She made a face. “I remember looking up Peter Chesney and Neville Armand . . . Paul Arons . . . Michael Swit. I know we eliminated them, Vicks, but I don’t remember why.”
“Neither do I, but if these guys were at all of the labs—”
“Three out of four,” Sam corrected.
“At the times of the murders—”
“I didn’t say anything about that,” Sam said. “What I told you was that they’ve been to at least three of the four labs.”
“Katie Doogan?” William asked.
“Katie Doogan and two others—Julia Rehnquist, who was buried near Lawrence Livermore, and Jamey Moore, who was found not too far from Oak Ridge National Lab.”
The elder Vicksburg turned to his son. “You knew about other murders?” When Ben didn’t say anything, he said, “I suppose you’ve been doing this because I haven’t done anything. My bad.”
“No, that’s not it.” Ben put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “I started doing it so you didn’t have to.”
“Can we stick to the case here?” Shanks said. “So you’ve seen some of these names.”
“Some . . .” Ro was still looking at the names. “Why don’t you like them as the bad guy?”
“Age, rank, and serial number. They don’t fit the profile. Their time is accounted for. They didn’t rack up a lot of miles on their rentals. They didn’t stay in strange places and they don’t have a lot of unexplained absences. Milton Ortiz and Derek Whitecliffe agree. What do you think?”
Ben said, “If you don’t like them, that’s good enough for me.”
“A rare compliment.” Sam took the list away. “So . . . for the time being, we’ll put them on the bottom.” He turned to the kids. “Don’t either of you tell me more than I’m asking for.”
“Just phrase your questions in a yes-or-no format,” William said.
“Do you two have lists of more names?”
“Yes.”
“Obviously, I’d like to look at your research, Ben, but if you’ve gotten the names in a suspicious manner, I can’t. Should I look at your names?”
“No.”
“That’s what I thought. Did you hack into anything, Ben?”
He looked at his father, who said, “No, he did not.”
Sam said, “When Ben told me his lab theories, I called up hotels in the area that deal with Los Alamos. Then I got a court order that allowed me to look at the guest lists from those hotels for certain dates. Now I know the Jackson deals with Los Alamos.” He looked at Ro. “And I know that you work at the Jackson. Am I right about that?”
“You are correct,” she said.
Ben was stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me you got lists from the Jackson?” he asked Shanks.
“Because you’re not a cop, Vicks, and you’re not privy to the same information that I am. And while I could get a court order for some dates, I couldn’t exactly justify looking through three years’ worth of registry. But unlike you, I can get court orders for hotels in addition to the Jackson. So I have some advantages. The way I figure it, you have some advantages and I have some advantages.” Sam smiled. “I’m going to show you a lot of lists of names. I shouldn’t be showing them to you. But we’re not going to tell anyone, right?”
“Our lips are sealed,” Ro said.
“Will, does this make you uncomfortable?”
“Not at all.”
“Great.” Sam opened a briefcase and pulled out sheaves of paper. “It’s a long list. I want you to point out anyone who you think I might want to investigate further.”
It was a long roster of names, presented in alphabetical order. Kevin Barnes hadn’t made the cut. Ben cleared his throat and handed it back to him. “Do you have the original rosters? The ones directly off the hotel computers?”
“This is the original list. I just alphabetized it.”
“It isn’t complete.”
“Yes it is.”
“No it isn’t, Sam. It’s only men.”
His eyes widened. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“Do you have the lists from before you winnowed them down to men?”
“They’re not organized.”
Ro said, “We know who we’re looking for.”
Sam rubbed his forehead. “Hold on. Let me bring up the files. I’ll link them all together . . . it’s forty-five pages.”
“That’s okay.”
“They’re alphabetized. That should help you out.” He showed the kids his screen. “Knock yourself out.”
Ben and Ro sorted through the names. She spotted one first. “Venika Berns . . .”
“Who?”
“This one.” Ro pointed it out. “And Senna Berkiv. And here’s Karen Bevins again.”
“Eva Birnskin,” Ben said.
Ro scrolled down and down and down. “Oh, here’s one. Anne V. Kerbis.”
“What are you looking at?” Sam stared at the names. “They’re all anagrams.” He looked at their faces. “Who?”
Ben said, “The name is not on your list, so do you really want me to say something out loud?”
“I should be able to figure it out.” Shanks was talking more to himself than to anyone else. “It’s an odd combination of letters . . . V-I-K . . . is it Vik . . . wait, don’t answer.”
Ben said, “I could write an algorithm that would spit out all the possible combinations of names.”
“How long would it take you?”
“There might be something I could download off the Internet. Give me about a half hour.”
“Go. I’ll keep working at this.”
Ro yawned. Ben said, “Do you want to go to bed?”
“Not on your life.” She smiled at Mr. Vicksburg. “Do you mind if I stay over? I don’t feel like traveling the open roads.”
“Of course, honey.” William stood up. “I’m going to check on my wife.”
“Sure, sure,” Shanks said.
Ro said, “I think I’ll lie down on the couch for a moment and dream about a real prom . . . where there’s a disco ball and a king and a queen and they dance together while everyone applauds.”
Shanks was muttering to himself. “Vik . . . Kiv . . . Ben . . . is it Ben?”
Ro said, “It’s not Ben.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“Stop asking me.”
“I’m talking to myself. Ben . . . Benk . . .”
Ben said, “I’ll go try to figure out an algorithm.”
Shanks went on, muttering to himself until a half hour had passed. Ben returned with a printout in his hand.
Shanks said, “Kiv . . . Kev . . . Kevin? Is it Kevin?”
“It’s very warm in here.” Ro made a point of fanning herself. “You must be very warm as well. As a matter of fact, Detective, I think you’re sizzling.”
“I’m sizzling,” Ben said.
Shanks said, “Okay, it’s Kevin. Kevin what?”
Ben handed Shanks the printout. He spotted the name right away. It was the combination that made the most sense. “Kevin Barnes.” When neither of the kids said anything, Shanks grinned. “Okay. Now we’re cooking with gas. He’s not the football player.”
“Unlikely.”
“There’s an art dealer, a shop owner, a lawyer—”
Ben cleared his throat. Shanks looked up and then back at the screen. “Why would I be interested in a lawyer?” More taps on the keyboard. “I can’t even find out what kind of lawyer he is.”
“Just off the top of my head, it might be immigration,” Ro told him. “He might get foreign visas for visiting scientists, but that’s just a guess.”
Shanks was stunned. “How’d you find that out?”