Probably a withering condemnation in Casey's world. Tim made a mental note not to ask Casey for help the next time he screwed up his e-mail account.

  "Why did he want to hire a PI?" he said aloud.

  bO Donna Andrews

  "I don't know exactly," Casey said. "We'd have lunch maybe once a week. The last month or so, he kept saying these cryptic things about people being up to something and getting him into trouble."

  "He didn't say anything more specific?" Tim asked.

  Casey shook his head.

  "Sounded like your typical Dealy Plaza, alien abduction, radio-signals-in-the-fillings kind of paranoia to me," Casey said. "But then one time when he mentioned that it was something to do with his business, I e-mailed back your name and suggested he hire you to investigate. Why should shrinks be the only ones making money off of wackos?"

  "Thanks, I guess," Tim said. "That's all he said?"

  "He said something about fishing," Casey said. "That's about it."

  "So what can you tell me about his business?"

  "He does web hosting," Casey said.

  "What's that?" Tim said.

  Casey blinked for a few moments and frowned as if Tim might be pulling his leg.

  "Say you wanted a website for your PI business," he began.

  "I'd ask Turing," Tim said. In fact, he did have a website. He'd even seen it a couple of times, when Maude, Turing, and Claudia insisted that he look at what they'd come up with before they unveiled it to the public. He wasn't sure what good a website did them, but these days, apparently, no business was complete without one.

  "Say you wanted a website and you didn't happen to know an uber-geek with server space to burn and a graphic designer on her payroll," Casey said. "You'd need to find someplace to host it."

  "Hosting means designing and writing it?" Tim asked.

  "No, hosting means providing a computer to put the files on and a connection to the Internet," Casey said. "It's like the landlord, renting out an unfurnished apartment.

  Delete All Suspects bl

  Designing and writing are like furnishing and decorating it. For that, you get a web designer and a technical writer."

  "Eddie's brochure says he does design and copywriting," Tim pointed out.

  "Yeah, and if you don't really care how bad it looks and reads, you can have him design and write your site," Casey said. "Most people hire someone else. Or find a friend who's good at that kind of stuff. Or do it themselves, in which case they might not do any better a job than Eddie, but at least they didn't pay good money for it."

  "So all Eddie does is rent people computer space?"

  "Its more complicated than that," Casey said, shaking his head. He frowned at Tim again and took a deep breath. "It's a special kind of computer—bigger, faster, able to handle hundreds, even thousands of people visiting the websites on it, all at the same time. One that knows how to talk to the Internet efficiently."

  "Right," Tim said, nodding. Casey was talking the way people usually did when they explained technical terms to him, slower and louder than usual.

  "He has to have a special kind of phone line and security to keep hackers out," Casey went on. "And he keeps it running, twenty-four seven. Stuff like that."

  "And probably a lot more stuff that you're not even trying to explain to a technical illiterate like me," Tim said.

  Casey shrugged sheepishly.

  "More complicated than most people would ever want to do," Tim went on. "But not so complicated that someone like Eddie can't do it out of his basement."

  "The actual servers aren't in his basement," Casey said. "He rents server space from a place out in Loudoun County."

  The co-lo site, Tim thought.

  "Then sublets it to his clients," he said aloud.

  "Something like that," Casey said. "He used to host things in his basement, but now he just manages everything from there."

  b2 Donna Andrews

  "He must not invite too many clients over for a tour of the business," Tim said, shaking his head.

  Casey spluttered with laughter, and then whimpered slightly and readjusted the bags of frozen peas.

  "Yeah," he said, when he'd rearranged the makeshift ice packs to his satisfaction. "Not many Fortune 500 companies hiring Eddie."

  "So who does hire him?" Tim asked.

  "I don't really know," Casey said, looking rather surprised. "I know he's got this personal injury lawyer. He's always calling with some change or question. A local heating and air-conditioning repair firm. His grandmother's church. Those are the only ones I can think of."

  "He doesn't have many clients?"

  "Enough, I guess," Casey said. "But I'd only know about the ones I had to work on."

  "You worked for him?"

  "No, just helped him out a few times," Casey said.

  "For free?"

  "He lets me keep a couple of machines on the rack at his co-lo space," Casey said.

  "I see," Tim said, banishing the fleeting mental image of a laptop chained to some medieval torture device.

  "He's a one-man operation," Casey went on. "So if he wants to take some time off, he has to get someone else to keep an eye on things. You know, if a site goes down, you bring it up again; if someone forgets his password you reset it for him; if someone needs a quick update you help them with it. Most of the time nothing's happening; you're just there in case something goes wrong."

  "Kind of like a baby-sitter," Tim said.

  "Yeah," Casey said, nodding. "Only if you're lucky, the babies are asleep the whole time."

  "So you'd hang around baby-sitting the sleeping computers," Tim said. "How often would you go over there?"

  Delete All Suspects b3

  "To his house you mean? Hardly ever," Casey said, sounding amused. "I can just log in from here and do almost everything remotely. That's one reason why I do it—it's not really much work usually, and I can just open up a few windows and monitor it from here."

  "Ah," Tim said. He was disappointed—if Casey never went over to Eddie's house, he probably couldn't help identify the strange visitors Mrs. Stallman complained about.

  Then something struck him.

  "You log in?" he said. "So you have the password to Eddie's system?"

  "I have an account on his system, if that's what you mean," Casey said. "I don't know if it has the kind of access you need—it's been weeks since I did anything for Eddie."

  "Can you give me the user ID and password you used?" Tim said.

  Casey frowned.

  "Maude and Turing are over there," Tim said. "Trying to get access to Eddie's computers so they can keep his business going while he's in the hospital. If you like, I can get Mrs. Stallman to make some kind of formal request or something."

  "Nah," Casey said. "If Turing wants it, that's good enough for me. She could probably hack it sooner or later, but why make her waste her time? Hang on."

  He stood up and headed toward the other room.

  "If you know the names and addresses of any of Eddie's other friends, that would be great," Tim called after him.

  "Right," Casey said over his shoulder.

  Tim sat studying Casey's living room for a few minutes. The printer had stopped sometime during their conversation, and he heard papers rustling. Probably Casey searching his desk. Then the keyboard rattled for a minute, followed by another quick burst of printer noise, before Casey emerged.

  "User name and password," he said, handing Tim a sheet

  bM Donna Andrews

  of paper. "I e-mailed it to Turing. And here's a copy of an e-mail I forwarded her. Its one Eddie sent a couple of months ago, when he was trolling for someone to look after his stuff while he went out of town. The other guys he sent it to would be the only ones I know of who'd have any information on his business."

  Tim glanced over the names at the top of the e-mail and nodded. Three names besides Casey's. One new one, and two that Maude had already called to give him from a sheet of paper she'd found near Eddie's phone. Though now he had e-mails for them. Maybe he could do something with that. Or, more likely, maybe Turing could.

  "This Tom Zeigler," he said, "do you have a phone number or address for him?"

  "No," Casey said. "Just the e-mails. Don't really know any of 'em except Eddie. You could always e-mail him and find out."

  "Right," Tim said. Though first, obviously, he'd see if he or Turing could locate Zeigler. Sending an e-mail would be a last resort. After all, if there was something fishy happening with Eddie's business, or if what happened to him was a murder attempt, his friends were logical suspects. Not smart to give one of the suspects notice by e-mail that a private investigator wanted to find him.

  "So you wouldn't know if any of these guys had it in for Eddie for some reason?"

  Casey shook his head and glanced at his watch.

  "The only person I can think of who might have it in for him would be Kristyn, his ex-girlfriend," he said. "If this had happened around the time they broke up, I'd say look at her. They had a pretty bad fight, from what he said. But that was at least six weeks ago, maybe two months. I can't see that she'd still be that mad after all this time.."

  "Depends on why they broke up," Tim said. "And maybe on how well she holds a grudge."

  "Eddie didn't say why they broke up," Casey said. "Ex-

  Delete All Suspects b5

  cept I get the impression it was her idea, not his. And before you ask, no, I don't have an address or a phone number for her, or even an e-mail. I don't even know her last name; just Kristyn. With an I and a Y."

  Tim nodded. He saw Casey glance at his watch again.

  "Am I keeping you from something?" he said, indicating the watch. "Hot date?"

  Casey laughed.

  "As if," he said. "It's just that I get to take another pain pill at three and I'm really looking forward to that."

  "Sorry," Tim said. "I didn't realize this was a bad time."

  "It's okay," Casey said. "If you woke me up, that would be a bad time. Now's okay. I can't take the stuff for another ten minutes. It's useful, having something to distract me till it's time. After the pain pill, I can sleep, but the half hour before I take it seems to last forever."

  "But by the time you show me out, it'll be time for the pill," Tim said, standing up. "I should be going anyway."

  "Thanks," Casey said. "Look, if it were any other time, I'd be glad to help you with this. The computer side of it, anyway. Of course, if you've got Turing, you don't really need me, I know, but I'd like to help. It's just I've spent half the day unconscious and when I'm awake, I can hardly concentrate for two minutes because of the pain."

  "I understand," Tim said. "When you feel better, let Turing know, and if there's stuff you can do, she can explain it better than I can."

  Casey nodded.

  "One more thing," Tim said. "I'm mainly investigating the possible problem with his business, but if I find any evidence that the hit-and-run wasn't an accident, the police will probably want to talk to his friends."

  "Then I hope you don't find anything for a few days," Casey said. " 'Cause I really don't feel like talking. Not to the cops, I mean," he added, as if realizing how inhospitable he sounded.

  "The police will ask if you have an alibi," Tim said. "If

  bt Donna Andrews

  you do, tell me, and maybe I can keep them from bothering you before you feel better."

  "An alibi," Casey repeated. "Okay, when do I need an alibi for?"

  "Between eleven and twelve Wednesday night," Tim said.

  "That's easy," Casey said. "I was at Alan Grace until past one. Taking care of some stuff I needed to do before I was out. The computer logs will show how long I was there."

  "Great," Tim said, though he planned to have Turing check Casey's alibi. See if she could see Casey in her security cameras, for instance. He wasn't sure how easy it was to fake a computer log, but if anyone could do it, Casey could. And the Alan Grace office wasn't that far from Fillmore Street— two miles or maybe three. At that time of night, without much traffic, it wouldn't take long. Half an hour round-trip, if that much. If Casey didn't appear pretty continuously on Turing's cameras—

  He'd worry about that later.

  "I'll see you," he said, turning for the door. "Get some sleep."

  "I will," Casey said. "That's my goal for the next day or two—spending as much time as possible unconscious."

  He was reaching for the pill bottle as Tim closed the door.

  Perhaps it's lucky Casey had his wisdom

  teeth out this morning. I didn't realize immediately that if Casey is one of Eddie's friends, we shouldn't involve him too deeply in the investigation. Technically, he's a suspect. Perhaps more than technically. I can't prove he was at the Alan Grace offices every minute of the time between eleven and twelve on Wednesday night. If he ivere one of my programmers, I could verify his whereabouts more precisely. But according to the status e-mail he sent me before leaving that night, he spent most of the evening troubleshooting two ?nal-functioning computers, which wouldn't leave traces itrthe network.

  Delete All Suspects b?

  // could take every minute of the several hours he claims to have spent, or it could only require sitting around and waiting for diagnostic programs to run. There's almost no reliable way to tell when the work was actually done. Someone could reset the computers internal clock, and appear to have been typing away busily while he was really across town committing a murder.

  Not that I'm suspicious of Casey. More worried that his alibi isn 't as strong as he might think.

  His security card shows that he went out, presumably for supper, at 5:46 P.M., reentered at 6:20 P.M., and then didn't leave until 1:17 A.M. But our security system was designed to keep intruders from getting in, not to prevent employees from sneaking out. Could he have done so? Exited through a window, for example?

  Tim or Claudia should investigate that. But later, after they finish talking to Eddie's other friends.

  For the moment, I can take some comfort in the fact that though it's possible for Casey to have been the hit-and-run driver, it's implausible. I caught him on camera at 11:05 P.M. going from his office to the soda machine, and returning at 11:07 P.M. He could have raced out of the building using a route that avoids all my cameras, exchanged his battered white Ford Escort hatchback for a dark blue sedan and driven 3-2 miles to run down Eddie Stall man at roughly 11:30 P.M., but it seems unlikely.

  The user ID and password he sent don't work. Not surprising. He hadn't used them for five weeks, and if something had alarmed Eddie enough to tnake him consider hiring a private investigator, he d probably also changed passwords. However sloppy he may be about his physical environment, he doesn't seem equally slipshod online.

  Still, the e-mail Casey forwarded does indicate that Eddie relied on an informal network of friends to substitute when he wanted to take an evening or a weekend off. Not a secure practice, but possibly one he'd be forced to follow if money were tight. And it meant we could probably find other friends he'd called on more recently than Casey.

  bfl Donna Andrews

  So while Vm disappointed that the password Casey gave Tim doesn't work, I think Vm also relieved. One less reason for Casey to look like a suspect to the police. Or to me.

  Friday-i 3:30 p-n-

  Maude leaned back and pushed the hair off her forehead. Eddie's basement lair was stuffy and overheated. Sweat collected under her bangs and at the back of her neck and trickled down the back of her blouse occasionally. Yet even as she patted her forehead dry with a tissue, a chill seeped into her legs and buttocks, right through her clothes, everywhere she touched the floor, which was linoleum over concrete. As cold as it was hard, she thought, shifting uncomfortably.

  The dust didn't help either. She reached in her pocket for another tissue. She'd now spent nearly two hours methodically going through Eddie's papers. She'd waded through the clutter to begin at Eddie's desk and then moved outward in a semicircle. So far she hadn't gotten far from the desk. She'd already filled a box and a half with junk mail and other apparent trash, though they'd wait a good while before shredding any of it. She was on her third box of potentially business-related papers. She hadn't come across anything as useful as a bank statement or a letter to a customer, so she'd filled these boxes with anything computer-related that she found. Some of it would probably turn out to be more hobby- than work-related, which would probably explain why the box of personal papers was growing so slowly.

  Of course, the reason everything was going so slowly was that before consigning each piece of paper to one of the boxes, she either ran it through a small scanner attached to the laptop or, if it wouldn't scan well, held it up to Turing's camera for capture. Later on this might save a great deal of time, and she took comfort in the fact that she would never

  Delete All Suspects b^

  have to wade blindly through the whole morass again, but meanwhile, the scanning only made an already slow process even more tedious.

  "It's not fair," she said.

  "What's not fair?"

  "Now that you're in charge of the phone, the creditors have stopped calling."

  "No, they haven't," Turing said. "I just didn't think it worthwhile to annoy you with the ring. We've had five calls since I took over the phone. He's overdue on two more credit cards, his car loan, and his payment to his co-lo site."

  "That's only four," Maude said.

  "Someone wants to sell him septic tank chemicals."

  "He should have put himself on the do-not-call list," Maude said, returning to her work. He also should have done something sooner about his shaky financial situation. No wonder Mrs. Stallman was so anxious about money. And so focused on it.

  "I think it's over there by the refrigerator," Turing said.

  "What is?" Maude asked.

  "The cat."

  Maude sighed.

  "I'll have a lot more luck catching it later, when the floor is clearer," she said, not for the first time.

  "Right," Turing said.