Донна Эндрюс - Click here for murder

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be compromised. And right now, we have no way of knowing if that’s happened.”

“We have to assume the worst, I suppose,” Maude said.

“And Ray was killed over twenty-four hours ago,” Turing said. “They could have had his information all that time.”

“So we could be shutting the proverbial barn door after the horses have already been stolen,” Maude said.

“Exactly.”

Turing was wiping their words off the screen almost as fast as Maude could read them. That, as much as anything they’d said, told her how worried Turing was.

“Has anyone tried to break into the system since Ray’s death?” Maude asked.

“We’ve logged several thousand attempts already today,” Turing said.

“Thousands!” Maude exclaimed.

“Which isn’t anything unusual these days,” Turing said. “Still, KingFischer’s rather preoccupied. Hard to tell what to make of that.”

Now that she’d gotten to know KingFischer, Maude could understand. Was KingFischer making a rather self-important fuss over a slight increase in security threats? Or was he really worried?

“I hear someone coming,” Maude said, suddenly glad to change the subject.

She got up and walked out into the hallway to see who was arriving.

“Good morning, Grant,” she said, though she knew that her words went unheard. She could actually hear a tinny noise from the headphones, a rhythmic plinka-plinka-

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plinka. His eyes half closed, head bobbing, busily courting premature hearing loss, Grant Kerrigan didn’t notice her presence until he was a few feet away and sensed rather than saw that he was about to collide with something.

“Maude!” he exclaimed, scrabbling to remove the headphones as if he’d suddenly discovered an embarrassing parasite perched on his head. “What are you doing here this early?”

“Have a seat for a minute, Grant,” Maude said, stepping back into Ray’s office.

Grant followed, but hovered just inside the doorway as if afraid the chairs were boobytrapped. Typical, not just of him, but of most young staff members, especially if they thought they were about to receive a lecture. Maude felt rather smug; her camera adjustments meant that Turing was getting the best possible view of Grant’s round, bespectacled face. A face that now wore a worried look instead of its usual self-satisfied smile. Not necessarily suspicious, she reminded herself. He probably expected a reprimand of some sort.

“Grant, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” she said. “Ray Santiago s dead.”

“Dead?” Grant exclaimed. “But he—what happened?”

Was it her imagination, or did Grant looked relieved? Relieved, and perhaps even a little cheerful? Not all that surprising, really. Though Grant had always seemed pleasant and capable enough, she’d found his cheerful selfabsorption mildly off-putting. Was his generation really more self-absorbed than hers, she wondered, or merely less inclined to hide its real feelings?

Probably the latter, she thought, watching the play of

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emotions on Grant’s face. He might be a little upset, she decided; a little sorry for Ray. But he’s more relieved not to be in trouble, and definitely a little excited at the interruption to his normal schedule. Her next words would probably make his day.

“He was murdered,” she said.

“Murdered?” Grant exclaimed. “Wow! What happened?”

Excitement won out over all the other emotions, and Maude knew that Grant’s sudden restlessness probably arose not from guilt but from impatience. The sooner he could escape, the sooner he could log in and begin sharing the drama with all his friends. With himself as a star player, of course. Ray would be promoted from “this guy I work for” to “this really good friend of mine,” she suspected, and Ray would have spoken his last known words to Grant. Who would probably recall having a strange premonition when he said good-bye to Ray on Friday.

“We don’t really know a lot yet,” she said. “As soon as I know, I’ll tell you; and meanwhile, it will be up to you to keep the project going as best you can.”

“You can count on me,” Grant said, drawing himself up with an air that was probably intended to convey resolute determination and reliability. Instead, Maude thought as she watched him leave, it only makes me want to keep an even closer eye on him.

Perhaps she was misjudging the boy. Young man, she corrected herself. But that, of course, was the problem. Grant was so very young—he was barely out of college, and sometimes acted even younger.

*

“Yes, but he’s technically quite competent,” Ray had said

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when she’d complained about Grant. “No common sense yet, but as long as I’m here to keep him in line and on track, he’ll do fine.”

Only Ray wasn’t here anymore, and it was up to her to guide the competent but unreliable Grant. The thought made her tired.

“What do you suppose he meant by that?” Turing asked.

“By what?” Maude said.

“When you told him Ray was murdered, he started to say something. ‘But he,’ he said, and then he stopped. What do you suppose he was going to say.”

“Who knows?” Maude said. “Probably nothing to do with the murder. Probably something like, ‘But he can’t be dead—he was fine on Friday.’ ”

“Probably nothing to do with the murder, true,” Turing said. “But what if it is?”

“Someone else is coming,” Maude said, standing up. “I hate to deprive Grant of the pleasure, but I want to be the one to break the news.”

It was going to be a long day.

“This changes a lot of things,” Turing said. The words lingered on the screen, and in Maude’s mind as she walked down the hall.

Yes, Ray’s death definitely changed a lot of things. For one thing, she thought, it postponed indefinitely the need to make a choice between Alan Grace and UL. She felt a twinge of relief, even happiness at that. I should feel guilty, reacting that way, she thought, but I can’t help it. And she mentally apologized to Grant for thinking him callous. Perhaps, she mused, it was only human nature to worry about

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the practical ways someone’s death affects you, even while you grieve.

flaude has broken the news to all the Alan

Grace staff. No real surprises. Several said things that didn’t quite make sense, but then humans rarely react logically in times of stress. They’re all upset, but no one seems to be feeling—or pretending to feel—a disproportionate amount of grief After all, none of them have been on staff more than six months. Time enough for humans to form close friendships if they find each other particularly congenial, but I don’t think Ray bonded that strongly with any of them. They are upset, they are sad, but their lives are going on. They’re worried whether their jobs are safe; wondering if they’ll still be held to the same deadlines with Ray gone; anxious about who will take his place; even relieved that Ray wasn’t murdered at the Alan Grace building, which I deduce would make them feel unsafe. Normal reactions, according to Maude.

Even young Grant’s reaction isn’t that surprising, I suppose. I suspect, from the officious way he’s behaving, that he sees himself inheriting Ray’s job. Not likely, from what I’ve seen so far. Grant may be technically brilliant, but he’d be a disaster as a manager. I’d as soon put KingFischer in charge.

I felt guilty the minute 1 thought that—KingFischer is the closest thing I have to a friend among my kind. There are times when I think he has become sentient. And other times when he is so obtuse and exasperating that I decide he hasn’t become sentient at all; just overly complex and beyond weird.