46
Dale had awakened barely in time to rush to his talk, only to have a murder cut it off at the title slide. Detective McComas had commanded him to keep away from the investigation. He’d done computer investigation too feeble to be called hacking, rejected an offer for a terrible job and received a side of menace, then eaten a whole string of Minimum Viable Peanut Butter Sandwiches with liquid nitrogen ice cream. A luxurious hotel shower, clean clothes, and a couple hours sprawled on the hotel room bed engrossed in ZZ Claybourne’s latest whacked-out epic wasn’t nearly enough to counter all that.
When the alarm went off at 9 PM he groaned.
He should quit.
The video from BSD North had given him a reputation as a real-world amateur detective. The undeserved credit had entangled him in Re
