Death Match

THIRTY-SIX

Lash leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Even there, columns of numbers, names, dates seemed to stare back at him.

“Christ,” he groaned, shutting his eyes. “I’ve been staring at this stuff too long.”

He heard the shuffling of paper across the table. “Any luck?” he asked the ceiling.

“Not a bite,” came Tara Stapleton’s voice.

Lash opened his eyes, stretched. Despite the dark dreams and memories that had filled the previous night, he’d nevertheless awakened with a sense of purpose. The weekend had passed without any dread events. Driving in, he’d called Diana Mirren on his cell phone. The mere sound of her voice brought him a secret, almost adolescent thrill. They chatted briefly, ardently, and she’d agreed to have di

But now — midmorning — his excitement had drowned in an endless flood of data. There was simply too much material to comb through; it was like sifting a haystack without even being certain it contained a needle.

He sighed again, then pulled Lindsay Thorpe’s internal evaluations over and began leafing through them almost idly. “What’s the story on the third couple? The Co

“They’re leaving for Niagara Falls tomorrow.”

“Niagara Falls?”

“That’s where they spent their honeymoon.”

Niagara Falls, Lash thought. Great place for a murder. Or a suicide, for that matter.

“There’s not much we can do on the Canadian side,” Tara added. “I spent most of Saturday arranging the passive surveillance over there. We watch, and hope for the best.”

“At least you had something to keep you busy over the weekend.”

Tara smiled slyly. “It wasn’t as if you didn’t have your dance card filled.”

“You mean, my date?”

“How did it go?”

“She didn’t look at all the way I expected. Didn’t sound the way I expected. But you know what? Within ten minutes, it didn’t matter.”

“Our research has shown that we’re often attracted to the wrong people, for the wrong reasons. Maybe that’s why so many marriages don’t work.”

She fell silent.

“Look,” Lash said after a moment. “Why don’t you go through with meeting this guy they’ve matched you with? It isn’t too late. Talk to Mauchly about rescheduling the reservation.”

“I’ve already told you. How can I meet him, knowing what I know?”

“I met Diana Mirren, knowing what I know. And I’m seeing her again this Friday.”

“But I’m an Eden employee. I’ve told you—”

“I know. The ‘Oz effect.’ And you know what I say? Bullshit.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?”

“It is.” He leaned forward. “Tara, listen. Eden can match one person with another. Perfectly. But once you two make contact, there is no more Eden. It’s just you and him. If it feels right, you’ll know it.”

Tara looked at him, saying nothing.

“One way or another, we’ll solve this. And then it won’t matter anymore. It’ll just be a memory. The past. And any relationship requires an acceptance of the past. Would you begrudge him the cheerleaders he dated in college? This is the main chance, Tara. Take it from somebody who was in that restaurant two nights ago.”

Immediately, Lash realized he’d said enough. Back to work, he thought with a sigh.

Putting Lindsay Thorpe’s dossier aside, he began paging through her medical reports. Then he paused.

“Tara.”

She looked at him a little guardedly.

“About this return checkup of Ms. Thorpe’s.”

“You mean, class reunion?”

“No, this checkup. Is it common for your doctors to prescribe—”

“We don’t do that.”

For a moment, this did not register. Then Lash looked at her. “What did you say?”

“I said, we don’t do return checkups.”

“Then what’s this?” Lash pushed the medical report across the table.

Tara took the report. There was silence as she sca

“I’ve only seen this a few times before,” she said.

“Seen what?”

“Remember, on your first tour inside the Wall, Mauchly explained about the long-term health analyses we run on prospective candidates? Checking genetic markers for inherited diseases, risk factors, that kind of thing?”

“Yes.”

“If there’s something seriously wrong, we reject their application. But if it’s minor, or of minimal long-term concern, we’ll process their application and bring them back for a secondary exam, later.”

“Under the pretext of standard operating procedure.”

“That’s right.”

“No point in turning away a paying client.” Lash took back the report, flipped the pages. “But Lindsay Thorpe had no such health issues. Yet she was scheduled for a follow-up examination, six months prior to her death.” He flipped more pages. “At this exam, Ms. Thorpe was given a prescription for scolipane. One milligram, once a day. I’m not familiar with that medication.”

“Me neither.”

“The physician in attendance was a Dr. Moffett. Could you contact him, ask the reason for the follow-up exam and prescription?”

“Sure.” Tara rose and walked to the phone.

Lash watched her. This was another clue, he felt certain; another piece of the puzzle.

“Dr. Moffett’s hours don’t begin until noon,” Tara said as she replaced the phone. “I’ll contact him then.”

“Would you do something else? Pull the medical records of Lewis Thorpe, the Wilners, and — and the third couple, the Co

Lash waited as the office filled with the sound of keystrokes.

“Nothing,” Tara said. “None of the others had any follow-ups beyond the normal class reunions.”

“Nothing?”

Tara shook her head.

“Wouldn’t Lewis Thorpe think it strange his wife had a follow-up exam when he didn’t?”

“You know how secretive we are about procedures. Our clients come to accept them without question.”

Lash slumped in his chair. Despite everything, he found his thoughts returning to Diana Mirren, what she’d said about haiku.

They hint at things. They imply more than they say. Don’t search for an answer. Think instead of opening doors.

So what was implied here? What coincidences had taken place recently? And what did they hint at?

Edmund Wyre, the cop-hating assassin, granted parole. Wyre killed three women, two cops, and Lash’s brother-in-law. Lash’s wife then left him, and Lash himself — full of doubt and self-blame — had abruptly left the FBI, searching for an end to the sleepless nights.

By rights, Wyre should never have been paroled. Lash had no illusions: no matter what the parole board thought, Wyre would be gu

Was this coincidence?

Then there was his avatar being sent into the Tank. Tara had said such a mistake was impossible. If so, somebody had done it deliberately: It would have to be somebody very highly placed, somebody with world-class access. Me, for example. Or a grunt who’d somehow hacked the system.

His gaze fixed on Tara, who had returned to the table and was sorting papers.

Think of opening doors…

And, suddenly, the door opened.

Lash gasped, almost as if he’d been dealt a blow. He covered the sound with a yawn.

It seemed impossible. But there was no other answer.

There were two things he still needed to know before he was sure. Tara could answer one of them. But he had to appear calm — at least, until he had proof.

“Tara,” he said with exaggerated weariness. “Could you do something else for me?”

She nodded.

“Could you bring up a list of all the avatars in the Tank when the Thorpes were matched?”