Cameron said. He eased it into one of his plastic crime lab envelopes. Then he
studied one of the copies. It said, "Johnson Network Components," with an address in Walnut
Creek, California. In the space for the license plate number, someone had written, "rental."
"How long has he been staying here?"
"Let me pull it up on the computer." Forrest circled his desk, leaned over the keyboard
and entered a series of characters. "He checked in last night at 9:37. He was a walk in."
"How so?"
"That means the registration wasn't made in advance. Would you like my guess as to
how it happened?"
"Sure."
Forrest glanced down at the computer screen and back at the copy of the registration
card. "I'd say he had business somewhere in the neighborhood and was planning to fly out of DIA
last night. His flight was delayed or cancelled due to the weather. He needed a place to spend the
night, so he stopped here and checked in, figuring to fly out this morning."
"How much of this is pure guesswork?"
Forrest smiled. "Oh, about half. People planning to stay over on a Friday night usually
make their reservations in advance. A lot of hotels fill up on the weekends, and most experienced
travelers want to make sure they'll have a place to stay. According to the computer, he made four
phone calls last night. One to area code 925, which I believe is somewhere in California." He
indicated the address on the registration card. "Walnut Creek seems right, but I can't swear to
that. So, most likely, he was calling his office or his house, to let them know he was delayed.
There were three more calls, which were technically charged as local calls. But two of those were
800 numbers, which could mean an airline or the rental car company."
"Can you print me a copy?"
"Sure thing."
Forrest deftly manipulated the mouse. Soon a laser printer behind him began making
whirring noises. He caught a sheet of paper as it emerged from the machine and handed it to
Cameron.
"Thanks. I'm going to need a key to his room."
The manager frowned. "Didn't he have a key with him?"
"There wasn't one on the body. It could have been in his wallet, but that was
missing."
"Odd. Very odd. Of course, I'll get you a new one." He left the room and returned a
minute later, carrying a plastic room key card. "Please be careful when you enter his room," he
implored. "Just in case."
* * * *
Brady Cameron had mixed feelings about attending a writer's convention. If any of his
friends ever found out what he was doing, they'd give him no end of grief. The guys he hung with
were into retro Van Halen and AC/DC. And, of course, Metallica. Spending time writing books,
especially science fiction books, was for wusses. Definitely not for a twenty-two-year-old
paint-and-body man who could take any wrecked vehicle--no matter whether it was built in America or
Japan or Germany--and put it back together, as good as new.
It had always been that way for Brady. He could fix anything. At least, anything
physical. Dealing with people was something entirely different. Something just didn't click,
except with his few friends, most of whom he'd known since middle school. Maybe it was his
anger. Maybe everyone else was just stupid. All he knew was that people pulled away from him,
even when he was doing his best to connect with them, and he usually ended up feeling like an
outsider.
Or a freak.
Here at the CFWA he felt almost comfortable. The people were mostly nice, even
though some of them looked like complete losers, and he liked the way everyone seemed to be
treated the same. From the big-name writers who were getting rich off of their work to the
beginners like himself, who were still trying to write their first book, there was a certain kinship
that appealed to him. And then there was the mysterious Published Writer's Guild that you could
only join if you'd had something published. It was almost like being part of some secret medieval
society.
It was totally freaky that his dad was here. Like
studied one of the copies. It said, "Johnson Network Components," with an address in Walnut
Creek, California. In the space for the license plate number, someone had written, "rental."
"How long has he been staying here?"
"Let me pull it up on the computer." Forrest circled his desk, leaned over the keyboard
and entered a series of characters. "He checked in last night at 9:37. He was a walk in."
"How so?"
"That means the registration wasn't made in advance. Would you like my guess as to
how it happened?"
"Sure."
Forrest glanced down at the computer screen and back at the copy of the registration
card. "I'd say he had business somewhere in the neighborhood and was planning to fly out of DIA
last night. His flight was delayed or cancelled due to the weather. He needed a place to spend the
night, so he stopped here and checked in, figuring to fly out this morning."
"How much of this is pure guesswork?"
Forrest smiled. "Oh, about half. People planning to stay over on a Friday night usually
make their reservations in advance. A lot of hotels fill up on the weekends, and most experienced
travelers want to make sure they'll have a place to stay. According to the computer, he made four
phone calls last night. One to area code 925, which I believe is somewhere in California." He
indicated the address on the registration card. "Walnut Creek seems right, but I can't swear to
that. So, most likely, he was calling his office or his house, to let them know he was delayed.
There were three more calls, which were technically charged as local calls. But two of those were
800 numbers, which could mean an airline or the rental car company."
"Can you print me a copy?"
"Sure thing."
Forrest deftly manipulated the mouse. Soon a laser printer behind him began making
whirring noises. He caught a sheet of paper as it emerged from the machine and handed it to
Cameron.
"Thanks. I'm going to need a key to his room."
The manager frowned. "Didn't he have a key with him?"
"There wasn't one on the body. It could have been in his wallet, but that was
missing."
"Odd. Very odd. Of course, I'll get you a new one." He left the room and returned a
minute later, carrying a plastic room key card. "Please be careful when you enter his room," he
implored. "Just in case."
* * * *
Brady Cameron had mixed feelings about attending a writer's convention. If any of his
friends ever found out what he was doing, they'd give him no end of grief. The guys he hung with
were into retro Van Halen and AC/DC. And, of course, Metallica. Spending time writing books,
especially science fiction books, was for wusses. Definitely not for a twenty-two-year-old
paint-and-body man who could take any wrecked vehicle--no matter whether it was built in America or
Japan or Germany--and put it back together, as good as new.
It had always been that way for Brady. He could fix anything. At least, anything
physical. Dealing with people was something entirely different. Something just didn't click,
except with his few friends, most of whom he'd known since middle school. Maybe it was his
anger. Maybe everyone else was just stupid. All he knew was that people pulled away from him,
even when he was doing his best to connect with them, and he usually ended up feeling like an
outsider.
Or a freak.
Here at the CFWA he felt almost comfortable. The people were mostly nice, even
though some of them looked like complete losers, and he liked the way everyone seemed to be
treated the same. From the big-name writers who were getting rich off of their work to the
beginners like himself, who were still trying to write their first book, there was a certain kinship
that appealed to him. And then there was the mysterious Published Writer's Guild that you could
only join if you'd had something published. It was almost like being part of some secret medieval
society.
It was totally freaky that his dad was here. Like
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