23 

I was sitting in John Skye’s library staring at the computer screen when Zee came home with Joshua and Diana. I went out to meet them.

Zee’s nose was twitching both before and after my kiss.

“What’s cooking, chef?”

I checked the fire in the fireplace. It was burning nicely. “I’m heating kale soup,” I said. “I stopped at home and got some, along with a loaf of bread.”

“Ah. Winter security is a supply of kale soup in the freezer.”

She went off to change out of her hospital clothes while I learned that my children had had a reasonably enjoyable day at their schools, even though thoughts of the coming holidays were beginning to intrude upon scholarly activities.

“We wanted to talk about Christmas,” said Diana, “but our teacher said it wasn’t politically correct. What’s politically correct, Pa?”

When I was a kid, the phrase hadn’t existed, and as far as I was concerned it still shouldn’t.

“Politically correct words and ideas are words and ideas that nobody minds talking about,” I said. “Some people think Christmas isn’t politically correct, so the schools don’t want you to mention it even if you’re thinking about it.”

“It’s not just me, Pa. All of my friends are thinking about it. Why isn’t Christmas politically correct, any-way?”

I knelt down beside her. “Some people don’t like it because they think it’s too religious and other people don’t like it because they think it’s not religious enough and other people don’t like it for other reasons. But in our family we like it. We don’t think there are any ideas that are politically incorrect. You can talk about anything.”

“How about the F-word, Pa? Is that politically correct?”

Hoist with my own petard. “It’s just a word, Diana, but you’re too young to be using some words and that’s one of them. Later, when you’re bigger, you can use it if you want to.”

“What’s it mean, Pa?”

Ye gods. “It can mean different things. Sometimes it’s used when you’re talking about love and sometimes when you’re talking about hate. Sometimes it’s part of a joke, and sometimes it’s an insult.

It’s easy to use some words in a way you may not mean. That’s why you should wait until you’re older and know more about them before you use them.”

“And the F-word is one of them?”

“That’s right. My advice to you is not to use it for a while.”

“Okay, Pa. But can I talk about Christmas?”

“Absolutely. Maybe not at school, but everywhere else.”

“Good.” She started for the library. Joshua, who had been listening to my language lore, started after her, but stopped when I called his name. He looked at me.

“Josh, I need some help on the computer. Maybe you can show me what to do.”

“Sure, Pa.” Joshua was used to my computer ignorance, and had total confidence in his own abilities.

“I want to get information about some people. I think the information is somewhere on the Internet, but I don’t know where or how to get it.”

“I’ll show you,” said my son, and led me to the computer, which was already occupied by his sister.

She looked at us. There were two of us, and we were both bigger, but she was unintimidated. “It’s my turn to be first,” she said. “Yesterday I was second and we take turns.”

“Aw, come on,” said Joshua. “Pa has to do some work.”

Her lower lip went out.

“No,” I said. “If it’s her turn, it’s her turn. I can wait until you’re both through.”

I went out and left them with their homework, willing away my impatience. In the kitchen I made two perfect martinis and added black olives to Zee’s and green ones stuffed with jalapeño peppers to mine.

“You’re clouding,” said Zee, reappearing and accepting her drink. She sat beside me on the couch in front of the fireplace.

I showed her the list of names, most of which I’d gotten from Kate, and told her what I knew about the people, and how I wanted to know more. Then I told her about the explosion.

“Good God!” she said. “It’s a miracle Joe didn’t get killed!”

“It wasn’t a miracle; it was Joe’s good judgment. He’s been expecting something like that. In fact, if I hadn’t phoned him and drawn him away from the house, he would have caught the Bunny in the act, so you could argue that it’s my fault the Bunny is still walking around out there. That’s why I need to know more about the people on this list. They were all in black ops or Kate’s bed or both, and they’re the only people I can think of who might be tied to this trouble on the island.”

“Or might not be.”

“If it’s not one of them, fine. Whoever the guy is, he killed Arbuckle and he put a bomb in Toni’s car. That means he’s somebody Arbuckle trusted too much and that he either already knew or learned where Joe lived. Whoever he is, he’s managed to hide out and move around the island at will in spite of the cops looking for him. I want to find out if anybody on that list knows the island well enough to do that, or was friendly with Arbuckle.”

“The police and Jake Spitz and those DIA guys are following those leads,” said Zee, the voice of sanity.

“Maybe I’ll see something they miss.”

She sipped her martini, then surprised me by saying, “Tell me about Kate.”

I instantly decided not to tell her about my first meeting with Kate or about Kate’s offer to share her bed and body.

“Kate is a very beautiful woman who likes men,” I said.

“Does she like you?”

“She barely knows who I am.”

“Have you had to fend her off?”

“She’s a trained intelligence agent, so I probably couldn’t fend her off if she really wanted to jump my bones.”

“Would you try?”

“You bet.” I hooked my arm around her and pulled her close.

“You’re worried about her, though, aren’t you?”

“The Bunny tried to kill her down in Bethesda,” I said, “and she hasn’t been seen since yesterday. So, yes, I’m worried about her.”

“Did it occur to you that maybe she’s the Bunny?

That maybe she was lying about those awful needles in her apartment?”

“The idea crossed my mind, but I don’t think so. She knows how to shoot and she’s had Joe and me in the same room with her more than once. It would have been easy for her to kill us both and be back in Bethesda before anyone knew anything about it.”

She shivered. “I hope the police catch the Bunny right away, before anyone else gets hurt.”

Amen to that.

We were quiet for a while, sipping our drinks and looking into the timeless fire. Then Zee said, “You know who may be able to help you with the computer if Joshua can’t manage it by himself?”

“Who?”

“Brady Coyne.”

“Brady? I didn’t know Brady was a computer whiz.”

Brady Coyne lived in Boston and supported his fishing habit by lawyering for a wealthy clientele. We fished together when we could, and had an ongoing dispute about the relative virtues of fly casting, his game, and surf casting, mine.

“If he isn’t, I’ll bet he knows somebody who is,” said Zee. “He must work with private detectives and they must subscribe to computer services that help them track down people. I’ve read that you can find out where people live, where they work, who they married, how many kids they have, and stuff like social security numbers and even bank accounts. I think it’s scary, but I’ll bet you that Brady knows somebody who can do that.”

I gave her a kiss. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

“Go stir your soup. I’ll nip into the library and see how the kids are doing with their homework. After supper, we can attack your list.”

So we did that. First Joshua gave the list a good shot. He got onto the Net and said, “Since you’re looking for stuff about people, let’s try typing ‘people search.’”

He typed and clicked and up came a seemingly endless list of sites claiming to offer information about almost anybody. I patted Josh on the shoulder. Such a brilliant lad. Why hadn’t I thought of doing that?

“Excellent,” I said. “Let’s see what we can find out about Samuel Arbuckle.”

The site immediately wanted to know more about Sam: where he lived, his phone number, and especially his social security number.

“Try Alexandria as an address,” I said.

He tried and there was Sam!

“Great. What can they tell us about him?”

What the site wanted before they told me more was money.

Hmmmmm. “Try another site,” I said.

Joshua did that, and we found Sam again, but again the site would only give up more information if I subscribed to its service.

I tried to calculate how much it would cost me to investigate all of the people on my list. Quite a lot. If the police would just let me in on what they could find out, I could save a bundle. But they wouldn’t. There ain’t no justice.

We tried three other sites with similar results. We’d been at it for an hour without any luck. Time for Plan B.

I thanked Joshua for his help and agreed with him that if I’d let him stay up and keep trying he might be able to find a site that would tell me everything I wanted to know for free. But I didn’t want him staying up late on a school night, so I sent my disappointed boy to bed.

“Time to give Brady a call,” I said to Zee.

Brady Coyne had recently moved to a place on Beacon Hill, where he cohabited with his lady, Evie. I had never seen his new house, but from my days on the Boston PD I knew it to be a place where not many cops could afford to live.

“Is this the same Brady Coyne who used to live a poverty-stricken life in an apartment looking out over Boston Harbor?” I asked when he answered on the first ring.

“How’s fishing?” he asked in reply.

“Scalloping is about all we have to offer right now.”

“If you can catch those with a fly rod, I may come down this weekend.”

“You’ll be happier if you wait for the bluefish to show up in May. The guest room is reserved in your name.”

“I’ll be there. What’s happening down there in Eden?”

I told him what was happening and what I wanted. “Zee thinks you may know somebody who can get me the information,” I said in conclusion.

He thought for only a moment and then said, “I think I might. I understand you’ve finally entered the twenty-first century and gotten yourself a computer, so I’ll e-mail you the information in the morning. Now give me those names again. If you weren’t so cheap you could do all this yourself, you know.”

Good old Brady.

The next morning, after Zee and the kids had left for work and school, Brady’s e-mail arrived. I printed it out. There was a surprising amount of information about the people on my list, but most of it meant little to me. I took my time going over it and had about decided that I’d wasted Brady’s time when I noticed a small thing: Stephen Harkness, who’d gotten himself shot up on the trade mission, now worked for the FBI. I reread his file. He and his wife, Melanie, had three children and lived in Alexandria, Virginia. Melanie’s maiden name was Oakland.