Hot Ice

38

The area abutting the western edge of Georgia Tech’s campus consisted of student-friendly eating establishments, low-end retail, and a few of the original bungalows and Craftsman cottages of the blue-collar neighborhood now largely swallowed up by the school. Many of the latter housed student organizations or displayed ROOM TO RENT signs as did the gray shingle cottage into whose driveway Jason pulled the rented Ford. The dirt yard behind the house served as a parking lot for a pair of motorcycles, a scooter, and a pickup truck whose tires showed more cord than rubber.

Jason locked the car and walked along the edge of the building past a laboring air-conditioning compressor. Three steps led him up to a porch across the front, facing the street. A gray cat jumped from an old-fashioned glider, giving Jason a disapproving look. The animal seemed to be trying to decide whether to flee or stick around as it watched Jason ring the doorbell. He was not surprised the chimes played the first couple of bars of “(I’m a) Ramblin’ Wreck.” Neither was the cat. It sat statue still except for its tail, which waved as if to a rhythm only it heard.

The door behind the screen door opened, revealing a stocky woman with closely cropped hair. She wore a Georgia Tech T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. A black-and-white cat circled her left ankle, a tabby her right.

She stooped to shoo them away at the same time she unlatched the screen door. “Well, hello, Mr. Peters! Long time no see. I was surprised when I got your call.”

Mind appearing to be made up, the gray cat dashed inside the open door.

“Good to see you, too, Sybil. Still keeping your feline menagerie, I see.”

She opened the door wider. “About sixteen at last count. But that was a week ago. Could be more by now. Critters multiply faster than I can have them neutered or spayed. C’mon in.”

Jason followed her down a corridor dark in spite of sunlight pouring through a window at the end. He imagined dozens of pairs of cat eyes peering out of the gloom. There was a smell of one or more litter boxes somewhere near.

Sybil stood aside, ushering Jason into the room at the end of the hall. A large and very comfortable-looking chair sat behind a dining-room table from which the faux mahogany veneer was peeling. On the floor underneath it were what looked to Jason like multiple computers. And cats — three of four of them. There were several more on the couch, the only other piece of furniture visible. The wall to his right was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, most of the titles relating to computers, as far as Jason could tell. The other wall displayed diplomas, certificates, and photographs of Sybil shaking hands or draping arms around people Jason did not recognize. There were also a number of pictures of Sybil in her Tech softball uniform, several trophies, and, not surprisingly, a cat that was staring down curiously from its perch on the top shelf.

Sybil had come to Tech on a softball scholarship, majored in computer science, and excelled at both. If Jason remembered correctly, the Lady Jackets had won a national championship behind her pitching, and her grades had been good enough to warrant a graduate scholarship to Stanford. She returned to her alma mater to teach advanced computer science, a curriculum Jason gathered was designed for students who simply outpaced existing courses and that Sybil made up as she went along. In his few visits and conversations with her, there had been no hint of a boyfriend, partner, or companion of any description. As far as he knew, she rented out rooms, sought only the company of her cats, and designed computer programs for several governments and organizations including the United States and Narcom. Momma swore she was the best hacker that had ever been.

Sybil indicated the couch as she slid into the chair. “Have a seat.”

Jason eyed the streaks of cat fur that would attach to his summer-weight wool Italian slacks and the light jacket he had worn against the chill of the airplane’s air-conditioning. “I’ll stand if it’s all the same.”

That served as the niceties that precede most business conversations in the South.

A cat vaulted effortlessly into Sybil’s lap. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Peters?”

Jason handed her the matchbook cover. “I want to see their guest list for the last, say, three months.”

She was scratching the cat’s ears to accompanying purrs. “Looking for anyone in particular?”

“I’m not certain. I’d be interested in anyone named Uri, Urinov, or something like that.”

Not much chance the man he’d left in the trunk would sign into a hotel under his real name, but worth a shot.

“You’re aware that hacking into private records is illegal.”

Jason cocked an eyebrow, “No doubt the first time you’ve crossed that threshold.”

The ghost of a smile flirted with her face before disappearing. “Well said. I’ll see what I can do. You could have just sent this matchbook to me. I’m flattered you came in person.”

“Getting out of DC at the time seemed like a good idea.”

Besides, he’d gotten a flight that was not Delta.

“Should I come back?”

She shook her head, already concentrating of the screen in front of her. “Not unless you’re in a hurry. I can’t imagine a hotel’s firewall that can’t be cracked in less than an hour.”

Actually, it took seventeen minutes.

She motioned him over. “Come have a look.”

Jason saw a list of names and numbers he guessed indicated dates and room numbers.

He watched her scroll down for several minutes. “Not a Uri in the lot.”

The cat leapt down from her lap to be replaced by another. “Lot of Latino names, though.”

“No wonder. The place is in San Juan.”

She looked up at him. “And just when was the last time you stayed at the Ritz or Willard’s in DC?”

It took a split second for her point to register.

“You’re saying that locals wouldn’t be staying in a hotel.”

“And look at the place.” The screen flashed a virtual tour of swimming pool, spa, and other amenities before going back to the lists. “How many couples do you see on the list of guests? I’d guess if those are legitimate businessmen, they would have chosen something a little less luxurious than a what looks like a beautifully restored old building. If they are tourists, why wouldn’t they want to stay at the Caribe Hilton, the El San Juan, or someplace else on the beach? I’m saying there is something odd here.”

“Can you get the home addresses of the guests?”

She gave him a real grin this time. “Mr. Peters, if it exists on a computer, I can get it.”

A few strokes of the keyboard later, she exclaimed. “Wow! Talk about peculiar!”

Jason had been distracted by a pair of cats that seemed to be disputing possession of a toy mouse. At least he hoped it was a toy. “What?”

She pointed to the screen. “Not only have a number of the hotel guests paid multiple visits in three months, the ones that have give a local address”—she pointed—“see? Same zip code as the El Convento, Calle Luna 23. How weird is that, checking into a hotel in the same zip code as your home address?”

“Maybe they weren’t alone. Maybe …”

He could have sworn Sybil blushed. “I wouldn’t think four hundred dollars a night and up would cater to the hot-pillow trade.”

Jason thought a moment. “Can you call up their bills? I mean, did they have their meals at the hotel?”

Keys clicked.

“I’d say these gentlemen have a strong preference for vodka. Not a piña colada or daiquiri between them. And they must have taken meals out of the hotel. Any other questions?”

Jason patted her shoulder. “Only how much do I owe you?”

“As always, depends. If you’re paying by check or want a written bill, my fee is six-fifty. Five hundred in cash will do as well.”

Like so many small businesses, Sybil operated below the IRS’s radar.

Jason was already going for his wallet. “I remember. Tax evasion is also illegal.”

She was reaching for five crisp bills. “It is also the American pastime.”

As Jason left the house, the heat of a Southern summer hit him like a slap across the face. He slipped off his jacket. The back was covered in cat hair. How had that happened?