Private Lives

17

Groaning in disbelief, Matt squinched his eyes shut and clung to his pillow. The room was dark — he’d arranged the shades with care. It was Saturday. He had no school and no plans except to make up for recent sleepless nights and yesterday’s legal excitement with as much sack time as possible.

Before going to bed last night, he’d personally ordered the house system not to extend the phone chimes into his room. If anybody called him, the answering program would cut in and record a message for him. Nobody would be bothered — especially not Matt.

So why — how — was his father looking in the door of the dim room, telling Matt that David Gray was on the line for him?

Groaning again, Matt crawled out of bed and staggered around the room, bringing the lights up, then engaging the computer components back into the home system. The display system flashed a holographic image of David Gray, looking disgustingly clean and chipper for—

Matt checked the time. Humph. Nearly noon.

“You okay?” David asked. “You’re not sick or something?”

“Asleep,” Matt replied, trying to rub some life back into his face. “Crashed early last night. Cut myself out of the system—”

“That’s why I’ve been trying to get through to you for the last hour!” David said with some annoyance. “I finally called your dad. You must have hit the hay very early last night — before the late news.” He hesitated for a moment. “Tori Rush is dead. Hit-and-run.”

Matt’s blinking eyes shot open. “Say again?” he demanded.

“Tori Rush came down to Washington ‘for unknown reasons,’ according to HoloNews. I think we can imagine her reasons for visiting. I don’t imagine her bosses were very happy with her after that press conference yesterday. Anyway, she was leaving the local HoloNews offices via a back way — trying to avoid reporters eager to ask embarrassing questions about where she got her information. Now we’ll never know. She was cutting across E Street and got nailed by a passing car.”

“Is this from the local news nets, or have you got a closer source of information?”

David’s father was a detective in the D.C. police force, working the homicide beat.

“You can see some of it on the news, but my sources are a bit closer,” David admitted, tight-lipped. “Dad’s got the basic on-scene coroner’s comments, and a bunch of conflicting accounts from eyewitnesses. She was walking, she was running, she got hit by a car, truck, or bus. At least Dad thinks he can rule out murder by UFO.”

“Murder.” It was an ugly word that seemed to stick in Matt’s throat.

David nodded. “Under the circumstances, it seems like a highly fortuitous accident.”

“Does that push your father’s investigation closer to the red line?”

“Dad takes every case seriously,” David replied. “From what he said, he’s barely in the opening rounds of this one. But I have heard a couple of things that I thought should be passed along. Dad talked to a bunch of suits from HoloNews. They were very clear that no corporate money was used to hire ‘improper research assistance,’ was the way they put it.”

“What a big surprise,” Matt mumbled. “Would they really know?”

“Dad thinks so. Even a newsdiva can’t go throwing big amounts of money around without explaining to the network bean counters where it’s going. And a quick look at the late Ms. Rush’s finances doesn’t show any checks to I-on Investigations.”

“Blast!” Matt said with feeling.

“On the other hand, there is a pattern of cash withdrawals in recent months. Big sums of money left Ms. Rush’s accounts…and every time right before she broke new scandals on Once Around the Clock.”

Matt scowled. “So now we have some suggestive facts to back up the hearsay account that Tori Rush was paying for information. But we still don’t have hard evidence to show who was doing the dirty work, or who was getting the money.”

Matt gave David an uneasy glance. “And it looks as though people who know anything about what’s going on are beginning to suffer fatal accidents. Should we be doing something about that intern up in New York?”

“Maybe, but I’d call Leif. My dad’s a cop down here, not in the NYPD,” David pointed out. “Besides, I think our bearded detective friend is trying to save a dam with too many leaks in it. When The Fifth Estate comes out with its story, Marcus Kovacs — or whoever — will discover how it feels to have the spotlight of publicity glaring down on him. And there won’t be a thing he can do about it.”

Megan O’Malley couldn’t believe what she was seeing on the evening news. Students gathered outside a shattered building on the Columbia campus while a HoloNews reporter offered the results of instant expertise on the subject of bombs.

“There’s no evidence as yet to show if this was the work of terrorists, or some terrible personal act of violence. Shattered windows showered glass on students passing on their way to classes. A research library was destroyed, as well as the offices of Professor Emeritus Arthur Wellman….”

Megan swallowed hard. The outer wall on one of the upper floors had been completely blown out. She thought the room revealed to a light rain looked familiar. The large desk Arthur Wellman had sat behind during their holographic chats was scorched and turned on its side. The camera focused in, climbing up the wrecked building as the reporter went on about rescue efforts and the number of people killed. As the most prominent, Wellman’s name led the list.

The holocamera’s focus zeroed in on something on the floor by the desk — a briar pipe snapped cleanly in two, the broken wood slick with raindrops. Because this was HoloNews, there was no mention of The Fifth Estate or the magazine’s connection to the growing Tori Rush scandal.

Megan found herself blinking back tears of pain and anger as she gave the computer orders to find other coverage with the information she sought. It was a fight to control her voice.

The holographic display shifted to one of the other news services, who, behind their shocked comments on the bombing and its effect on the Rush case, seemed downright gleeful.

“The sole set of files for the upcoming issue of Wellman’s news review, The Fifth Estate, was contained in the late professor’s computer system.” The thin female news reporter struggled to keep an umbrella over her perfect blond hair as she spoke into a microphone. “Only yesterday, Wellman had announced that his publication was prepared to reveal details of unprofessional conduct by HoloNews anchor Tori Rush. Rush herself perished recently in a suspicious hit-and-run incident, while avoiding reporters’ questions on the propriety of her information-gathering methods. She was rumored to be hiring covert operatives for illegal Net taps and surveillance in several high-profile exposés. But this mysterious explosion leaves reporters — and the public at large — without the hard facts to prove or disprove these allegations. And, unless the data can be recovered — a job which will require many experts and perhaps months of time — we may never find out.

“Did Tori Rush’s journalistic ambitions drag an entire network into the murky business of creating news? She seems to have taken the ultimate means of avoiding comment. Or was it forced upon her? Live from the Columbia campus, this is Rebecca Rostenkovsky. Now back to you, Arlen.”

Rumors, allegations, Megan thought in disgust. That’s sufficient for the easy standards of broadcast journalism. Enough for the viewing audience to swallow. But we may end up with nothing on hand to bring Marcus Kovacs to trial.

She noticed that none of the news reports about the Rush case had actually mentioned Kovacs by name. Sure. He’s the president of a profitable company with lots of lawyers on retainer. The newspeople are watching their step around him. While a public servant like the captain gets the same sort of treatment a fly gets from a steamroller.

Megan smeared the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Even if there was enough evidence to bring Kovacs to court, his pet lawyers could probably keep dancing around the issues for months. Certainly long enough to outlast the short attention span of the news. Maybe long enough to let him arrange another escape.

Like Alcista killing the captain’s wife, Megan thought. It’s happening all over again.

A more chilling consideration invaded Megan’s thinking. Tori Rush had been found out for her use of detectives, and had died before she could tell the world exactly which detectives she’d used. Arthur Wellman had stuck up his head — and had it blown off.

Who else might be a target from being involved in — or getting involved in — the affairs of Marcus Kovacs? Bodie Fuhrman? Leif? Matt Hunter?

Frowning, Megan switched the systems from entertainment mode to communication. She had a bunch of calls to make.

Matt Hunter walked up the quiet suburban block to James Winters’s house. He’d gotten the invitation to come over just after supper — and just after a near-lunatic message from Megan O’Malley.

At least it had seemed crazy at the time. Matt slowed down and really began scanning the street as Megan’s warning finally began sinking in. There was no doubt that Kovacs, or Steele, or whatever he was calling himself, was a cold-blooded character who didn’t hesitate to commit murder or create convenient “accidents.”

Matt suddenly had the image of ringing Winters’s doorbell and having the whole place blow up. He could almost see the headlines: STUDENT DIES IN MENTOR’S BOMB SUICIDE.

Who could necessarily prove that the bomb hadn’t been planted if that happened?

He stood for a long moment in front of the door before finally hitting the doorbell button. Even then, Matt couldn’t help blinking his eyes shut.

The door opened, and he found himself standing in front of Captain Winters. “Something blow into your eye, Matt?”

Embarrassed, Matt blinked a couple more times. “Yeah,” he lied. “But I think it’s out now.” He turned inquiring eyes to the captain.

“I’m glad you could come over.” Winters led the way to the living room. “Talking with you the other day seemed to help clear the fog out from between my ears.” The captain grinned back over his shoulder. “I’m hoping the same thing will happen this evening.” Winters indicated a seat on the sofa. “Sorry to drag you out here again. But until this is over, I can’t expect any Net links to be secure — up to and including connections to Net Force itself.” He hesitated. “Can I get you anything? A soda?”

Matt declined the offer, looking a little confused at the spectacle of James Winters edging around a subject.

Captain Winters sat down. “I wanted to talk to someone about the new twists in the case, and realized I didn’t have a wide range of people to choose from. My military friends only know what they hear on the news shows. And as for my Net Force associates, they’re tied up in other ways.”

So he’s turning to a high-school kid to act as a sounding board, Matt thought. I don’t know if that’s funny or sad.

“I’ll try to do my best, Captain,” he promised.

“So far, that’s been pretty good,” Winters said. “I’ve been banging heads with my lawyer since Tori Rush died, over whether to mention the name Marcus Kovacs in our press conferences, even though we don’t have proof of what he’s been up to — or who he is. Laird wants to build a case before making accusations. He feels it will make us more credible with the media.”

“And you?” Matt asked.

“Full speed ahead, and damn the torpedoes!” Winters admitted. “Shine a spotlight on Kovacs, and it will be difficult for him to do anything.” The captain grimaced. “Believe me, I know. I’ve lived through it.”

“I don’t know,” Matt said. “There was a lot of light shining around Tori Rush. And around Professor Wellman, if it comes to that. That didn’t stop what happened to them.”

Winters’s expression grew more grim. “We’re getting stuck in a losing game. Laird doesn’t want me to name Kovacs until we have proof. But Kovacs is eliminating anyone who can prove what he was doing.”

“Too bad we don’t have a solid piece of evidence, instead of people’s say-so,” Matt said.

Winters stared at the young Explorer. “A solid piece of evidence,” he repeated. “Something to prove that Kovacs has something he wants kept secret. Something that proves he’s actually Mike Steele!”

The captain bounded to his feet. “Excuse me a moment,” he said, crossing the room to a wall unit across from the picture window. Winters knelt, pulling open one of the drawers in the big wooden unit’s base.

Even from where he was sitting, Matt caught a faint musty smell. It was as if those drawers hadn’t been opened in — how long?

Winters gently searched through the contents of the drawer, shook his head, and closed up the unit again. He moved to the other side, to another drawer. Carefully he ran a hand along the rear of the drawer, rummaging for something.

“Got it!” he exclaimed, pushing the drawer shut and rising to his feet.

Dangling from his hand on a set of drawstrings was a suede pouch.

Captain Winters had an odd expression on his face as he returned to the couch. “Mike Steele was a confirmed bachelor,” he said, almost affectionately. “This was his idea of how to wrap a present. He took it out of the jeweler’s box and left it in the pouch. Luckily, it has the name of the jeweler on it.”

“I don’t think—” Matt began.

“This is the baby present Mike gave us.” With careful motions, Winters undid the knot in the drawstrings and pulled the bag open. A silver object in the shape of a ship’s anchor gleamed in the bottom of the bag.

“It’s one of a kind, ridiculously expensive. But Mike was a bachelor, and he loved boats.” Winters’s mood of gentle reminiscence faded. “This time it may sink him, though. The piece can be traced. The store where he got this still exists, and they’ll have records.”

“I still don’t—” Matt began.

Winters cut him off. “Fingerprints! I know how jewelers work. They shine up any piece before the customer gets it. At most, I expect there are four sets of prints on this thing. Mine, my wife’s, the jeweler’s sales clerk…and Mike Steele’s.”

“After four years?” Matt asked in disbelief.

“The rattle has sat undisturbed all that time,” Winters replied. “We tucked it in the back of a drawer—” He took a deep breath. “I haven’t looked at it since. But it kept well. No tarnish. And the FBI has the technology to bring up prints that have sat around on objects much longer. We may only be lucky enough to get a partial fingerprint. A baby rattle isn’t the biggest thing in the world, and we probably smudged each others’ prints looking at it.”

His eyes burned into Matt’s. “But even with a partial print from this, I bet we’ll be able to find a match with Marcus Kovacs’s prints on file for his investigator’s license.”

Winters smiled a deadly smile. “And why would our Hungarian friend be handling a supposedly dead Net Force agent’s baby gift?”