Generation 18 (Spook Squad 2)

“Any details on Hal White’s death?”

Izzy reappeared. “Checking police files.”

If Izzy had gone directly to police files, Hal White’s death was listed as something other than natural. While she waited for the results, she leaned back in her chair and massaged her temples. If this damn headache didn’t go away soon, she might have to visit a doctor herself—something she normally tried to avoid.

“Hal White’s file remains open, sweetie. Cause of death unknown.”

Interesting. Maybe it was fate that two of the five friends had been murdered within a month of each other. Then again, maybe it wasn’t. “Grab a copy of the case report for me. And send the current addresses of the three remaining men to my wristcom.”

“Proceeding. Anything else I can help you with?”

“Yeah, the results for the priority-one search.”

“Results being displayed.”

There wasn’t much to see. Of the four men listed on the birth certificate, only one—Mark Allars—was still alive. Interestingly, he lived only one block away from Roy Benson, one of the three remaining men in the photograph. None of the women were still alive. All eight had worked at the elusive Hopeworth.

She tapped a finger against her lips. “Do we have photos of any of these people?”

“Nothing available on file.”

“What about their life before they joined the military?”

“Nothing available there, either, sweetie.”

She raised her eyebrows. There should have been school and medical records, at the very least. “Why not?”

Izzy gave an exasperated sigh. “I’m a computer, not a mind reader. How would I know?”

“Have you tried asking Hopeworth for details?”

“No, and I wouldn’t back your chances of getting an answer if I did.”

Neither would she, but she had nothing to lose by trying. “Put in a formal request for information on these eight, as well as the four men in the photograph.”

“Requesting.”

“Good.” Sam pushed her chair back and rose. “If you happen to get any results back from the other searches, forward them to my wristcom.”

“Consider it done, sweetie.”

“And check out a car from the pool for me.”

Izzy tapped a chicken-like foot for several moments. “Car nineteen on standby.”

“Thanks, Izzy.”

“Have a nice day,” Izzy said, before the screen went blank.

Sam snagged her bag off the back of the chair and headed down to the car pool. An attendant handed her the keys and a pass-out to sign. She scrawled her signature across the bottom, then threw her bag into the back of the car and climbed in.

After joining the late morning traffic, she cruised through the city streets, headed for Kensington. Roy Benson, like his other three friends, lived in a suburb befitting the image of an independently wealthy retiree. Only Peter Lyle had made an attempt to hide his wealth—though not very successfully, given he had million-dollar paintings all over his walls.

It took her twenty minutes to get to Kensington. She stopped under the shade of an old plane tree, then climbed out and studied the two-story building across the road. It wasn’t, as she’d expected, a house, but rather a retirement home—and an expensive one at that, if the gold fittings on the front door were anything to go by.

She collected her bag, slammed the car door closed, and walked across the road. She’d barely reached the steps when heat flashed across her skin—a white-hot rush that exploded her senses outward.

A kite was close—so close its evil itched at her skin and turned her stomach.