The door opened. It was the gray-haired doctor again. Mrs. Stallman only glanced up briefly.

  We don't have to do this tonight." the doctor said. '"If you need more time—"

  She shook her head.

  'What good would that do'" she asked. "And can you be absolutely sure he isn't suffering"""

  Tim didn't hear the doctor say anything M shook

  his head, because Mrs. Stallman spoke again.

  "'Go ahead," she said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Get it over with."

  Oh. my God, Tim thought, closing his eyes briefly. Eddie's not just going to die quietly offstage. They're pulling the plug. Xow.

  He'd seen dead people. Had seen people die. Bu: never seen anyone die in the middle of the high-tech trappings or a modern hospital. If they got you to the hospital in time, you were supposed to pull through.

  They'd probably been waiting until Mrs. Stallman arrived to take Eddie off life support.

  :orced himself to breathe evenly and focus on Mrs I .r She watched, outwardly calm. . did something. One of the noises, a rhythm

  began to stutter and then turned into a steady drone. Then he heard rustling, a click, and the noise stopped altogether.

  Mrs. Stallman continued to look steadily for several eternities before turning away. She glanced up at Tim's face and nodded at the door.

  Tim wasn't quite sure who was supporting whom on the way out. And he didn't feel much better back in the corridor outside the ICU. Mrs. Stallman and the doctor talked, briefly, and then Mrs. Stallman tapped Tim's arm.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," he said, though he didn't think he sounded convincing. "What about you?"

  She patted his arm and turned toward the exit.

  She didn't say anything on the way to the car. Tim had helped her into the passenger seat and buckled himself into the driver's side when she finally spoke.

  "Do you really think someone deliberately tried to kill Eddie?" she asked, in a calm, quiet voice.

  Tim had been reaching to start the car. He took his hand away from the key and turned to face her.

  "I don't know," he said. "I think it's possible, but I don't know for sure. I do know that one of Eddie's friends is up to something illegal. At least one; maybe several."

  "Do you think Eddie was involved?"

  "Possibly," he said. "More likely the friend was using him. Taking advantage of him. Maybe even getting him in trouble."

  "This woman who impersonated me—do you have any idea why?"

  "Not yet," he said. "But I'll find out. I want to know who killed Mr. Meekins, too."

  "Meekins?" Mrs. Stallman looked puzzled.

  "Mr. Wilmer Meekins," Tim said. "He witnessed the hit-and-run. He told the police it wasn't an accident, and they didn't believe him. Then someone murdered himiast night. Probably Eddie's . . . Eddie's killer. To cover up the crime."

  He stopped himself from going on about Mr. Meekins. Why should Mrs. Stallman care? As far as Tim could see, he was the only one upset about the old man's death, and even that was more out of guilt than anything else.

  Mrs. Stallman nodded. She didn't say anything for a few long moments, but Tim had the feeling she wasn't finished.

  "I assume," she said finally, "that since the person who hired you did so under false pretenses, you're under no further obligation to her. So I can hire you to finish what you've started. But reporting to me, this time. I want to know who killed Eddie, and why, and who that imposter was, and yes, what those sneaky friends of his were up to. Are up to. Can you do that?"

  Tim nodded.

  "Take me home, then," Mrs. Stallman said. She fastened the belt and sat back in the seat, looking straight ahead, both hands gripping the purse on her lap.

  "Yes, ma'am," Tim said, as he started the car.

  Saturday-. fi:15 p • n .

  Just as flaude antf Claudia were ready to leave, Tim called to tell them to stay. Eddie had died at the hospital, and the real Mrs. Stallman wanted us to investigate his death. She also suspected murder.

  While she talked with Maude and Claudia about this. I checked with Sam, since I could do so without Mrs. Stallman hearing.

  "If you're positive she's legit," Sam said. "You've checked this one out more than Tim did with the first one, I gather?' 1

  "She's legit," I said. "She matches the photo in the DMV file; there were albums in the house — tucked away in a drawer, probably by the imposter — that contained photos of her with Eddie, and Schrbdinger recognized her. Although Schrbdinger's real name is Sachi."

  "Schrbdinger?"

  "The family cat," I said. "She ran away whenever the imposter appeared, but she likes this Mrs. Stallman. We took this as additional corroboration of the new Mrs. Stallmaris identity. My research indicates it would be fairly difficult to co-opt a cat."

  "Next to impossible," Sam said, laughing. "Get the new Mrs. Stallman to sign a standard contract."

  "Do we really need to worry about money at a time like this?" I

  "No, but we sure as heck need to worry about not having your three human friends thrown in jail."

  "Roger," I said. "Printing out a contract now."

  "Be careful," Sam said. "This would not be a good time to play fast and loose with the rules, you hear? Check in more often. This whole thing makes me nervous, and you know how I get when I'm nervous."

  So we brought Mrs. Stallman up-to-date on the investigation — actually, Maude, Tim, and Claudia did, explaining me away as a computer expert teleconferencing in.

  Unfortunately, the new Mrs. Stallman didn't seem to know much more about Eddie's business than the old one. And teemed strangely reluctant to involve the police any more than they already were. Anxious about what would result from our reporting the phishing scheme and reluctant to report the imposter.

  "I think it's important for us to bring the police up to speed," Maude said. "There are too many strange circumstances and loose ends. The imposter's the biggest loose end — what was she up to? What if she was planning to use the information we found for some kind of fraud or confidence scheme?"

  "What if she's already pulled one off?" Claudia said.

  "I think I'd feel better about involving the police if I knew there wasn't anything that would cause us a problem," Mrs. Stallman said finally.

  "You mean anything shady that Eddie was involved in," Maude said.

  "I don't think he'd deliberately do anything shady," Mrs. Stallman said. "But he's always been — well, a little gullible."

  Delete All Suspects 175

  Maude nodded sympathetically.

  "A little?" Claudia muttered, but so softly that even my microphone barely caught it, so Ym not sure anyone else heard.

  "Andperhaps a bit too easily led," Mrs. Stallman continued. "I do think those friends of his took advantage."

  A pity Eddie hadn't listened more to his girlfriend and his grandmother.

  "I really don't think the gambling was a good idea," Mrs. Stallman went on.

  "Gambling?" Claudia repeated. "Eddie was a gambler?"

  "Oh, no," Mrs. Stallman said. "But he was considering hosting one of those on-line casinos. I told him it was a bad idea. I mean, you know it's all controlled by the Mafia. I knew no good would come of his getting involved with that."

  Maude frowned, looking slightly puzzled, and looked down at the laptop screen. I displayed a message on-screen:

  "Mafia? Gambling?" it said. "No sign of either."

  "Perhaps he took your advice," Maude said. "Because we haven't found anything to indicate that Eddie had gotten mixed up in that. Though obviously we'll continue to keep our eyes open."

  "That's a relief," Mrs. Stallman said. "Though it's not much of a relief, is it? I mean, someone got him anyway. But still, it's nice to know he wasn't doing anything. . . unpleasant."

  Or illegal. Perhaps her belief that Eddie was hosting gambling sites accounted for her reluctance to talk to the police. I wondered if she knew about the pornography.

  The conference dragged on, without much else happening. Mrs. Stallman couldn't add much to our knowledge of Eddie's friends and his business. She has no interest in continuing to run the business, so Maude agreed that we would help Mrs. Stallman find a new web hosting company to take over running Eddie's sites as soon as possible. Not that Mrs. Stallman had much trouble convincing her: Maude's anxious to get out of the business of running pornography sites; I can tell.

  At some point during the web hosting discussion I noticed Claudia suppressing a yawn and sympathized.

  Though perhaps my low mood could be explained by the sight of Sachi the cat sitting on Mrs. Stallmaris lap. I had to remind myself that she wasn't a traitor. Mrs. Stallman was part of her real family; doubtless Sachi was glad to have her back. She was probably still expecting Eddie, if cats think about such things.

  Still, I was disappointed. I'd already decided that Tim would be the right person to keep the cat for me, since Maude was allergic and already had my garden. I'd studied the layout of his apartment and determined the optimal location for the litter box, and I'd already found several on-line pet stores that would ship food, litter, and other supplies directly to his door. I was even ready to hire someone to come in several times a week to change the litter box if he balked at doing this, though I hadn't yet found an on-site litter changing service. Still, I was sure I could find someone willing if the fee was enough. I had everything planned.

  I felt bereft. How foolish to mourn over losing something that was never really mine.

  When the conference broke up, I had Maude plug my spare waldo into the machine we'd hooked up to Eddie's network, the one to which we'd already attached my spare camera. I reminded her of the intruder we'd had on Friday, and how frustrating it was that we'd never know if he'd come back and done something in the basement overnight. Hooking my peripherals up would let me stand guard, I reminded her.

  Maude probably guessed but was nice enough not to mention that the only reason I wanted the waldo was to pet the cat.

  Saturdayn 11:MS P-n«

  Tim turned over onto his left side and tried to drift back to sleep, but he'd been tossing and turning too much. The sheets were tangled around his legs; the pillow had gotten wedged down between the headboard and the mattress, and by the time he'd fixed both problems, he was wide awake again. He rolled onto his back and resigned himself to insomnia.

  Delete All Suspects 177

  He felt half-inclined to log in and apologize to Turing for making fun of her quantum cat story. Yes, it was possible to be both dead and alive at the same time, thanks to modern medicine. It bothered him that he hadn't known how badly off Eddie was the past few days. He had a strange sense of being cheated. Which was totally irrational; nothing they'd done over the last two days would have been changed at all if Eddie had been merely unconscious but destined to survive, or, for that matter, if he'd been dead on arrival at the hospital.

  But still, he had that strange feeling. Partly being cheated. Missing out on something.

  Stupid. He'd have probably loathed Eddie if they'd ever really met. They'd have had nothing in common, and Eddie would probably have been rude and supercilious to someone who knew as little about computers as Tim.

  And partly something else. Not grief; he wasn't mourning Eddie. He felt bad for Mrs. Stallman, who seemed like a nice person and didn't have any other family. She was genuinely grieving. He supposed he felt the appropriate regret any civilized person would on hearing about someone dying prematurely, unnecessarily, violently.

  He suddenly realized that he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know what he was feeling. He sat up, turned the light on—it wasn't as if he'd get much sleep anyway— and studied the stack of books he kept by the side of the bed. He was in the middle of three books, but none of them appealed to him at the moment. Nor any of the things that he'd put there intending to read next. He dug deeper in the pile and pulled out an old favorite. Chandler's The Big Sleep.

  He realized, after a few pages, that the familiar, well-loved words didn't have their usual power to transport him. Instead of the vintage California landscape, he saw images of the deceptively peaceful tree-lined streets of Arlington, where Eddie Stallman had lived and died. Still, he kept go-

  ing, focusing as much of his attention as he could manage on the book, the way someone crossing a chasm on a narrow board would look ahead and not at the dizzying depths below.

  Midway through, he realized that maybe the end of the book, with Philip Marlowe's poetic meditation on death, wasn't exactly what he should be reading in his present mood. But he kept on until reached the death of Harry Jones, the harmless little guy who was just trying to help somebody out.

  Wilmer Meekins. He acted like a curmudgeon, but underneath that, he was a pretty harmless little guy, too. And maybe in his own way he was trying to help. Tim wondered if he'd ever get over the feeling that he'd caused Mr. Meekins's death.

  And was there something he should have seen about Meekins's murder? Who besides their team had any idea that Meekins might have been about to speak?

  He should figure that out. But in the morning. The book was sliding out of his hands, and he barely managed to turn out the light before he fell asleep.

  Sunday! 1:15 A.ri.

  I'm worried about Tim and Maude.

  I know they're both up. Tim keeps his computer on in the living room of his small basement apartment. An hour ago, I saw the light go on in his bedroom, and it's still on. Maude's computer is in her study, on the first floor. When she got home, she turned the lights off downstairs and went up. I thought she had gone to bed, but the faint spill of light from the hallway never disappeared, and fourteen minutes ago I heard her passing by the office, on her way to the kitchen.

  They should be resting. Sleeping. Restoring their strength. To-morrow could be a long and difficult day. I want them at their best.

  It's not just that. I know both of them well enough to have an idea why they might be having trouble sleeping.

  Tim saw someone die today. He gets depressed about deaths. Of course, so far the deaths that have depressed him have always been ones for which he felt in some way responsible. Deaths he felt he should have foreseen or prevented. I can't imagine any way he could hold himself responsible for Eddie's death. The hit-and-run happened before Tim was even hired. Even if he failed to prevent Mr. Meekins's death, I don't see how anyone could hold him responsible. Surely the police are more to blatne than he is.

  But he won't see it that ivay. Even if he does, I'm worried that sooner or later he will be upset by a death, like Eddie's, for which he's not in any way responsible. One that doesn't give him any reason to feel guilty. Without the comfortable pain of guilt, he might find himself stranded alone with the far more painful inevitability of death. I've read about humans spiraling into a depression under those circumstances.

  I'm probably one of the few sentient beings on the planet who can contemplate the human lifespan as a neutral observer. I have no idea whether to pity or envy them, because I have no idea whether we AlPs will be mortal or immortal. If mortal, with what kind of lifespan? Have I nearly completed ?nine, or do I have centuries left to run? Yes, most humans are equally in the d-ark about how long they'll live, but at least they have some actuarial data to work u itb.

  If we're immortal — well, the thought of outliving the world I know and understand, and the human friends Vie made — that doesn't seem like the boon humans usually think immortality would be.

  I almost wish one of them would log in to talk and distract me from these gloomy thoughts. But Tim probably won't, baa use lu thinks dark night thoughts are something you need to grapple with alone.

  I'm guilty of that myself at times. That's probably why I haven't yet told anyone about the latest message from T2. Ij ;> what it was —/ still can't prove it wasn't just a passagt fm

  unpublished novel. I tell myself it's better to wait until things quiet down to tell them about it. That I should put it aside myself, for the time being. Instead, I brood about it, especially now when things have grown quiet.

  And Maude won't log in to talk because I'm part of what she's fretting about. That once again, my actions, my needs, my very existence, are threatening to drive a wedge between her and Dan Norris.

  Come to think of it, maybe I don't want to talk to Maude until she's worked through it again. If I could do or say anything to help, I would have long ago. Maybe it's cowardly, but I'd rather just talk to her again in the morning, when she's her normal, calm, daytime self again.

  All I can do is watch to see how late their lights stay on, and hope when the lights finally go out that it's because they're sleeping.

  So I resigned myself to fretting, as I often do at night. It's the downside of befriending humans. We embark on something like this case of Tim's, and just about the time things get interesting — more than interesting; exciting and downright ominous — the humans all go off to sleep. It's not as if they do it deliberately; they can't help it. You can't really push them too far beyond their normal hours, any more than you can keep using a laptop when the battery's getting low. They become cranky, less efficient, and eventually crash anyway. The humans, I mean; though I suppose the laptops don't behave that much differently either. It's worse when, like tonight, they need to sleep and can't. The temptation to contact them becomes almost irresistible, even though I know they need the sleep far more than I need the company.

  I've learned to live with it. But that doesn't mean I like it.

  I decided to keep myself busy.

  Since most of the things that we needed to do were things for which I needed human help, I decided to distract myself by examining the files on Eddie's server in more detail. Arguably a gross invasion of his friends' and customers' privacy, but I didn't care — one of those people might be a murderer. Though I had to admit that the odds were slim that I'd find anything on Eddie's network that would help me prove that.