Page 3 of Hacking the Holidays
During the Christmas season, the picturesque village transforms into something straight out of a holiday movie, complete with 500,000 twinkling lights, German architecture, and thousands of visitors who come for the Christmas markets, the snow, and the festive holiday atmosphere.
“Is there a common denominator that links the library and the community center?” I asked.
Thorne nodded. “Yes. A man named Samuel Monroe.We’re almost certain he’s our Good Sam. We need the proof, though. That’s where you come in.”
Sam Monroe wasGood Sam?
The irony was so beautifully symmetrical it was almost poetic. A self-fulfilling prophecy with his name, if ever there was one. The universe, in its own haphazard way, had a sense of humor.
Thorne’s expression grew more serious. “Sam Monroe is a mild-mannered archivist at the Leavenworth library—been there twelve years and has never missed a day. He’s responsible for the acquisition, organization, preservation, and management of the city’s historical records. Over five hundred thousand digital archives are available for public access.”
“Managing that much information would turn my brain into scrambled eggs,” Chloe said. “His IQ must be through the roof.”
“One hundred and sixty, according to his background check,” Thorne said. “Monroe had been adopted as an infant by a middle-class Seattle family who’d recognized his extraordinary gifts immediately. By age sixteen, he’d already graduated from the University of Washington with double majors in Computer Science and History—one of the youngest college graduates in the state’s history. He’d earned a Master’s Degree in Library and Information Science at seventeen, because apparently overachieving was his hobby.”
Chloe turned to me with a grin. “You’ve got some serious competition. He could be your soulmate.”
I smirked. “I look forward to dating him while he’s in prison.”
Thorne cleared his throat. “Moving on … Monroe runs two book clubs, has also led story-time for the kids, and even teaches seniors how to use the computer catalog. All things that are not part of his job description. But here’s the kicker: he’s also the town’s most celebrated volunteer Santa Claus. Five years running, voted ‘Best Santa’ by the community. The guy’s got more fans than a boy band—church groups love him, the Rotary Club thinks he walks on water, and half the soccer moms in town have his number on speed dial for parties and charity events.”
“This certainly is a fascinating case, but imagine the backlash when Santa is arrested,” I said.
“Which means if we’re going after Saint Nick himself, we’d better have our ducks in a perfect row,” Agent Thorne said. “One misstep, and we’ll have the entire town forming a human chain around the man. Everybody loves him, but he’s our prime suspect, and we need solid evidence.”
He clicked his remote, and a photo of Sam Monroe appeared on the large monitor behind him, his kind eyes and warm smile staring back at me. He looked nothing like the reclusive genius hacker I had been imagining the last few minutes, someone with a hoodie who worked out of his dark basement.
Sam looked … almost normal.
“Holy guacamole,” Chloe murmured beside me, breaking my concentration. “I can think of a hundred reasons the women have him on speed-dial.”
Thorne gave her a look that would have frozen lesser agents in their tracks. “Is that really necessary, Davis?”
“What?” Chloe said, throwing her hands up in a defensive gesture. “Just because he’s drop-dead gorgeous doesn’t mean we’re going to take it easy on him. It just means we can enjoy the view a little, or a lot, before we take him down.”
My internal monologue, which usually contained a symphony of algorithms, was now a single, repeating question mark. My mind admitted he was handsome—it would be illogical not to—but then hurried on to a list of potential flaws. Bad posture? A grating laugh? A horrible case of halitosis? He was probably a terrible dresser, although it was hard to tell since the photo was from the neck up. I was sure he had a list of faults a mile long.
Agent Thorne turned back to me. “Thoughts?”
I shrugged. “He could certainly use a haircut.”
Chloe snorted.
Thorne crossed his arms. “I’m talking about the case.”
“Piece of cake,” I said, grabbing the files and standing to head back to my sacred cubicle. “Don’t be surprised if we have this wrapped up before the end of the week. I’ll get right on it.”
“Not so fast …”
Thorne’s expression shifted into what I recognized as his “you’re really not going to like this” face.
“We’re handling this case differently,” he added.
My fight-or-flight response kicked in immediately.Differentlywas FBI code forwe’re about to ruin your entireweek. Different meant leaving my citadel of monitors and venturing into the terrifying realm of face-to-face human interaction. Different meant he wanted me to do something that required zippered pants without an elastic waistband.
“Different how?” I asked, though every survival instinct was telling me to just nod and back away slowly.
“You’re going undercover,” Thorne said. “You leave for Leavenworth in the morning.”
