Maude was sitting in front of the keyboard. She typed in a couple of words at random — "file," "names," and "phishing" — and I deduced she wanted the file in which we'd found Gladys Phelps's name.

  / took the file of fake names, addresses, and social security numbers — the one we'd let Matt Danforth download — added the actual record for Phelps to the middle of it, and displayed it on-screen.

  "There it is," Maude said. "See for yourself "

  Mrs. Phelps motioned with the gun for Maude to get out of the way. I don't know whether it was deliberate or not, but Maude got up on the side away from my camera and my waldo. Mrs. Phelps sat down in the chair and shoved it as far away from Maude as possible. Pacing Maude. Perfect. I might have a chance of grabbing the gun with the little pincer.

  Although, considering my skill at maneuvering the pincer we would probably all be better off if Maude could stall her until the police arrived.

  Mrs. Phelps glanced at the screen.

  "What's this?" she asked.

  "It's the social security and credit card numbers Eddie and his friends have stolen in their phishing expeditions over the last month," Maude said.

  "I want the money, not the damned evidence."

  "Eddie spent all the money," Maude said. "But you can get money for this."

  "Get money with it? How?"

  "Sell it," Maude said. "There are plenty of people who would pay money for this data. There must be several hundred social security and credit card numbers there."

  "Sell it where?"

  Just then I spotted Sachi, the cat, coming down the stairs. Maude spotted her, too.

  "Stop that!" Mrs. Phelps snapped.

  "Stop what?"

  "Stop pretending there's someone coming down the stairs. You won't fool me with that old trick. Where would I sell it?"

  Sachi was batting at something. A Chinese carryout carton, probably left over from the FBI technicians' visit.

  "Well," Maude said, deliberately ignoring the cat. "then m websites where you could go and —"

  S3S Donna Andrews

  Sachi knocked the carton off the stairs, and it fell to the ground with an audible thump.

  Mrs. Phelps whirled and fired the gun toward the noise. Sachi hissed and ran upstairs.

  "It was just the cat! " Maude exclaimed.

  I heard something upstairs. Probably upstairs and outside — the police arriving?

  "Stand back!" Mrs. Phelps hissed. She was watching both Maude and the stairs, judging by the way her head moved back and forth. Her back was to me, so I couldn't see which way she was looking, but I assumed her eyes and the gun would be pointing in the same direction. So I waited until the gun was at the far end of its arc — pointed at Maude — then extended my waldo with the pin-cer. When the gun swung back, I gripped the barrel with my pincer and jerked up as sharply as I could.

  Mrs. Phelps shrieked something incoherent and fired two shots through the ceiling while the pincers were still holding her. Then she pulled the pincer out of the USB slot and it dangled uselessly from the barrel while she whirled and emptied the rest of the bullets into two of Eddie's computers. Neither of them was the one I was logged in on, though, so I still had a good view of the action as Maude smashed her on the head with an obsolete hard disk drive.

  "Thank God," I heard Norris mutter. Strangely enough, he looked more upset now that Maude was safe than he had when she was in danger. He sat with his eyes closed for a good five minutes, which was a pity, because he missed seeing how efficiently Maude disarmed the imposter and tied her up with her own duct tape.

  Perhaps he'll enjoy watching it later. I'll ask Maude if she wants me to burn a DI'd for him.

  Monday-. 1: m p-n-

  "An apparent suicide!" Maude exclaimed "Do the police really believe Danforth shot himself?" *

  "I don't think Powell's entirely happy about it," Norris said. "But he doesn't have any evidence pointing elsewhere. Gunshot residue on Danfbrth's hands; none on Tim or Casey. No proof that anyone else was there."

  "No proof someone couldn't have been," Maude said.

  Norris held out his hands, palms up, as if to concede t he-point.

  "But since you can't even prove that anyone else was there, it's a waste of time speculating who could have been, Maude said.

  Norris nodded.

  "So as the police see it," Tim said, "Mrs. Phelps, the im-poster, tipped Danforth off that the FBI was after him when she went over, vandalized the Jag, and demanded her money."

  Norris nodded again.

  "Ironic, her going after the Jaguar," he said. "Considering it was probably bought with what Danforth took from her."

  "He really took that much?" Maude asked. "From her credit cards?"

  "Not just the credit cards," Norris said. "He was also running a version of the old Nigerian scam on a few ol his victims. He cleaned her out."

  "No wonder she was mad," Claudia said.

  "Doesn't justify homicide," Maude muttered.

  "No, but it explains why she came unglued," Claudia said.

  "And about the same time that Mrs, Phelps moves on CO terrorizing Mrs. Stallman and eventually Maude," Tim went on, "Danforth shows up at Casey's office—to do what t n

  "To retrieve his vigilante program," Norris said. "Or rather, to erase any traces that it had ever existed."

  "So you think Danforth was the one using Casey is I pawn?" Maude asked.

  "Could be," Norris nodded.

  "But you don't know."

  "The vigilante program was the only thing he deleted from Casey's machine," Norris said. "Deleted very effectively, I must say; if we hadn't been keeping an eye on the lad, Powell would only have your word that the program was even on his machine."

  "But now he has your word and ours," Maude said. "How do you know he did the deleting?"

  "Seems reasonable; you saw the program; an hour later it was gone, and whoever deleted it used the same highly effective method Danforth had already used to wipe the hard drives of his own computers. At least the ones we can find."

  "So you don't really have any proof of what he was doing?" Tim said.

  "We have the evidence you turned over of what he did on Eddie Stallman's machines, and the evidence our own technicians are extracting to corroborate it. We may learn more from his machines, eventually."

  "We meaning the FBI, not the Arlington PD."

  Norris nodded.

  "Detective Powell is leaving that to us," he said. "He can live with the premise that Danforth, after spending the day trying to eliminate all traces of his phishing scheme and his role as the so-called vigilante, panicked when he heard approaching sirens and committed suicide."

  "What about that convenient power outage?" Tim asked.

  "Apparently caused when a tree limb, loosened in the recent thunderstorms, fell onto the power line feeding into the Alan Grace office building," Norris said.

  "Someone could have dropped that limb on the power line," Tim said. "It's too much of a coincidence to believe it happened right at that moment."

  "Powell speculated that if Danforth was already in an agitated state, he may have assumed th*at the FBI had caused the power outage, as a precursor to storming the building."

  "And the broken window?"

  "A fleeting notion of escaping out the back?" Norris suggested. "Or perhaps, once the air handling system went out, he needed air."

  "Yeah, right," Tim said.

  "I assume the FBI would prefer having Arlington close all three homicide cases and letting you continue your other investigations unhampered," Maude said.

  "What other investigations?" Tim said. "If Danforth was the phisher and the vigilante, what's left to solve?"

  "He may have been the phisher," Maude said, watching Norris's face, "but I'm not sure he was the vigilante. A vigilante, maybe, but not the vigilante."

  "What makes you think that?" Norris said, his voice wary.

  "The program," Maude said.

  "The one Danforth tried to erase?"

  "Yes, the one we gave you a copy of," Maude said. "Danforth didn't create that. He got it from someone."

  "You don't think he's capable?" Norris asked.

  "That program was based on one that was stolen from us," Maude said. "He may have modified it—certainly someone did; the original program wasn't designed to be a get-out-of-jail-free card for sleazy pornographers. But that was before Nestor Garcia got his hands on it."

  Norris nodded slightly.

  "You recognized it," he said. "Or, rather, Ms. Grace did."

  "Key bits of code, yes," Maude said. "It's definitely based on our program. The version Nestor stole. Which links Matt Danforth to Nestor."

  "It's a possibility we have to investigate," Norris said. "Which reminds me . . ." he added, looking at his watch.

  "Either you're late for a meeting, or we've elicited all the information you were planning to give us," Maude said.

  "Something like that," Norris said, and Maude thought she could see his lip twitch slightly, in the barest hint of a smile. "I assume you're finished with the Stallman case now?"

  "I still need to type up my report to Mrs. Stallman," Tim said. "But after that, yeah."

  "I'll still be working with her to find a vendor who can take over hosting Eddie's clients," Maude said. "Preferably one who'll pay for the privilege, though that depends on what we learn about his revenues. Something I can start on tomorrow, unless there's something your technicians still need to do that you'd like me to wait for."

  "No, go ahead," Norris said. He stood up and picked up his briefcase.

  "Great," Maude said, as she got up to escort him out. "If I work fast enough, Mrs. Stallman may never have to find out that her grandson was hosting pornography sites out of her basement."

  "You're closed for the day," Norris said, as they walked down the hall. Stating the obvious; all the desks and cubicles that would normally house the Alan Grace staff were empty and silent.

  "We didn't think anyone would get much done under the circumstances," Maude said. "We want to get someone in to clean up before the staff come back."

  "There are services that specialize in that," Norris began.

  "Yes, and the D.C. area has plenty of them," Maude said. "We have one standing by to come in as soon as we get the word from Powell that he's definitely finished here."

  "You should get that by the end of the day," Norris said. "I'll see to it."

  "Thanks," Maude said. "We could have them in tonight and open tomorrow."

  "So I assume you'll probably want to supervise the crime scene cleanup crew tonight," Norris said, pausing on the threshold. "Maybe dinner tomorrow?"

  "That would be nice," Maude said. "Tomorrow's better than tonight. Gives us both all of tomorrow to think of something other than our work that we can talk about."

  "Good idea," Norris said. 'Til bring a cheat sheet."

  Which meant, Maude supposed, as she watched him walk to his car, that he was at least willing to keep trying. That he felt, as she did, that it was worth trying.

  Still, she was glad she'd have time to think through how she felt about what she still thought of as her small betrayals. The things she hadn't told him about, especially helping Claudia tail him. Either he didn't know about them or he'd decided he could accept them.

  Besides, who knew what small betrayals of his own he had on his conscience?

  She watched as Norris drove off, then walked back to her office. Apparently, her absence hadn't stopped the discussion.

  "They're not sharing much information with us," Turing said, as she walked in.

  "Do you really expect them to?" Claudia asked.

  "No," Turing said. "I was merely pointing out the fact. As a matter of information."

  "As justification for your own reluctance to share information with them," Maude added.

  "We shared the program," Turing said.

  "Which they might have recovered anyway."

  "Do you blame me?" Turing said. "The one thing Norris didn't mention was the possibility that someone in law enforcement was in league with the vigilante."

  "They might not move on one of their own quite as fast," Maude said. "We might not be the first to hear about it when they do. They'd probably keep that pretty quiet."

  "Then we'll keep quiet, until we hear something to reassure us that their leak has been plugged," Turing said.

  Maude nodded. She didn't like the idea, but she couldn't argue with it.

  "So this guy Danforth had a copy of the program Nestor stole," Claudia said. "I gather finding this copy doesn't really help?"

  "The problem isn't that we needed a copy," Turing said.

  "We already had one. The problem is with Nestor having one at all—you see what he's done with it already."

  "Another problem is Casey," Tim said. "What do we do with him?"

  That stopped conversation for several long moments.

  "I'm sorry," Tim said. "I know it's not something anyone really wants to think about."

  "But we have to," Maude said. "We have to decide what to do about him."

  More silence.

  "Do we have to do anything?" Claudia said.

  "Yeah," Tim said. "I mean, don't get me wrong—I like Casey. I think he was probably an innocent pawn."

  "Nestor's pawn," Claudia put in. "Do you really think Nestor chose him at random?"

  "Thinking isn't knowing," Maude said. "Unless we can prove he was innocent, we'll always have the lingering suspicion that he might still be in contact with Nestor. I think its clear what we have to do."

  "Definitely," Turing said. "We have to make sure he stays at Alan Grace for the foreseeable future."

  "We what?" Tim asked. "I thought you'd be all for getting rid of him."

  "If there's even a chance he's in contact with Nestor, we need to keep an eye on him," Turing said. "He could be the trail that leads us to Nestor."

  And to her clone, of course, Maude thought. She nodded. Not an easy solution, but she could see why Turing would choose it.

  "Keep your friends close," Turing added, "but your enemies closer, as Sun Tzu advises."

  "Sun Tzu?" Tim echoed. "I thought it was Don Vito Corleone."

  "Him, too," Maude said. "Good advice from either source. My first grade teacher used to put the really naughty kids in the front row, where she could keep a close eye on them."

  Delete All Suspects 23^

  She wondered, briefly, if that was why Dan Norris hadn't disappeared from her life completely.

  I'll find out eventually, won't I? she thought, and then shoved the subject out of her mind.

  Tim slumped back in the seat-i happy to let Claudia do the driving.

  "So what are you moping about?" she asked.

  "Wondering if I'll be a complete laughingstock when people find out I took a case from a phony client," he said.

  "It happens," Claudia said, shrugging.

  "When was the last time you did anything that stupid?" Tim asked.

  "Urn . . . Friday," Claudia said. "Remember Karl Collins?"

  "Eddie's pornographer friend?"

  "Yeah," Claudia said. "Who seemed like a nice guy. Not bad looking, in a preppie sort of way. Made a big deal about how unattached he was."

  "Don't tell me you went out with him."

  "No!" she said, laughing. "He is so not my type. But I tried to set him up with a friend of mine."

  "Oh, brother," he said, laughing.

  "It's a good thing she was out of town this weekend," Claudia said. "But unfortunately, I left her a message about him, and she's left three messages since Sunday night, asking when I'm going to introduce them. How can I break the news that the handsome young software executive is actually a dirty old man in training?"

  "You'll manage," Tim said.

  "Yeah, right," she said. "But in the short term, I think my job will keep me very, very busy for the next week or so."

  "We don't have anything going but routine background investigations," Tim said.

  "Hey, donlt knock those background investigations," Claudia said. "Pays the rent. In fact, if we both put in a long

  week and finished the latest batch, we could not only pay the rent, we could afford to take next week off and fly down to Miami. Sit on the beach drinking pina coladas, and eating my Tia Yolanda's ropa vieja."

  It didn't sound half bad, Tim thought.

  "Maybe when I finish my report to Mrs. Stallman," he said. "If nothing else has come up while we were off chasing hackers and vigilantes."

  "Good deal," she said, as she pulled up in front of their office building to drop him off. "Catch you later. And cheer up!"

  Of course, first he had to finish his report to Mrs. Stall-man. Sometimes that was the hardest part of a case. Because he always wrote his report so it at least sounded as if they knew exactly what they were doing the whole time; as if they had a logical plan and followed it through to a solution. If he admitted that most of the things they did were blind alleys, and a few backfired big time, and that the most important bits of evidence they'd found were only because they stumbled over them by accident—well, it didn't exactly inspire confidence in the client. The client wanted answers, certainties—closure. Tim tried to give them that.

  Perhaps by doing so he could reach closure himself. You didn't get much closure any other way in real life. They probably had answers to all the questions Mrs. Stallman had asked—they knew who had killed Eddie and why. The little why of motive, anyway, not the big existential why. She'd probably go to her grave wondering about that.

  They'd probably never get definitive answers to the tougher questions, the ones that mattered more to him and to Maude and Turing. Like what was Matt Danforth's real connection to Nestor Garcia, what was Nestor really up to, and was it only a coincidence that their path* an4 his had intersected once again? For stuff like that, they might never get a neat, tidy solution with all the loose ends tied up.'Sometimes closure was a matter of accepting when you knew as much as you were ever going to know and it was time to move on.

  So, as he opened the door, he looked forward to the moment when he finished his report. He'd shove a copy in the envelope he'd already addressed to Mrs. Stallman, put a second copy in the case file, and then exile the whole thing to the battered gray filing cabinet in the corner. After that, maybe he could start to move on.