"Kell? It's Calliope Skouros. Sorry to bother you. I just got your message."

A moment later the image flicked on. Herlihy from Records looked like she was having the married-with-kids version of Calliope's Saturday morning, although Calliope couldn't help noticing with some chagrin that the one with kids had at least managed to get dressed.

"Yes?" Herlihy looked a little dazed. Watching the three girls in the background, who appeared to be trying to dress a cat in baby clothes, Calliope refined her idea of the advantages of company.

"I'm really, really sorry, Kell, but I just had to follow up. You said you got something about John Wulgaru?"

"C'mon, Skouros, it's the weekend. Don't you ever do anything but work? Besides, I thought Merapanui was closed."

"Not by my choice. Just tell me what you have."

Kell Herlihy made a disgusted noise. "A headache. Christ, what was it? It wasn't John Wulgaru, anyway—it was just 'Wulgaru.' An inquiry. I had that automatic monitoring thing set up for you." She frowned, then turned away for a moment to rescue the cat and send her daughters out of the room, who went squealing in tripartite protest. "If you ever miss the joys of being a breeder, feel free to do some babysitting for me."

Calliope forced a laugh. "Tempting, Kell. Look, what do you mean, 'just Wulgaru'?"

"Just that. It was a word search. Someone trying to find out what it meant. I thought you'd want to know, since that was about the only active hit we ever got since I set up the monitor."

"A word search?" Calliope's excitement had cooled just a little. "Where was it from?"

"Some university, somewhere weird. Helsinki, I think. That's in Finland, right?"

"Yeah." As quickly as it had blown up, the storm of excitement faded. "Just someone from a university in Finland doing a search. Shit."

"I didn't think it was much, but if you want to do a follow-up, the trackback information is attached to the original message."

"No. Thanks anyway, Kell. As you pointed out, the case is closed. Not much use in bothering some graduate student in Finland." She reached out to close the connection.

"Yeah, probably not, if that's where it's from."

Calliope paused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean if that's really where it's from." Herlihy looked away, distracted by some dire sound from the other room that Calliope couldn't hear.

"But you said it was from Finland. A university."

Herlihy stared at her for a moment, impressed by Calliope's naivete. "That's where it's supposed to be from. But people use universities all the time to screen stuff. Easy to hack into, lots of nodes to confuse things, sloppy accounting procedures because of all the students sharing time—you know."

"I didn't know. Does that mean this search could . . . could be from somewhere else entirely?"

"Yeah." Herlihy shrugged. "Or it could be just what it looks like."

"Can you find out for me?"

"Oh, God. If I can find some time, Monday or Tuesday. . . ." She looked doubtful. "I can try, Calliope. But I'm really, really busy right now."

She had to ask. "How about this weekend?"

"What?" Kell Herlihy weary amusement sharpened into something like real anger. "Are you joking? You are, aren't you? Tell me you are. I have three kids rioting here, my lump of a husband's going to take all day just to wash the car, and you want to know if I can drop everything and track down some. . . !"

"Okay, okay! Bad idea. I'm sorry, Kell."

"I mean, come on! Just because you're single and you don't have anything to do on weekends. . . ."

"Sorry." She thanked the woman from records several times, in a hurry now to get off the phone. "I'm an idiot. You're right."

When the call was over she sat staring at the wallscreen. The news was showing some in-depth report on a tottering Asian gear empire and the apparent mortal illness of its mega-rich owner. The woman's face, as full of hard lines and surgically-smooth planes as an Easter Island statue, was horrifyingly shallow and empty, even in a piece of publicity file footage obviously meant to flatter.

That's what happens to people who don't get a life, Calliope thought. They die on the inside, but nobody knows it for a long time.

The odd thought lingered, confusing her. But I can't just let this go. Not without checking this last bit, whatever it is. Sure, it's probably meaningless. . . .

. . . But what if it isn't? And how can you ever know unless you try?

Stan was sitting on the couch between his two nephews, of whom Calliope could see only half of each, one long skinny leg and one bare foot. From the sound of it, she was sharing the Chan wallscreen with the same sporting event that Kell Herlihy's husband-lump had been watching.

"You really have too much spare time, Skouros," Stan said. "It's Saturday."

"Why does everybody feel so free to talk about my personal life?"

The Chan eyebrow crept up. "Who was it who spent most of the last week or so keeping me up to the minute on the Wild, Wonderful World of Waitresses? Without me asking once, I might add."

"All right. I'm a little sensitive today. So sue me." She was glad she'd at least shed the dressing gown for actual I-have-a-life clothes. "Better, why don't you humor me? You must know someone who can help with this."

"On a weekend? It's a closed case, Skouros. Finito. Kaput. If you're going to flog a dead horse, why don't you at least let the poor bugger rest in peace until Monday?"

"Because I want to know. Monday everything will start over again, all the usual shit, and poor little Polly Merapanui will get farther and farther away." She tried another tack. "Not to mention that on Monday I'd be using office time for what you so accurately point out is a closed case. Right now, I'm only wasting my own."

"And mine." But Stan shut his mouth for a moment, thinking. "Honestly, I can't come up with anyone, not that I could reach on a weekend." One of his nephews said something Calliope couldn't hear. "You're joking, right?" Stan asked.

"I'm not!" Calliope said, aggrieved.

"No, I'm talking to Kendrick. He said he has a friend who could help you."

"A friend . . . like, someone his age?"

"Yeah. I don't think you can afford to quibble, Skouros." Stan grinned. "Not if you're looking for someone who'll work weekend hours."

Calliope sank a little in her chair. "Shit. Okay, put Kendrick on."

Ten minutes seemed to pass between the time his older sister left to find him and the moment when Kendrick's friend appeared on Calliope's wallscreen. The boy, barely a teenager, coupled a small frame and dark, round face with an immense head of curly black hair, artificially frosted with white so that he looked like some kind of mutant dandelion.

"You the police lady?" Kendrick had already called to explain, it seemed.

"Yes, my name is Detective Skouros. And you're Gerry Two Iron, right?"

"Seen."

She paused, trying to remember how to deal with a teenager who was not accused of any crimes. It was not an area in which she had much experience. "So . . . hey, Two Iron is a really unusual name. What tribe is it from?"

He was amused. "Golf."

"Beg your pardon?"

"My dad's the club pro at Trial Bay, up north. That's what everyone calls him, so the kids at school there called me that too. Our real name's Baker."

"Ah." What was that you said about yourself earlier, Skouros? Was "idiot" the word? "Uh, did Kendrick tell you what I need?"

He nodded his head. "You want to find out where someone's request comes from—whether it's real or, like, duppy."

"Exactly. I'm sending you the information I have—the person who got it for me says all the trackback is included."