Private Lives (2000)

by Clancy, Tom - Net Force Explorers 09

  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?”

  18

  Leif Anderson shot a suspicious glance right and left along the block as he stepped out of the expensive apartment building he called home. Like most New Yorkers, he’d normally have thought nothing about darting across the street in the middle of the block if it saved him a couple of steps on the way to the deli where he could satisfy his craving for mint-chocolate ice cream.

  That was before Megan’s warning call, however. Now, whenever he left the house, Leif found himself slightly on edge about being attacked by a hit-and-run driver.

  One day, he thought, I’m going to end up choking that girl. If I live that long.

  His attention was so concentrated on the traffic, he almost missed the figure darting toward him from the darkened service entrance of a nearby building. Leif just caught a suggestion of motion at the corner of his vision.

  His Net Force self-defense training kicked in, however. And, given the strained condition of his nerves, it wasn’t exactly surprising that he went with the old saying “The best defense is a strong offense.”

  Leif swung around, throwing a punch—

  And realized his “attacker” was Bodie Fuhrman.

  She flinched away so violently, she almost fell to the sidewalk, even though he pulled back on his blow.

  “What are you doing?” Bodie squeaked.

  “I should be asking you that,” Leif responded, staring at the girl. Quite frankly, Bodie looked like hell. Her usually wild red curls were matted down on one side, her clothes were dirty…. She looked as though she hadn’t seen a mirror—or a bed—in a couple of days.

  Suddenly self-conscious, Bodie brushed at her grungy clothing. “I haven’t been back to the dorm,” she said tightly. “A friend of mine up in Westchester had me over for the weekend. Then I heard what happened to Professor Wellman, and when I checked out my answering system, there were these scary messages….”

  Leif rolled his eyes. “Megan O’Malley!” He really was going to shoot her one of these days!

  “The kid from Washington? Frack that!” Bodie said. “It was all the hang-up calls. Somebody was trying to figure out whether I was in the dorm or not!”

  Her green eyes shone with terror. “They must have found out that I was helping with the article for The Fifth Estate. Now they’re trying to shut me up—just like the professor and Tori. You’ve got to help me!”

  “Me?” Leif repeated in surprise.

  “Yes, you, Mr. Pickup Artist.” Bodie looked torn between anger and fear, but fear won out. “That girl, Meg. She—”

  “Megan,” Leif corrected.

  “Whoever,” Bodie said irritably. “She let it out that you were both Net Force Explorers, trying to help that Winters guy. I got hold of Alexis De Courcy, and he told me you weren’t actually Leif Magnuson, but Leif Anderson.”

  Oh, yes, she was definitely steamed over Leif’s little bit of undercover work. But apparently she was willing to overlook that right now.

  “Hey, I’ve been living in the streets for a day now, trying to find you! You have an in with Net Force. You’ve got to help me!”

  Bodie glanced around the almost empty street. “I figured they’d have given you a bodyguard or something.”

  “That’s because I’m not as important as you’ll probably be.”

  Sighing, Leif took Bodie’s arm and escorted her into his building. My parents are just going to love this, he thought. Maybe we can get Anna Westering on the case….

  Jay Gridley opened the door to his home and welcomed Matt Hunter. “I’ve just been hearing from Captain Winters what you and the other Net Force Explorers had been doing for him,” the head of Net Force told him. “I don’t know that I like all the methods, but I am impressed with your initiative and your results. You certainly managed to run a couple of circles around my I.A. people.”

  “Internal Affairs has the job of finding people guilty,” Matt said. “We had an incentive to do just the opposite.”

  He followed his host into the house, through the living room, and down the hall to the room that served the combined purposes of home office and Jay Gridley’s den. As they came down the hall, Mark Gridley peered out from the doorway of his room, eyes full of curiosity—and a little alarm, Matt noted.

  “Sorry, Mark,” Jay Gridley told the Squirt. “This has to be a private discussion.”

  Those few words just about tripled Mark’s nervousness.

  He thinks his dad is going to hear about him hacking into the Net Force files! Matt realized. Both he and James Winters had agreed it wouldn’t be necessary to reveal that part of the Net Force Explorers’ investigation. But there was no way to tell Mark that—not with his father standing right beside Matt.

  Trying to ignore the frightened eyes on him, Matt stepped into the den. It was a small room with bookshelves, comfortable chairs, and a set of techno-toys that would set any computer-literate kid drooling. Nowadays, most home computing system components were built to be unobtrusive. You saw the display—either a hologram projector or screen, and maybe a keyboard. Jay
Gridley’s computer had its guts spread across a large wooden table. That’s because some of the components were black-box specials, samples of technology that had yet to find their way into the consumer market.

  Matt was so busy trying to identify any new bells and whistles on the system that he didn’t notice James Winters until the captain rose from his seat.

  Matt’s cheeks burned as he shook hands. Jay Gridley had said he’d been speaking with the captain. It just hadn’t penetrated Matt’s thick skull as to where and when they’d been doing that.

  Oddly, Matt saw that the head of Net Force looked just about as ill at ease as Matt felt.

  “I owe you a large apology, James,” Gridley finally burst out. “It’s bad enough you were treated so shamefully, but worse when I think that I was part of it. When this thing with Alcista started, I should have told HoloNews, Tori Rush, and Hank Steadman to take a flying leap.”

  “Sure,” Winters said dryly. “It would only mean trashing the public’s perception of Net Force, damaging our relations with the congressmen who control our budget appropriations, and possibly putting your control of the agency at risk.”

  “I run a high-profile agency. Supposedly I’m a powerful man, or so I keep hearing in the media.” Gridley sighed. “I feel as though I turned my back on you.”

  “You handled a difficult situation in the way your staff suggested,” Winters said steadily. “I can’t say it was fun, but if it had happened to someone else, I’d probably have advised you to deal with it the same way—to express measured support, and then step back and see where events took the situation.”

  “I have to say, I’m happier about where events seem to be heading now,” Gridley admitted, “at least as far as you are concerned. These murders worry me….”

  “That makes two of us,” Winters said. “And we’re not out of the woods yet. I won’t be until we can confirm that Marcus Kovacs is actually Mike Steele, and that he had a motive for the Alcista bombing and everything that happened around it. It would be nice if we can pin him to these recent killings.”