John Lutz - Serial

“Just where I want to be,” Westerley said.

“This baby’s gonna have some RAM,” Jimmy said. “New software’s gonna be ideal for data mining.”

Westerley wondered if Jimmy shaved yet.

“Soon as I’m done here,” Jimmy said, “I’ll give you a short orientation course. Then, you need any questions answered, all you gotta do is click on Help.”

And get further confused, Westerley thought.

That was pretty much the way it turned out. The new software was a lot like the old, only with additional speed and muscle. Trouble was, Westerley forgot how to use those new muscles almost as soon as Jimmy finished explaining.

“If you’re past fourteen years old,” Billy Noth said, smiling, “it’s hard to remember this crap.”

“That’s too bad,” Westerley said, “because you’re gonna be the department’s IT guy.”

“What’s that?” Billy asked.

Jimmy glanced from one to the other and shook his head hopelessly. “I’d stay and explain some more, but I’ve got another one of these to install before lunch.” He motioned with a lean, youthful finger for them to step closer. “C’mere. Before I leave, I just wanna make sure you two know where the Help button is.”

“Button?” Billy said.

After Jimmy had left, Westerley played with the computer awhile, trying to run through some of the routines he’d been shown. It soon became obvious how much more useful the new system would be once Westerley, or Billy, mastered it. Trouble was, that day seemed a long way off.

Westerley left Billy to play with the computer and walked down to the Hogart Diner for some lunch before he went mad. He made sure Billy understood the Help feature. That was the key, Westerley thought. Or button.

Norbert Vanderbilt (not a relation to the Vanderbilts), owner and cook at the diner, leaned on the counter and listened to Westerley’s computer woes.

After setting up a customer with a cup of coffee in a window booth, he returned to face Westerley across the counter. “You really need help with anything to do with computers, you oughta talk to my wife’s nephew, Mathew Wellman. Kid’s a genius.”

“Comes to tech, being a kid’s the first qualification,” Westerley said.

Norbert nodded. “Mathew’s only twenty-two and already graduated from Northwestern, got a doctorate from Cal Tech.”

“Expensive education,” Westerley said. “He go on scholarships?”

“Well, when you figure it out mathematically, these places paid Mathew to attend. He somehow worked it out so he made money getting his education.”

Westerley was interested. “So he really knows his stuff.”

Norbert made a backhand flipping motion with his right hand. “Mathew discusses computers and the Internet, nobody knows what the hell he’s talking about.”

“Sounds perfect,” Westerley said.

“He’s on sabbatical for a couple of months, staying at our place, so if you want, I’ll tell him to drop by and see you.”

“Sabbatical? I didn’t think students went on sabbatical.”

“Oh, Mathew’s teaching now. Back at Cal Tech. Making a fortune for such a young person.”

“Jesus!” Westerley said, thinking how nice it would be if he had a sabbatical coming, never mind the fortune. He did have some protracted time off once, after a fleeing felon had slammed an axe handle down on the back of his neck. It took a while for the bones to heal. “Ask Mathew to drop by the office when he has the time,” he said. “I’ll make out a list of things Billy and I can’t cope with.”

“Oh, he’ll be glad to help. He loves problems almost as much as he loves answers.”

New York, the present

Fedderman didn’t go home after leaving the hospital. He went instead to the Albert A. Aal Memorial Library, where Penny worked. Careful to avoid the venerable Ms. Culver, he sat in a corner of the magazine section and pretended to read Popular Science.

That lasted about five minutes, and Fedderman was asleep.

He awoke with Penny standing over him, nudging his shoulder gently, but again and again.

Fedderman sat up straight and looked around. He and Penny appeared to be the only people in the magazine section. He wiped a hand down his face and looked at his watch. Good God! Almost nine o’clock.

Penny smiled and leaned close so she could speak softly to him. “The library’s about to close, Feds.”

He smiled back. “That means you’re ready to go home?”

She nodded.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“Starving.”

“Me, too.”

He became aware of a magazine in his lap and placed it on the chair next to him. Then he unfolded his lanky body from where he sat and touched Penny’s arm lightly, as if to make sure she was real. He tapped all the pockets of his new suit to make sure nothing had fallen out, then glanced down to be positive there was nothing of his on the chair cushion.

“So how does Italian sound to you?” he asked.

“Just right.”

Ms. Culver was behind the main desk, but with her back conveniently turned. She was looking for something in a cabinet. It seemed to Fedderman that she was pretending to search so she wouldn’t have to look at him. Ms. Culver seemed to be that way, where he was concerned.

They went to Delio’s, a relatively new restaurant in the lobby of a tall building that contained mostly offices. Soft lighting was provided by artificial candles that looked real in the center of each white-clothed table. A piano was playing somewhere out of sight, and a guy in a suit and wearing a gray fedora wandered by now and then, crooning Frank Sinatra songs. Fedderman thought he sounded more like Bobby Darin, and with the snap-brim hat he looked like Mickey Spillane.

“So how’s the case going?” Penny asked, after they’d ordered and were sipping wine.

Fedderman waited for the crooner to drift into another room of the restaurant before answering. He decided his suit beat the hell out of the one on the singer, even figuring in the fedora.

“We’re making our usual slow but sure progress.” he said. He thought it better not to mention the carpet-tucking knife theory. Not so soon before dinner.

“How’s Officer Weaver?”

“Not good. She’s slipping in and out of a coma.”

“And she never identified who beat her up?”

“Not positively, no. And any other way doesn’t count.”

“But you’ve got a good idea who it was.”

“Not really. Not the way Weaver’s been talking. Her mind’s not right yet. Maybe it never will be.”

Penny hunched her shoulders and shook her head. “God, what a world.”

“Weaver will be all right,” Fedderman said. “She’s a tough one.”

“You think it was the Skinner who attacked her?”

“It would make sense. Serial killers do that sometimes, taunt the police.”

“But why try to kill her that way?”

“He might not have been trying to kill her.”

“But why not? Why beat her up at all, instead of treating her as he did his other victims?”

Fedderman had asked himself the same question. He told Penny what he’d come up with by way of an answer. “Because he’s crazy.”

“Or maybe for some reason he doesn’t want you to think he was the one who attacked Weaver.”

Fedderman regarded her across the table. It can make you smart, spending all that time in a library. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s possible.”

Penny sipped her cabernet. “Do you think he’d really try to finish the job while Weaver’s in the hospital?” she asked, replacing the stemmed glass on the table.

“It’s doubtful. I know it happens in books in the mystery section of your library, but in real life a hospital is a pretty secure place.” He looked at her curiously. “Why are you so worried about Weaver?”