The Codebook Murders Read online

  The Codebook Murders is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2019 by Leslie Nagel

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9781984800268

  Cover design: Marietta Anastassatos

  Cover art: Ben Perini

  randomhousebooks.com

  v5.4

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Leslie Nagel

  About the Author

  “If you unravel the source code, you unravel the universe.”

  —Anthony T. Hincks

  “First, solve the problem. Then, write the code.”

  —John Johnson, PhD, UC Santa Barbara

  Chapter 1

  This crazy day just might witness the first recorded death by humidity.

  Despite the cool air blasting from the dashboard vents, Charley Carpenter felt about as flat and lifeless as an overcooked pancake. Moist, breathless heat pressed down like a spatula. Her curly red hair was plastered to her face and neck. During the past hour clouds had rolled in, dark and ominous with a sinister green cast that made her nervous on a primitive, cavewoman level. It had been blowing strong when she’d run inside Arrow Wine, a fitful wind that flung handfuls of hard drops against her skin that stung, powerful gusts tossing the treetops and snapping the market’s awning on its metal frame. She’d been sure she’d walk outside into a torrential downpour. However, the wind had now died completely. The clouds were so low, she felt as if she could reach up and touch their scalloped undersides. It was a struggle to fill her lungs, and she’d ducked into the safety of the Mystery Machine, her custom-painted panel van, with a sigh of relief.

  “I do not like this,” she muttered, peering up at the sky. “Time to get home.”

  Charley drove as fast as she dared down the deserted residential streets, not wanting to get nailed by the ever-vigilant Oakwood Safety Department. A speeding ticket was not in the budget this month, thank you very much. Street lamps flickered on as the light dimmed even further, adding to the surreal feeling of the early afternoon landscape.

  If the downpour turned out to be as heavy as that sky portended, she reflected, it might mean canceling that evening’s meeting of her brand-new book club. That would be a shame, as it was only their second gathering, and the first at which they would actually discuss a book.

  The inaugural meeting had been more of a happy accident. Charley and her small staff had been conducting inventory at Charley’s vintage and “special occasion” fashion shop, Old Hat New Beginnings. Frankie Bright, Charley’s best and oldest friend, had stopped by to help, as she often did. As talk turned to what the four women were currently reading, two more friends had wandered in, joining in on the book chat with enthusiasm. Frankie had surveyed the lively group, clapped her hands for attention, and proposed the book club idea.

  “It’s been eight months.” Frankie had been referring to the demise of the Agathas Book Club, of which she and Charley had both been members. In the wake of five murders and two arrests that had decimated the membership, the Agathas had necessarily disbanded. Charley wasn’t sure she wanted to tempt fate by forming another group, but Frankie had waved this away. Despite her diminutive stature, she was a force to be reckoned with. “It’s time,” she’d said firmly. “I miss the book talks, and I know you do, too.”

  When the other women had seconded the proposal with enthusiasm, Charley had acquiesced. It was true; she had missed those discussions—if not all of the book club’s members.

  For their first order of business, the new club voted unanimously to retain the Agathas’ original themed reading list. They would select and dissect murder mysteries, by female authors only.

  “Those are always the best.” Vanessa St. James was one of Charley’s part-time clerks at Old Hat and, at eighteen, the youngest member of the new club. “Besides,” she’d added slyly, “we’ll probably need the practice.”

  “Practice?” Charley had stared, confused, as the others exchanged meaningful glances. “Practice for what?”

  “Why, for the next time you find a dead person, Charlotte, dear.” Heddy Jones was Charley’s head salesclerk and the most senior member of the club. The lively septuagenarian had patted Charley’s hand. “It’s all right. We know it’s not your fault.”

  Afiya Vickerson had nodded in solemn agreement. Fee owned Slash, the hair salon across the alley. She was a frequent visitor to Old Hat, and she and Charley had discovered common ground in the challenges of small-business ownership and forged a strong friendship. “I found the experience of helping you solve your last case to be very rewarding,” she’d confessed, her low voice tinted with the rich accent of her native Somalia. “The opportunity to solve another such puzzle, even if it occurs within the pages of a book, will be most welcome.”

  “Well, you can count me in.” Dr. Sharon Krugh, assistant Montgomery County coroner, had flipped her straight honey blond hair behind cashmere-clad shoulders, pulled out her cellphone, and begun scrolling. “Real homicide cases are rarely resolved as neatly as fictional ones. It’ll be a nice reprieve, not to mention an actual social event that doesn’t include making conversation with a bunch of old stiffs. Pun definitely intended. How do Tuesday evenings work for everyone?”

  And with that, the Oakwood Mystery Club had come into being, with its first meeting set to occur at the Carpenter home just a few hours from now. Unless, of course, the weather dictated otherwise.

  Charley smiled to herself as she recalled everyone’s eager certainty that dead bodies galore were just over the next horizon. It was true that she’d stumbled across more than her share of crime scenes recently. But surely that was just coincidence, right? And while it was also true that she’d been instrumental in solving each case and bringing the killers to justice, it wasn’t like she went looking for murder victims. They just seemed to…find her. A lot.

  As she idled at the corner of Schantz and Spirea, she noticed a teenage girl jogging down the sidewalk, book bag slung over one shoulder. Charley would know that spiky purple hair anywhere. She rolled down her window.

  “Katie!” she called. “Want a lift? It looks like it’s about to pour.”
>
  Katie O’Malley smiled with gratitude. “You bet!” She hurried across the street. “Thanks, Charley. I’m taking Ms. Magellan’s summer drama workshop at the high school. It just let out, and—”

  As Katie opened the passenger door, three things happened.

  First, the emergency siren abruptly began its mournful howl. The Safety Building was only four blocks away, and the noise was so deafening Charley couldn’t hear what Katie said next. Second, her ears popped. Third, as if a bomb had exploded, the wind was suddenly all around them, and with it came the rain. Violent and savage, it shook the van as sheets of water dumped from the heavens in massive torrents. Katie scrambled inside and slammed the door, but she was already soaking wet. Charley hastened to raise the window.

  Then the rain turned to hail. Stones the size of golf balls began pelting the van and bouncing off the pavement, the roar of ten thousand impacts even louder than the siren.

  “Tornado!” Katie cried.

  “No kidding,” Charley gasped.

  That siren meant a funnel cloud had been sighted, she knew. It was now so dark that Charley could hardly see a foot beyond the windshield. They needed to take shelter, and this van, shaking like a toy with every gust, was no shelter.

  Up ahead on their left, although she could no longer see it, was the brick archway leading into Mack Hummon Field. Charley thought if she could pull the van under the archway, they’d find more shelter from blowing debris. Something struck the side of the van, and Katie screamed. Charley glimpsed a lawn chair as it whipped past, before it was lost in the maelstrom. In a few brief seconds Schantz had become a raging torrent, the street already at least four inches deep with water and swirling hailstones, the storm drains no match for the heavy downpour.

  Throwing caution to the winds, Charley pressed the accelerator. She could feel the wind pushing the van sideways, the water adding more pressure, threatening to shove them against the curb. She floored it and the Mystery Machine shot through the intersection. She steered as straight as she could, fighting the wheel, feeling the tires slide on the icy pavement. Within a dozen yards, the dark bulk of the brick stadium wall loomed on her left. It cut the wind just enough for her to see the entrance. Thank God, the gate stood open. Without hesitation, Charley slewed the wheel and drove up over the curb and under the arch. The racket from hail hitting metal immediately abated.

  But by turning the van east, she’d pointed it directly into the gale. Something large and pale reared up out of the darkness and crashed into the windshield. Katie shrieked again. The shatterproof glass cracked, spiderwebbing with a million tiny fissures, but it held. Charley knew one more impact could send shards flying into their faces. Even as she thought this, a violent gust caused the windshield to bow inward alarmingly.

  “Into the back!” she commanded. She unsnapped her seat belt and grabbed her carryall containing her wallet and cellphone. But before either of them could move, her door was wrenched open. In an instant she was drenched. A figure in a hooded blue slicker grabbed her arm.

  “Not safe! Get inside!” he screamed, his voice almost carried away by the howling wind. A wrought iron table bounced toward them, hit the railing around the running track, and veered off, missing her van by inches. “Now!”

  Charley and Katie needed no further encouragement. They scrambled out the driver’s door. The man held open the door to the ticket office, a tiny space built into the heavy brick archway. They all stumbled inside, and he wrestled the door closed with difficulty.

  Despite its relatively sheltered position, the office window was broken, letting in the rain. Clipboarded papers and posters with last season’s schedule flapped against the walls in sodden tatters. A computer monitor and keyboard lay on the floor, along with assorted jackets, ballcaps, and an overturned stool. Hailstones bounced and caromed off every surface.

  And then Charley heard it, the sound she’d been dreading, the chugging, locomotive sound of a tornado. Her ears popped again, and the earth trembled beneath her feet. Beside her, Katie was sobbing.

  “Damn it to hell.” The man dragged a table away from the wall to reveal a gray metal hatch, three feet square, flush with the concrete floor. Twisting a t-shaped handle, he wrenched it open. “Let’s go!”

  A metal ladder led down into darkness. Charley pushed Katie ahead of her as the man grabbed a flashlight mounted on the wall and shone it down into the opening. Katie practically leaped into the hatch. Charley went next, her carryall bouncing awkwardly against her legs as she slithered down the slimy rungs. The man followed, pulling the hatch closed behind him.

  Instantly, there was near silence. The roar and shaking of the storm was only a far-off murmur.

  “Anyone hurt?” the man asked. He shone the light to one side, avoiding their eyes.

  “I’m okay,” Katie said in a wobbly whisper.

  “I’m fine. Just terrified.” Charley wrapped an arm around Katie, who had begun to tremble. “We’re safe down here,” she whispered.

  “Twister,” the man muttered. “By the sound of it, passing directly overhead, maybe touching down, God help us.”

  “Thank you for rescuing us,” Charley said. “I’m Charley Carpenter.”

  “I know who you are, missy.” As he tugged back the hood of his dripping slicker, Charley recognized old Merritt Vance, a school janitor who was already ancient when she’d gone to Oakwood. He stood with his feet planted, thinning gray hair plastered against his wet skull, his square, lined face and narrowed eyes projecting annoyance as he took in his two unexpected charges.

  “Hey, Mr. Vance,” Katie said, sounding a bit calmer. “Super glad to see you.” He grunted.

  A crash and thump sounded above as something heavy landed on the hatch. Vance climbed up the ladder and tried to push it open. “Something’s blocking it. Hopefully not five tons of brickwork.”

  “Or my van!” Charley bit her lip. “I hope everyone’s all right. My father’s in a wheelchair.”

  “My mom’s at work!” Katie exclaimed. “I guess the hospital has a basement, right?”

  “Of course they do. She’ll be safe, and Lawrence is home,” Charley said, as much to reassure herself as the girl. Lawrence Whittman, the Carpenters’ live-in caregiver, was a six-foot, nine-inch teddy bear devoted to the well-being of Bobby Carpenter, his beloved former football coach. “He’d carry my dad down to our basement as soon as they heard the siren.”

  She next thought of Marcus Trenault. He’d purchased and was now renovating the house next door. If all went according to plan, they’d be moving in together by summer’s end. Marc had intended to start ripping into the roof this week. Thank heaven he’d delayed that step—all this rain would have resulted in tons of interior damage. Her stomach clenched in fear as she considered the breathtaking display of violence she’d just witnessed. The roof of either the new house or her current home could’ve been torn away by the twister, or worse. For all she knew—

  Stop. She forced herself to stop speculating. Panic would solve nothing. Still, she needed to get home as soon as possible.

  Vance now shone his flashlight down what Charley realized was a tunnel. The place where they stood was a square shaft about twelve feet deep and four feet square, containing nothing but the metal ladder bolted into a red brick wall. The bricks oozed moisture, and water pooled where brick met a rough concrete floor. Leading off this shaft was a rectangular opening about four feet high and barely three feet wide.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  “It’s an access tunnel—leads to the school.” Vance scowled. “We can’t go back the way we came, so I guess we’re going that way.”

  Charley stared. “Amazing. I’ve lived here all my life, and I never knew about this tunnel. You game?” she asked Katie.

  The girl had recovered her spirits and was checking her cellphone. “No signal down here, but the flash
light app works.” Katie pressed a button and a bright light shone from the back of her device. She grinned at Charley. “Spooky hidden tunnel? I’m in! Maybe we’ll find a dead body or something. That’d be cool.”

  Vance’s eyes widened.

  “We’re, uh, into mysteries around here,” Charley offered lamely. Katie was, in fact, one of her band of teenage informants, a group Charley had affectionately dubbed the Park Avenue Irregulars. Somehow, this didn’t seem like the time or place for explanations.

  Vance’s scowl deepened. “Follow me, and watch your step.”

  Stooping low, he entered the tunnel. Charley pulled out her cellphone, selected her flashlight app, and clicked it on. Between the three light sources, she could see the tunnel running straight and true, a smoothly bricked rectangle. No pipes, no electrical wiring, no side turnings. Plenty of cobwebs, though. Vance swept them down with his free hand as he crab-walked forward. Charley tucked her curling red hair more securely under her ballcap, hunched down, and followed, with Katie close behind.

  “Do you think there are rats down here?” Katie wondered with a nervous giggle. Vance merely grunted. Hardly an answer, Charley thought grimly.

  About five yards in, Vance stopped.

  “Wonder if these work.” He flipped an ancient light switch mounted to the wall. A series of lightbulbs running along the ceiling flickered to life, faltered, then glowed stronger. He turned off his flashlight. “No telling whether we’ll need to conserve battery power. If we reach the far end and find out we’re trapped down here…”

  Charley and Katie promptly turned off their cellphone lights.

  After another twenty-five feet, the sound of running water echoed down the tunnel. A thick metal pipe ran across the tunnel roof, piercing the brick on either side. Water leaked from a joint in the pipe, and there was standing water about an inch deep beneath their feet.