At that moment, they didn’t care. Finding the killer was far more important. And Loretta was a confident professional who gave every indication of being able to fend for herself.

  Simon managed to suppress his excitement and thanked Loretta for coming forward. Raymond puffed away, poker-faced, and said they would check out the new suspect. He said, “We’ll keep your name out of it.”

  Loretta said, “Thanks, this is all secondhand stuff. I don’t have any real proof.”

  Chapter 59

  Time for more tea with Zander. Her wondrous hacking skills had yet to produce anything useful, not that Simon was ungrateful. Since she had already found her way into the hospital’s system, running down another name was no problem. She opened her laptop on the little breakfast table and pecked away. “Got him.”

  She turned the screen to Simon who was suddenly staring at the face of Oscar Kofie, one he vaguely remembered from last December. Early thirties, chubby cheeks, clean-shaven, drugstore eyeglasses, receding hairline. Nothing noticeable or distinguishable about the face. Nor the bio—associate’s degree from a community college in Dayton; certified X-ray tech in Ohio, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and Virginia; eleven years of experience in various hospitals, public and private.

  “What makes him a suspect?” Zander asked casually, as if she didn’t care. Simon had learned that she really, truly didn’t care about anything, except perhaps her incarcerated boyfriend and the problems he might cause them after he was paroled.

  “Just some new gossip. How deep can you dig into this guy?”

  “Deep as you want.”

  “How about prior places of employment?”

  “Give me a day or two.”

  * * *

  Simon drove to Charlottesville to meet Landy for lunch. She was appearing before a grand jury there and wasting the day, in her opinion. In her spare time, and Simon reminded her repeatedly that in his world there was no such thing as “spare time,” she had put together profiles of about forty hospital employees, with no red flags. Oscar Kofie was not one of them.

  They were eating outdoors on the downtown pedestrian mall, under the shade of an oak, with dozens of other young professionals, shop owners, office employees, students, and tourists. It was a splendid day. Simon was eating with a pretty lady, one he had known in every way since they were twenty-three years old. As fine as the moment should have been, he found it impossible to enjoy anything about it.

  “You look miserable,” she said.

  “Well, maybe prison does that to a person. Don’t know. Plus I got the letter from the state bar yesterday, yanking my license without so much as a hearing.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You keep saying that and I wish you’d stop.”

  So she said nothing for a long time as they suffered in silence. He hardly touched his food and finally said, “I’m spending twelve hours a day digging online. I have piles of research, most of it useless. I’ve gone back twenty years and tried to find every murder-by-poison case in the country. There are about twenty a year, confirmed, but probably hundreds that go undetected. I need more help from the FBI.”

  “I’m doing all I can, Simon, and I’ll do whatever is possible.”

  “The FBI collects more crime data than any other agency, but many cases go unreported and fall through the cracks.”

  “A lot of crime in this country.”

  “I know. Is it possible to go behind the published statistics? Is there more data that the FBI doesn’t publish, for whatever reason?”

  “You’re talking about poisonings, right?”

  “What else?”

  “Don’t snap at me. I’m on your side, remember?”

  “Sorry. Yes, murder by poison.”

  “I don’t know, but why would we, the FBI, hide those statistics?”

  Simon took a deep breath and didn’t answer. He tried two bites of a pan-fried trout and put down his fork. “I know I’m being difficult.”

  “Not at all, Simon. I’m trying to understand.”

  “It’s just that we expect miracles out of the FBI and I know that’s not realistic. But I have a hacker pal who’s finding more stuff than the FBI.”

  “Hacking is a crime. We can’t go in without a warrant.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you violating the law?”

  He laughed and said, “Who cares? I’m fifty-eight days away from prison. Indict me! Convict me! Hell, give me the needle.”

  “Not so loud, Simon.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Just hang on, okay?”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “I know, I know.”

  * * *

  At four-thirty that afternoon, Simon walked into an Avis car rental office in Pentagon City near Reagan National. Three women worked the counter, one of them was Matilda Clark. She wore a smart navy pantsuit uniform with Avis above the right pocket and her new name, Maddie, above the left. It fit her nicely. He wore a cap and sunglasses, got in line, and sort of hid behind the large man in front of him. When it was his turn, he yanked off the cap and sunglasses, leaned on the counter, and was face-to-face with Tillie. She appeared as though she might faint.

  “Hello, Matilda,” he said in a low voice. “Oops, I see it’s ‘Maddie’ now.”

  She was still struggling to speak and glancing nervously around.

  “Don’t worry. I need to rent a car. No problems from me.”

  She pecked her keyboard as if just doing her job, gained some composure, and asked, “What do you want?”

  “A drink after work. Down the street at O’Malley’s. Five P.M.?”

  “Sure,” she said with a smile. “Make it five-thirty.”

  “Okay, please be there and don’t run. I know where your apartment is in Fredericksburg. Unit 614. And I know where your roomie hangs out these days. The FBI is watching him.”

  Her mouth fell open as he turned and left.

  At five-thirty, Tillie walked into O’Malley’s and Simon waved her over to his booth. They had a lot to talk about, not that she was planning on saying much. He sipped a beer as a waiter took her order for a diet soda.

  “What, no asparagus smoothie?” he joked but it fell flat.

  If she had been rattled to see him, that had now passed. She was unmoved and quite collected. “Why are you here, Simon?”

  “Just passing through. I’m looking for the person who poisoned Eleanor Barnett, Tillie, because I damned sure didn’t do it.”

  “And you’ve found me. You think I did it?”

  “That thought crossed my mind. In fact, when I found out that you were shacking up with Jerry I got real suspicious. But if I’ve learned anything lately, it’s not to assume too much.”

  “Why did you hide her will from me?”

  “Because I got greedy and wanted her money, and to get it I had to draft a lopsided will that gave me complete control of her estate and assets. And I didn’t want you to know about it because you’re a good, honest, decent person who would have questioned me over such a will. I didn’t want a fight. I wanted the money. My marriage was falling apart. I was sick of the office and its overhead. And Eleanor Barnett was my way out.” He slugged some beer and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. “There. Is that honest enough for you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Let’s be honest, Tillie. Cut the crap. I’ve been convicted and I’m headed to prison, so I can afford to be brutally honest. I didn’t poison Eleanor.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  They studied each other for a long time, neither daring to blink. Simon took a sip, wiped his mouth, and asked, “When did you first get suspicious?”

  “Three days after she signed the will you typed. Then you lied to me and tried to cover up. You’re not a deceitful person, Simon, and a lousy liar. You were sneaking around, taking her to lunch, ingratiating yourself. I knew what was going on. Then we did the living will that gave you full control. The cremation angle was a nice touch. Face it, Simon, there was plenty of red flags.”

  “Well, my jury certainly thought so, didn’t they?”

  “They did.”

  “And you agree with them? You think I’m guilty?”

  “No, I don’t. I was very suspicious, but I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “I know you too well. I watched you in the courtroom and I saw a man who was bewildered by the accusations, a man who would never harm another person.”

  Her soda arrived and she ignored it. Simon drained his beer and ordered another. They stared across the table for a long time, both wanting to believe the other.

  Finally, he asked, “How did Jerry enter the picture?”

  “Is that really any of your business?”

  “Let’s say it is.”

  “Simple enough. He stopped by the office one day when you were gone. He called a week later and we had a drink. One thing led to another. He’s had his ups and downs with romance. I certainly have.”

  “He doesn’t seem like your type.”

  “What is my type, Simon? I’ve tried them all.” She managed to smile.

  “You want advice from me? I can’t remember the last time I made a smart decision. Got a question.”

  “I’m an open book.”

  “December thirtieth, the day she died. I called the funeral home to come get her, but an anonymous caller alerted the Braxton police. The cremation was stopped. I’m assuming that call was made by you.”

  Her jaws clenched slightly and she glanced away. Dead guilty.

  “Why did you do it, Tillie? I’m being perfectly honest with you, so return the favor.”

  “Jerry wanted me to do it. He wanted an autopsy. By then Teddy Hammer was calling the shots and he was very suspicious of you.”

  “And the fact that you, and Jerry, stopped the cremation is pretty clear proof that you didn’t poison Eleanor. Otherwise, no one would have ever known, and I would not be facing prison.”

  “We didn’t do it, Simon, I swear we didn’t.”

  “Nor did I, regardless of what the jury said.”

  “So, who killed her?”

  He rubbed his temples, then shook his head. “If it wasn’t me and it wasn’t you, then I don’t know. I suspect someone entered her hospital room after she’d been there a few days. You know how casual hospitals are. Doctors, nurses, and staff come and go at all hours.”

  “An inside job?”

  Simon would only say so much. She would repeat everything to Jerry.

  “Possibly. Why did Jerry sue me?”

  “I begged him not to, told him you were broke. But Hammer said it had to be done.”

  “I’m worse than broke.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Hell no. The last thing I need is for you trying to get involved. Just leave it alone. Things are bad enough and you’re sleeping with the enemy.”

  Chapter 60

  Evidently, Cooley had plenty of free time in prison. He was actually finishing his time in a federal “camp,” a fenceless low-security joint where violence was not tolerated. Simon tracked him down online and learned that he had been convicted in Maryland three years earlier and would be released on parole in early September. It was his first offense, a federal violation, something complicated to do with internet theft. Further sleuthing revealed virtually nothing about his girlfriend, Zander.

  Simon’s curiosity about them paled in comparison to their interest in him. According to Zander, Cooley had easily trespassed into Simon’s virtual world, and not only thumbed through his office files, a mind-numbing waste of time, but also accessed his longtime personal email account at Google. Simon was momentarily irritated by this, but then figured what the hell. For years he had assumed that someone somewhere was seeing every email, shopping order, calendar entry, and personal note, so he had always been careful. He was floored, though, when Zander informed him Cooley had hacked into the secret email account Simon had opened over a year earlier, primarily to hide his gambling.

  “Why’d you stop gambling?” she asked over a drink in a student bar, two doors down from the tea shop.

  “I made too much money.”

  “Doesn’t appear so.”

  “Look, the FBI had me on its radar and I got a tip from an old friend. It was time to quit.”

  “Just curious.”

  “Okay, I have something important for you. Can you guys take a look into the virtual world of Oscar Kofie, the X-ray tech I mentioned last time?”

  She giggled, a little teenage snicker, and said, “Cooley’s already on the trail. It’s not going to be easy, though. Kofie really likes his privacy and he knows his way around the digital world.”

  “Not sure I follow.” When it came to technology, Simon was often on thin ice, and usually felt like a moron when talking to Zander. She could roll her eyes like a know-it-all kid or she could flash a warm, reassuring smile that exuded patience.

  She smiled and said, “He’s obviously paranoid and protects himself with some pretty impressive firewalls and gates. But Cooley loves a challenge. He’ll get in soon enough.”

  Simon was once again amused at the idea of a federal inmate with his own contraband laptop, holed up in the prison library wreaking havoc in the virtual world. It was also sobering to know that somewhere out there in the vast universe of the web there were people who could find and watch everything. Why couldn’t those people work just for the intelligence agencies and leave the common folk alone? If he could do it, and he knew it was impossible, he would toss his computers and retreat to the Stone Age where people wrote letters with pen and paper and had long chats on old-fashioned telephones.

  She said, “Cooley’s working on something for you.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Are you being a smart-ass?”

  “Yes.”

  “He has developed his own home-brew software that cannot be hacked or penetrated. Calls it Teflon.”

  “Original.”

  “Smart-ass again. I have it on my computer. He’s customizing a program for you that’ll keep your systems thoroughly secure. That way, he and I, and anyone else for that matter, can send you stuff without leaving a trace.”

  “And what are we afraid of? I’ve already been convicted, Zander. I’m going to prison.”

  “Congratulations, gold star for you. I, however, am not a felon, not yet anyway, and I prefer to keep it that way. I’ll install the software for you at no charge and you’ll never know it’s there.”

  “Whatever. I wonder if Kofie likes girls. He’s thirty-six, single, never married. Maybe he cruises through the dating sites looking for love.”

  “I couldn’t care less. But if he does, Cooley will know soon enough.”

  * * *

  Loretta Goodwin reluctantly agreed to meet for coffee after work. She was the mother of three, happily married, and unwilling to risk being seen talking to Simon in a bar or some other shady place. She chose the cafeteria in the basement of the hospital, a place that was always deserted at 6 P.M.

  Simon bought two cups of coffee and they hid at a corner table, his back to the entrance. Loretta could see those coming and going, but there was hardly anyone to notice. She was not eager to talk but willing to listen.

  “We don’t have a solid suspect,” Simon said. “Our list is rather short, but Kofie is at the top of it. I’m not accusing him, yet. But Kofie is the most promising. How much do you know about him?”

  She shrugged and studied the floor. “Not much at all.”

  “Does he have a close friend here at work? Does he date anyone? Straight or gay?”

  “I don’t know and don’t care. It’s none of my business. I have enough to worry about, Mr. Latch.”

  “Please call me Simon. How often do you see him?”

  “Once a week maybe. He’s the kind of person you see but don’t see. Like a piece of furniture.”

  “But there has to be someone here who knows him.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t know who. We work in different worlds, Simon. When I’m here I’m very busy caring for my patients. I don’t have time to socialize. That’s not part of my job.”

  “I understand. You told the story about Kofie out drinking with his buddies from work and running his mouth. Who were the friends? I believe there were three of them, right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Can you get me their names? And the names of his supervisors?”

  She took a deep breath, reluctant to say yes.

  “Please, Loretta. I’m not asking you to do anything illegal or unethical. I’m desperate, okay?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you. Any scrap of info could be crucial, not only for me, but for the hospital as well. Imagine for a moment if Kofie is really the killer. The legal aftershocks for the hospital would be horrendous. An employee, one supposedly vetted, poisons a patient. There’s not enough money in the Commonwealth to pay for that lawsuit.”

  “I get it.”

  Chapter 61

  Meticulously researched, beautifully written, and thoroughly persuasive, the Defendant’s Motion to Vacate the Guilty Verdict and Grant a New Trial was filed by Raymond Lassiter on time. It was a 38-page masterpiece, at least in the opinion of its author, the defendant himself. Raymond and Casey read it carefully and did not suggest a single change, not even an extra comma.

  With that chore out of the way, Simon returned to the monotonous task of tracking murder-by-poison cases over the past forty years. Landy received clearance from her supervisor—crime data was not exactly classified material—and was passing along links to more crime statistics than any one person could read and filter. The previous year there had been twenty-two cases, or at least twenty-two people had been indicted for such murders. Four had pled guilty. The others were still awaiting justice. The troublesome trend in the past decade was that about a third of the persons accused walked free with not-guilty verdicts. Murder by poison was hard to prove. This, obviously, was not comforting to Simon. He had been nailed by a screwball jury, and the more he dwelt on his verdict, the more he was convinced he had been convicted because of the greedy-lawyer theme the prosecution had used so effectively.