Now, Simon was back and needed a favor. He stopped in late Tuesday night and managed to avoid familiar faces. At the bar, Valerie gave him a big smile and said, “Well, well, already escaped?”

  “Ha, ha. I don’t report for a few months.”

  “Rumor was they hauled your ass out in chains, took you straight to death row.”

  “And how reliable are rumors around here?”

  “Extremely unreliable. Good to see you, Simon. I actually cried when I heard the news.”

  “So did I. Bourbon and ginger ale.”

  “You got it.”

  “I don’t see Chub. Is he around?”

  “Upstairs. I’ll get him.” She slid the drink across the bar and disappeared. Simon kept his eyes glued to a Dodgers game and hoped no one would bother him. He was glad it was baseball and not basketball; otherwise, he would be tempted to place a bet.

  He had never been invited into Chub’s office. One wall was nothing but blackened one-way glass that allowed the boss to watch the floor below. One wall was framed autographed jerseys of famous football players. One wall was covered with enlarged photos of Chub preening next to aging sports heroes, none of whom Simon recognized, and a few shady types who were probably either politicians or gang bosses. One wall was adorned with autographed baseballs, basketballs, footballs, pennants, Super Bowl game programs, Kentucky Derby betting sheets, and so on.

  They sat in comfortable chairs and sipped their drinks—bourbon and ginger ale for Simon, bottled beer for the boss. Chub said, “So sorry, man, I couldn’t believe it. Your lawyer said you’re gonna appeal and all that.”

  “That’s the plan, but it’s a mountain to climb. I need some help, Chub.”

  “Well, if it’s your office, stay as long as you want. I’m still working on plans to renovate, probably lease it as office space, maybe retail on street level. But I’m in no hurry.”

  “Thanks, I really appreciate it. Right now I have no place else to go.”

  “A bummer.”

  “But that’s not why I’m here.” As always with Chub, Simon was wondering if someone else might be listening. He doubted it, though. And what did he care at this point? “I need some help and it involves a good hacker.”

  Chub whistled as if stunned by the magnitude of the crime. As if bookmaking and running an illegal gambling business for the past thirty years were nothing compared to hacking. “Can’t help you, Simon. Don’t know nothing about hacking. Computers, man, that’s a different world.”

  For at least the past ten years, Chub’s video poker machines had been rewired by a homemade software program that allowed him to keep tallies on his most active clients. This was not common knowledge, but the gamblers knew it. Yet he always pretended to be overwhelmed by technology.

  Simon said, “I’m not asking you to get involved. I need Spade’s help. Spade knows the right people.”

  “Yes, and he came very close to getting busted two years ago. He’s gun-shy. Can’t blame him.”

  “Here’s what I’m asking, Chub. I want you to talk to Spade so I don’t have to. Spade talks to a hacker. The hacker never knows my name, but he gives me a blueprint on how to hack into the personnel records of the hospital. Spade breaks no laws, neither do you, neither does the hacker. If I get caught, what the hell? I’m a convicted murderer headed to prison with nothing to lose.”

  “You wanna hack a hospital?”

  “Yeah. I figure it’s an easy job.”

  “Beats me, man. Not my world.”

  “I know, but Spade lives there and he knows the right people.”

  Chub took a swig from his bottle and stared at the wall of football jerseys. “What if Spade wants a fee?”

  “Then remind Spade that I got the FBI off his back last December. Tell Spade that I was sleeping with the special agent, a woman, who was in charge of the investigation. You might want to remember that too.”

  “Oh, I remember it well.” Another swig. “You were banging a Fibbie?”

  “An old friend from law school. And, please, this needs to be kept quiet.”

  “Who would I tell, other than Spade? All of my conversations are off the record, Latch. You know that.”

  Of course. Either off the record or recorded by law enforcement.

  “I do. Lean on Spade, Chub. I need some help. I’m rather desperate.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter 55

  He met Landy at an interstate hotel near Staunton, Virginia, two hours south of Braxton. She was in the area working a case and had a few hours she could waste without raising questions. While eager to help, she had become increasingly worried about moonlighting on Simon’s case. Her supervisor was pushing for arrests in some white-collar investigations and she felt the pressure. In addition to her professional problems, her divorce was now final and, while relieved with the split, she was going through the usual letdown. Simon’s conviction didn’t help. She had even mentioned changing careers, but starting a new one as a forty-three-year-old rookie associate at a less than prestigious law firm was not that appealing. With an endless supply of young talent, few law firms were in the market for someone like Landy.

  Simon bought coffees in the lobby and took them to her room. It was not yet 4 P.M., too early to think about drinks and dinner. Not that they were in the mood. Both of their lives were upside down.

  She said, “I hope you’re ignoring social media.”

  “I am. I’m avoiding it, along with the television, newspapers, and magazines. I assume the story has legs.”

  “To put it mildly. It’s the rage. The tabloids are out of control. The stories border on fiction. The posts are as idiotic as anything I’ve ever seen. It’s outrageous.”

  “Spare me, Landy. Things are bad enough. Paula informed me today that the kids have been outed at school. The name Latch is not that common.”

  “I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I brought it up. Just thought you should know.”

  “Thanks. I know you’re concerned.”

  Without stepping out of bounds and violating agency rules, she had gathered some information on Matilda Clark and her boyfriend. In February, Jerry Korsak had signed a six-month lease for a one-bedroom apartment in Fredericksburg. Matilda left Simon’s employment in March, said she was going to Florida, but instead moved in with Jerry. She was now working as a secretary in a car rental agency near Reagan National Airport, about an hour from her apartment. The job appeared to be full-time.

  If Jerry had a job, it was not evident. He was not registered with the Virginia Employment Commission, so there was no paycheck from which to withhold taxes. He was fifty-one years old and his work history was sketchy at best. Now that he was trying to get appointed as administrator of Eleanor’s estate, he would be easier to monitor. Court appearances would be required; petitions had to be filed. Judge Pointer had not yet approved his request to be appointed, but at the moment he was the only person asking for the position.

  If Matilda and Jerry were legitimate suspects in Eleanor’s death, there were several rather formidable problems with investigating them. The most obvious was that Detective Roger Barr had all but closed his file. He had arrested the right suspect, got him indicted, helped get him convicted, and as far as Barr was concerned the case was over. The convicted murderer could not ask the cops to keep digging into an effort to get his conviction overturned. Another problem was the lack of evidence. There was none. If Matilda and Jerry did the deed, where were the witnesses? Not a single employee at the hospital had seen them there after hours. Where was the poison? Any not consumed by the victim had been flushed months ago. Where was the proof that they had procured it? Finding a dealer in the black market would be impossible.

  And where, exactly, was the black market? As Landy suspected, not even the FBI was too concerned about the illegal trafficking of a poison that had virtually no demand. The agency, along with dozens of others, was far too busy trying to stop the flow of substances much more popular.

  She said, “It’s a dead end, Simon. The FBI has no jurisdiction and the local boys have done their job. They got their man.”

  Simon nodded in muted agreement. Possessing thallium was not a crime. Producing it was. And it probably came from the third world.

  He pulled some papers out of his briefcase and put them on the table. “Next project. Here are the names of some hospital employees. Were you in the courtroom when Raymond flashed a bunch of faces on the screen?”

  “Yes, last Thursday, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right. There were at least thirty-three doctors, nurses, and other employees with access to the room. I’ve eliminated all but these ten. Can you dig for dirt and give me their backgrounds? Without setting off alarms?”

  She flipped through the pages. Each name had a color headshot next to it and a short paragraph about the employee. Raymond had obtained the information during discovery.

  Landy looked at the list and said, “Two pharmacists, two technicians, dietitian, two nurse’s assistants, three orderlies. You really think the dietitian would poison a patient?”

  “No. But neither would her lawyer.”

  “And the pharmacists don’t make the rounds, do they?”

  “I’m desperate here, Landy, okay? Indulge me.”

  “All right, all right.”

  “How much information do you have?”

  “Tons. The agency’s database is enormous. Property ownership, utility services, credit card activity, marital history, education, religion, lawsuits, credit reports, rap sheets, employment history, and on and on.”

  “On every American?”

  “Virtually every adult. But almost all of the data comes from other sources, many of them public. The agency just sort of collects and indexes everything.”

  “And you have access to this data?”

  She kicked it for a second, shrugged, and said, “Sure, within reason. I’ll see what I can find.”

  They finally got around to drinks and dinner. Simon did not want to drive home and shuddered at the thought of another night in The Closet. So, they slept together in her hotel bed, with thoughts of intimacy somewhere far away.

  * * *

  After one week as a convicted felon, Simon needed a change of scenery. He was tired of living in the shadows and behind locked doors, flinching every time some jerk banged on his office door. As far as he could tell, no progress had been made in his efforts to exonerate himself. For days he had been buried in piles of hospital records, searching for more names of employees who worked on the hospital’s third floor when Eleanor was there. When he wasn’t digging through that monotonous material, he worked on the first draft of his appellate brief to the Virginia Supreme Court. During his career, he had appealed two cases, both dull zoning matters, to the court. In both cases he’d been the lawyer, not the client. Now, sitting in the other seat was downright bizarre. Instead of cranking out stilted legalese based on old cases, he was writing to save his neck. He vowed to do a dozen drafts until every word was perfect, persuasive, and gave the court no alternative but to reverse the verdict. If beautiful prose and clever arguments could win the day, he would somehow produce them.

  Meanwhile, Landy was poking through the FBI’s database. Casey was snooping around Braxton for any gossip on certain hospital employees. And Spade was dragging his feet finding a suitable hacker.

  On the first Saturday in June, Simon packed his camping gear and left town. He stopped at a country store and bought canned meat, crackers, beef jerky, and a pint of whiskey, things he didn’t mind carrying on his back. He picked up the Blue Ridge Parkway and enjoyed a slow, lovely drive south for ninety minutes. He entered the Shenandoah National Park and stopped at a rest area with a dozen other vehicles. It took a few minutes to adjust the backpack and get it as comfortable as possible, then he was off on a five-mile hike that would take two hours. Hawksbill Mountain rose four thousand feet above the valley and was the highest peak in the park. He had hiked it for years and loved the views, and the solitude.

  On a clear day a hiker could see for fifty miles. Everyone stopped at the peak for a rest, a photo, lunch, a nap, maybe even to sketch or paint. Danger signs were conspicuous. According to a guidebook, at least seven people had taken one step too many since the hike was opened in 1936. Three of the bodies were not found until months later, after the snow had melted and the coyotes were finished. Two of the dead people had left notes behind.

  With less than ninety days to go, Simon was thinking of his future, grim as it was. Assuming his efforts to clear his name went nowhere, the direction they seemed to be headed, he would take command of his final matters here at the peak of Hawksbill Mountain. He would leave notes in his car, take a shot or two of bourbon, trot to the edge of the rock, and launch himself into the air.

  He sat on a bench, sipped water, breathed the clear air, absorbed the panorama, and was at peace with his decision. The more he envisioned his flight, the more he wanted it.

  Chapter 56

  As usual, Simon was refusing all calls from unknown numbers. If they deemed themselves important, the callers left voicemails. Occasionally, he was interested enough to return one. A voice said: “Simon, Spade told me to call.” Female, slow, precise, with a slightly husky tone.

  He immediately called back and said, “This is Simon Latch.”

  “Hello Simon. I’m Zander. A pleasure.”

  A woman of few words. “So you know Spade?” he asked.

  “Oh yes. We were once close. A long story. He wants me to meet you and get some background.”

  Since she was a complete stranger, and since she existed somewhere in Spade’s orbit, Simon told himself to be careful on the phone. Someone was probably listening. Then again, what the hell? What could the authorities possibly do to him that they had not already done?

  “Where would you like to meet?” he asked.

  “I assume you’re keeping a low profile these days.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “There’s a tea shop near the college on Kitt Street. Meet there in an hour?”

  “See ya.”

  Herbal teas were not the rage in rural Virginia. The shop was tiny, only six small round tables, and there were no other customers at ten-thirty in the morning. Zander was seated in a corner and gave him a half-hearted wave, as if she was being forced to indulge him. But for the bright-teal spiked hair, collection of facial piercings, and rampant mascara, she might have been attractive. Indeterminate age, probably between eighteen and thirty-five. Simon’s first thought was: I’m trusting my fate to a flake like this?

  He sat down without shaking hands, not that she offered one. He nodded and said, “Nice to meet you, Zander.”

  “And nice to meet you as well.” He wasn’t wrong about the slow, sultry voice. It almost made up for her initial appearance.

  “How do you know Spade?”

  She smiled. Beautiful teeth. No metal stud through her tongue.

  “My mother is one of his ex-wives and we lived in the same house for a short period of time, back when I was sixteen or so.” She made it sound like a long time ago. “Then they split and we moved out. But I’ve always liked Spade. He inspired me to find nontraditional work.”

  Simon was not about to open that door.

  She asked, “Would you like some tea?”

  Her cup was almost empty. “Do they have coffee?” he asked, looking for a menu on a wall.

  “Sure. Anything special?”

  “No, just black.”

  She said loudly, “Lois, a black coffee and another mint tea.”

  From somewhere on the other side of a curtain behind the counter, Lois either grunted or passed gas. Either way, the order was acknowledged.

  “So, you know something about the darker side of the web.”

  She smiled again and said, “How much has Spade told you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Sounds like him. I’ve read about your case, still reading actually. There’s quite a lot of stuff buzzing around. Do you keep up with it?”

  “Oh no. I’ve sworn off social media and all that crap for the time being. Too depressing.”

  “I live online. Twenty-four seven. It’s all I do. My boyfriend and I made some serious dough a few years back, shut down the entire department of transportation of a certain Midwestern state. They paid the ransom.”

  “You’re still in business?”

  “Sort of. Laying low. We got caught doing the next job. He took the fall and he’s serving time. Gets out in four months and I guess we have some decisions to make.”

  Lois appeared through the curtain, put two cups on the table without saying a word, and vanished.

  Simon ignored his and said, “I’m trying to find the killer. Maybe it’s someone who works for the local hospital. I need personnel records, everything in their files. Of course it’s confidential.”

  “Everything’s confidential, Simon. Unless you know how to penetrate confidential files.”

  “And you can find it?”

  “Sure. This is easy. Hospitals only think they’re secure. Patients’ rights and all that crap. The problem with hospitals is that too many people have access. And now you have all this see-a-doc online, Zoom consultations, teletherapy. They make it easy for pros to wiggle in and have a look.”

  “I’m interested in ten people who work there.”

  “No problem, but I’m not sure what you expect to find. I mean, look, if someone, say an orderly, likes to poison people, there probably won’t be anything about it in his or her personnel file.”

  “Got it.”

  “I mean, like, it’s just common sense, you know.”