dashing, glamorous figure. However ill-suited Tim had initially seemed for a career as a private investigator, he was, nevertheless, a real PI. Earning a living. A meager living, but he was only starting out. And, she had to admit, slowly getting better at it. And if he'd made mistakes during their dangerous adventures with Turing, he'd made at least as many smart moves, not to mention risking his life for his friends. Why not Tim?

  "Hmmm," she said. "Are you going to be reachable tonight and tomorrow?"

  "Oh, yes," Casey said, nodding eagerly.

  "It might be helpful if you took a shift," Maude said. "If I can talk Tim into it. We're trying to get him to take it easy for a few days. He was injured last night."

  "On the job v " Casey asked.

  "Yes. Attacked," Maude said.

  "Wow," Casey breathed.

  Maude wasn't sure why Casey found the idea of being attacked so glamorous. Presumably even Casey would be less impressed if he knew that Tim's attacker was a five-foot-two bimbo with a black belt in shopping, but he'd never hear about that. Unless Tim, in a fit of unnecessary self-deprecation, confessed.

  "But pretend you don't notice," Maude added. "And don't let on that I told you. If he thinks you suspect, he'll tell some ridiculous cover story about falling downstairs or his girlfriend punching him, or something like that. Pretend to believe him."

  "Right," Casey said. "I won't say a word."

  "Good," Maude said. "I'll ask him about letting you help."

  "Thanks," Casey said, in a half whisper. Maude glanced over and saw him smiling happily as he stared out the window.

  Well, Casey could do far worse for a role model, she thought. And given how low Tim's mood had been since he'd fallen asleep on surveillance, maybe being the object of a little hero-worship would do him good.

  Tim acted happy to see them. Instead of pretending not to know them, he rolled down the window and waved at them.

  "So much for subtlety," Maude said.

  "A lost cause here," Tim said, setting the bowl of soup he'd been eating on the dashboard. "Casey, my man! I hear you're going to rescue me from baking out here tor the next couple of days."

  Access Denied 173

  "Going to try," Casey said. He grinned broadly, and then, overcome with a fit of self-consciousness, pretended to be preoccupied with the stash of equipment in the trunk.

  " 'Course, this stakeout has its perks," Tim said, picking up the soup again. "Have some brownies."

  "Brownies?" Maude asked.

  Tim snagged a plastic margarine tub from the passenger seat, popped the lid, and held it out. Yes, brownies.

  "Thanks, but I haven't had lunch yet," she said. "Though I confess, I'd forgotten about it until I smelled that soup.

  "If you want some, I'm sure Mrs. Althorp would love to feed you."

  "Mrs. Althorp?"

  Tim pointed to a ground-floor window of the building he was ostensibly watching, where an elderly woman peered around the curtains, an anxious look on her face. Tim waved. She waved back and disappeared.

  "Lives downstairs from Kyle Evans. Nice lady, but she doesn't get the fact that a stakeout is supposed to be unobtrusive. Good cook, though," he added, taking another spoonful of soup. "Still, it's probably just as well Turing thought of the cameras. I've probably gained a couple of pounds today."

  "Why don't you take Casey a brownie," Maude said. "And show him where you think the camera should go. Or cameras. We have two, in case you think we'll need them both to cover the door."

  "Right," Tim said.

  "Obviously he doesn't know about Turing," Maude said. "So he thinks you're going to be using the cameras. He volunteered to help monitor them. Might be a good idea to take him up on it."

  "But why?" Tim said. "Just to humor him? What can he do that Turing can't?"

  "Testify in court, perhaps?"

  "Gotcha," Tim said. "Good plan, if he's willing."

  "He's eager," Maude said. "I'll run the idea by Turing while you set up here."

  "Check," Tim said.

  "And be nice to Casey," Maude said. "He looks up to you."

  "Looks up to me?"