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Authors: Jeffery Deaver
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a warm-up windbreaker. Mott was shorter than Gillette but they had basically the same build.
“Thanks,” Gillette said, donning the clothes. He felt exhilarated, having washed away one particular type of filth from his thin frame: the residue of prison.
On the way back to the main room they passed a small kitchenette. There was a coffeepot, a refrigerator and a table on which sat a plate of bagels. Gillette stopped, looked hungrily at the food. Then he eyed a row of cabinets.
He asked Mott, “I don’t suppose you have any Pop-Tarts in there.”
“Pop-Tarts? Naw. But have a bagel.”
Gillette walked over to the table and poured a cup of coffee. He picked up a raisin bagel.
“Not one of those,” Mott said. He took it out of Gillette’s hand and dropped it on the floor. It bounced like a ball.
Gillette frowned.
“Linda brought these in. It’s a joke.” When Gillette stared at him in confusion the cop added, “Don’t you get it?”
“Get what?”
“What’s today’s date?”
“I don’t have a clue.” The days of the month aren’t how you mark time in prison.
“April Fools’ Day,” Mott said. “Those bagels’re plastic. Linda and I put ’em out this morning and we’ve been waiting for Andy to bite—so to speak—but we haven’t got him yet. I think he’s on a diet.” He opened the cabinet and took out a bag of fresh ones. “Here.”
Gillette ate one quickly. Mott said, “Go ahead. Have another.”
Another followed, washed down with gulps from the large cup of coffee. They were the best thing he’d had in ages.
Mott got a carrot juice from the fridge and they returned to the main area of CCU.
Gillette looked around the dinosaur pen, at the hundreds of disconnected boas lying in the corners and at the air-conditioning vents, his mind churning. A thought occurred to him. “April Fools’ Day . . . so the murder was March thirty-first?”
“Right,” Anderson confirmed. “Is that significant?”
Gillette said uncertainly, “It’s probably a coincidence.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, it’s just that March thirty-first is sort of a red-letter day in computer history.”
Bishop asked, “Why?”
A woman’s gravelly voice spoke from the doorway. “Isn’t that the date the first Univac was delivered?”
CHAPTER 00000110 / SIX
T hey turned to see a hippy brunette in her mid-thirties, wearing an unfortunate gray sweater suit and thick black shoes.
Anderson asked, “Patricia?”
She nodded and walked into the room, shook his hand.
“This’s Patricia Nolan, the consultant I was telling you about. She’s with the security department of Horizon On-Line.”
Horizon was the biggest commercial Internet service provider in the world, larger even than America Online. Since there were tens of millions of registered subscribers and since every one of them could have up to eight different usernames for friends or family members it was likely that, at any given time, a large percentage of the world was checking stock quotes, lying to people in chat rooms, reading Hollywood gossip, buying things, finding out the weather, reading and sending e-mails and downloading soft-core porn via Horizon On-Line.
Nolan kept her eyes on Gillette’s face for a moment. She glanced at the palm tree tattoo. Then at his fingers, keying compulsively in the air.
Anderson explained, “Horizon called us when they heard the victim was a customer and volunteered to send somebody to help out.”
The detective introduced her to the team and now Gillette examined her. The trendy designer eyeglasses, probably bought on impulse, didn’t do much to make her masculine, plain face any less plain. But the striking green eyes behind them were piercing and very quick—Gillette could see that she too was amused to find herself in an antiquated dinosaur pen. Nolan’s complexion was loose and doughy andobscured with thick makeup that would have been stylish—if excessive—in the 1970s. Her brunette hair was
“Thanks,” Gillette said, donning the clothes. He felt exhilarated, having washed away one particular type of filth from his thin frame: the residue of prison.
On the way back to the main room they passed a small kitchenette. There was a coffeepot, a refrigerator and a table on which sat a plate of bagels. Gillette stopped, looked hungrily at the food. Then he eyed a row of cabinets.
He asked Mott, “I don’t suppose you have any Pop-Tarts in there.”
“Pop-Tarts? Naw. But have a bagel.”
Gillette walked over to the table and poured a cup of coffee. He picked up a raisin bagel.
“Not one of those,” Mott said. He took it out of Gillette’s hand and dropped it on the floor. It bounced like a ball.
Gillette frowned.
“Linda brought these in. It’s a joke.” When Gillette stared at him in confusion the cop added, “Don’t you get it?”
“Get what?”
“What’s today’s date?”
“I don’t have a clue.” The days of the month aren’t how you mark time in prison.
“April Fools’ Day,” Mott said. “Those bagels’re plastic. Linda and I put ’em out this morning and we’ve been waiting for Andy to bite—so to speak—but we haven’t got him yet. I think he’s on a diet.” He opened the cabinet and took out a bag of fresh ones. “Here.”
Gillette ate one quickly. Mott said, “Go ahead. Have another.”
Another followed, washed down with gulps from the large cup of coffee. They were the best thing he’d had in ages.
Mott got a carrot juice from the fridge and they returned to the main area of CCU.
Gillette looked around the dinosaur pen, at the hundreds of disconnected boas lying in the corners and at the air-conditioning vents, his mind churning. A thought occurred to him. “April Fools’ Day . . . so the murder was March thirty-first?”
“Right,” Anderson confirmed. “Is that significant?”
Gillette said uncertainly, “It’s probably a coincidence.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, it’s just that March thirty-first is sort of a red-letter day in computer history.”
Bishop asked, “Why?”
A woman’s gravelly voice spoke from the doorway. “Isn’t that the date the first Univac was delivered?”
CHAPTER 00000110 / SIX
T hey turned to see a hippy brunette in her mid-thirties, wearing an unfortunate gray sweater suit and thick black shoes.
Anderson asked, “Patricia?”
She nodded and walked into the room, shook his hand.
“This’s Patricia Nolan, the consultant I was telling you about. She’s with the security department of Horizon On-Line.”
Horizon was the biggest commercial Internet service provider in the world, larger even than America Online. Since there were tens of millions of registered subscribers and since every one of them could have up to eight different usernames for friends or family members it was likely that, at any given time, a large percentage of the world was checking stock quotes, lying to people in chat rooms, reading Hollywood gossip, buying things, finding out the weather, reading and sending e-mails and downloading soft-core porn via Horizon On-Line.
Nolan kept her eyes on Gillette’s face for a moment. She glanced at the palm tree tattoo. Then at his fingers, keying compulsively in the air.
Anderson explained, “Horizon called us when they heard the victim was a customer and volunteered to send somebody to help out.”
The detective introduced her to the team and now Gillette examined her. The trendy designer eyeglasses, probably bought on impulse, didn’t do much to make her masculine, plain face any less plain. But the striking green eyes behind them were piercing and very quick—Gillette could see that she too was amused to find herself in an antiquated dinosaur pen. Nolan’s complexion was loose and doughy andobscured with thick makeup that would have been stylish—if excessive—in the 1970s. Her brunette hair was
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