Private Lives

14

Leif looked back and forth between the two friends sitting in his virtual living room.

Megan looked as though she were having second thoughts about discussing the mysterious similarities between Marcus Kovacs and “Iron Mike” Steele.

And Matt Hunter acted more as though Leif were burglarizing the house instead of paying a friendly visit over the Net.

Matt must have caught Leif’s surprised look. “My parents think I’m studying,” he said. “With all the stuff I’ve been doing to help the captain — well, I really got nailed on a couple of tests.”

Leif and Megan nodded somberly. Their grades, too, had suffered as a result of all-nighter Net sessions, long-distance calls, and meetings over how to help Captain Winters.

“I know what you mean,” Megan said. “My folks are just about ready to lower the boom on me, too. Unless something looks as if it’s going to pan out, and really quickly, this will be my last full-scale shot at helping the captain for a while. I’ve got to get my grades up, or I’ll be grounded so long I’ll be collecting retirement before I can venture out again.”

Matt nodded unhappily. “Me, too. So, you two, what have you got?”

“Tell him, Leif,” Megan said.

Leif glanced at her. Yes, she was definitely getting cold feet. He’d only half-convinced her last night, and now her confidence was leaking like a soda bottle hit with a load of buckshot. Even though he’d shown her the passage in the FBI manual about ear shape being a prime identifier, and admissible in court. The usefulness of ear shape in identifying a disguised suspect was why people in mug shots and on wanted posters had their hair pulled back in the profile shot. The authorities wanted that information on record. Meg had heard, she had read, but she was obviously having a hard time believing.

Calling up his lists of similarities, Leif began his dog-and-pony show.

Megan was also right. Matt was even harder to convince than she was.

“Do I get what you’re trying to say here?” Matt said in disbelief. “You want me to believe that these two people are the same guy? Or, rather, that Marcus Kovacs is ‘Iron Mike’ Steele?”

“Let me just point out a couple of things,” Leif replied to his skeptical friend. “According to his paper trail, Marcus Kovacs is supposed to be a financial guy — what my father calls a bean-counter. Yet he’s going great guns as the head of a detective agency. That would sound like more of a job for Mike Steele, late of Net Force, trained in the special facilities at the FBI’s Quantico Academy.”

“‘Late’ is right,” Matt shot back. “Mike Steele is dead, remember? He had a Viking funeral.”

“Correction. Mike Steele was declared dead on an island down in the Caribbean, because people saw his boat burn up and sink. Nobody actually saw him die. I checked the story out with some insurance-company people. They mentioned that that part of the world is a favorite place for people to go to pretend they’ve kicked the bucket so they can collect on their life insurance policies. The water’s warm enough, and plenty of other islands are close enough for the ‘corpse’ to make a nice, easy swim to another waiting boat. If Iron Mike wanted to bail, he chose the perfect place to do it.”

“And what about Marcus Kovacs? You gonna tell me that his whole life is made up, a paper trail? He’s got a valid birth certificate. Didn’t anybody see him get born?”

“You’d have a hard time finding witnesses,” Leif said. “The village where Kovacs was supposedly born got smeared by both sides during the Sava River campaign. There’s no town hall left — it was flattened; no church…no records at all, really. Paper hardcopies of whatever documents the refugees had were submitted to the central government, when a new database was set up. The authorities had to take a lot of things on trust.”

“So Kovacs is a figment of a computer’s imagination?”

Leif shook his head. “He could have been a real person, born in that ghost town and getting a university degree. He’d have been just the right age to fight in the war that created the Free State. But a lot of people died in that war in thousands of little guerrilla actions — and, again, neither side has great records.”

He looked at Matt. “The fact is, neither side keeps such great records even now. The Carpathian Alliance is under serious trade embargo, so they can’t get decent computers. And the Free State is too poor to afford the newest machines — or the security software to protect them.”

Leif pounced on Matt’s expression of surprise. “Given a reasonable knowledge of the language, a good hacker could easily penetrate government computers over there and insert a whole life story. Or rather, a life story in fragments, just like almost everyone else’s.”

Matt still wasn’t coming over. Leif could see it in his face.

“Remember,” Leif said, “Steele got the nickname ‘Iron Mike’ because people kidded that he was part computer. He was a specialist agent whose job was to penetrate systems and uncover information for the good guys. It would be easy for him to plant whatever he needed in the old crap they’re using in the Balkans.”

He stabbed a finger at his friend. “And it would explain how this bean counter became so good at computer investigation. More important, what caused Mike Steele’s downfall in Net Force?”

“Falsifying evidence,” Matt admitted.

“And what is I-on Investigations making its big profits on?”

“Fake evidence,” Megan said.

“I’ll give you something else. Marcus Kovacs is known as Marc to his friends and associates.”

“So?” Matt said.

“Marc…Mike. They sound awfully alike, don’t they? It makes life easier for someone who adopts an alias. That’s why the majority of Witness Protection program people pick sound-alike names or use the same initials.”

“Your analogy breaks down, then,” Matt said. “Mike Steele — Marc Kovacs? What sort of connection is that?”

Leif shrugged. “Not much of one in English. But Kovacs is a Hungarian name. In that language it means ‘smith.’”

“Oh, great,” Megan said. “America’s most popular alias on motel records.”

“You still don’t get it,” Leif said. “Smith — as in ‘blacksmith’—somebody who works on iron…and steel.”

His friends stared at him for a long moment, until Matt finally broke the silence. “Pretty clever, Leif. But you’re hanging a lot of what-ifs on this guy’s — or maybe these guys’—ears.”

“The basis for that leap is in the FBI manual,” Leif began wearily. “And I’m just raising some possibilities. The world is full of professional investigators — some of whom may even be honest. It will be up to them to prove or disprove what I’m suggesting.”

“Up to them?” Megan repeated.

“We’re not the Junior Net Force, you know,” Leif pointed out. “We don’t have police powers. We just poke around and ask questions. And something tells me that it would be smarter — and maybe healthier — to let the pros take a shot at poking around Marcus Kovacs.”

“You think what you have here will be enough to turn Steadman and Internal Affairs around?” Disbelief was plain in Matt’s voice.

“No,” Leif admitted. “But I think an honest private eye, directed by, say, Captain Winters’s lawyer, might do some good. At the very least my theory offers a possible defense at a trial. Better than anything the captain has been able to come up with so far, which is mainly to say, ‘I didn’t do it!’”

He gave Matt a straight look. “Captain Winters is innocent. We know that. So we also know that Winters has been set up by someone who does very good work. You tried and couldn’t shake any part of the I.A. case.”

“I couldn’t help the captain,” Matt admitted.

“But using this information, a lawyer might be able to make a case for a frame-up job,” Leif said. “Right down to a well-trained perpetrator with motive and opportunity. Alcista died as punishment for trying to blow up Steele. Winters could have been framed as punishment for letting the cat out of the bag when Steele phonied up evidence against Alcista.”

“All this talk about lawyers is fine, but we don’t even know who has the job of representing the captain,” Megan objected.

“Stewart Laird,” Leif promptly answered. “He’s a partner in Mitchell, Liddy, and Laird, a firm of criminal lawyers—”

“You’d think they’d come up with a different way to refer to that,” Megan interrupted. “It makes the lawyers sound like crooks.”

Leif chuckled. “Point taken.” Then he grew more serious. “It’s a small outfit. They’re not power brokers like some of the big Washington law firms. But these guys know their business, which is what Winters needs. I was afraid I’d find him represented by some ambulance chaser, or the guy who handled the mortgage on his house.”

“How did you find out about this lawyer?” Megan wanted to know. “I haven’t seen his name or the firm’s mentioned on any newscasts or in any of the print media.”

Leif gave a quick command to the computer. Instantly one end of the living room turned into a view of a large, crowded office, with a pretty brunette sitting behind a desk at the foreground. “Hi, I’m Tracey McGonigle?” she said, a classic California upward lilt at the end of the sentence making it sound like a question. “I’m working for FaxNews International? We’re trying to get in touch with the lawyer representing James Winters?”

Megan turned on Leif with a dangerous expression. “That — that cardboard cutout looks like an older version of me! Although it doesn’t sound like me — thank heaven.”

“I didn’t think any law firm would deal with a teenager,” Leif said. “But with someone slightly older, working for an obscure news organization—”

“Do you have a sim program that makes all of us look older?” Megan demanded.

Matt, however, wasn’t about to get distracted. “You launched this program to contact every law firm in the Greater Washington metropolitan area?”

“What a scam!” Megan shook her head in disbelief.

“A stratagem,” Leif corrected her. “I started out in the Maryland suburbs and downtown D.C., figuring that those were the places Winters was most likely to go. Most of the firms either informed Ms. McGonigle that they weren’t involved in the case, or turned her down flat. Mitchell, Liddy, and Laird’s receptionist told young Tracey that Mr. Laird had no comment at this time.”

“I see,” Megan said. “I’m not going to ask if you have no shame. I already know the answer to that question. At least lawyers are safer to poke around than Kovacs or Steele.”

“We need to present what we’ve found to Captain Winters’s lawyer,” Leif said. “I found out which partner we’ve got to call.” He turned to Matt. “But I’d like you to do the talking.”

“Why?” Matt asked suspiciously.

“Well, I can’t, because they’d think my alias was Tracey McGonigle,” grumped Megan. “It’s hard to preserve a good reputation with a bunch of lawyers when they’ve got solid proof you’re a scam artist.”

Leif shook his head. She’s never going to let me live this one down, he thought.

Aloud, he said to Matt, “Because you have a good reputation with Net Force…and with Captain Winters.” He turned a mirthless grin toward Megan. “You heard Ms. O’Malley. If Winters heard this from me, he’d probably dismiss it without even listening. You, on the other hand, he might just listen to right through to the end. Admit it — it’s an improvement over claiming innocence without a shred of an alibi.”

“Huh,” Matt said a little bitterly. “You want me to tell Captain Winters and his lawyer because everybody thinks I’m a goody-goody.”

“I want you because you stand a good chance of being believed,” Leif insisted. “If this Laird guy contacts Agent Dorpff, Dorpff’ll give you a good recommendation. Dorpff doesn’t know anything about me.” He hesitated. “Or if he does, I’ll bet it’s not complimentary.”

“So you want to scam this lawyer using my reputation,” Matt began.

“This isn’t a scam — this is Captain Winters’s best hope. I want Laird to hear everything we’ve dug up,” Leif said angrily. “I don’t know what Winters has told him, but it’s obvious to me from what we’re seeing in the media that the law firm isn’t undertaking a vigorous defense. We’ve got a blizzard of news items about the case, all from the prosecution’s point of view. The folks at HoloNews do their poor best to sound fair. They refer to Winters as an ‘alleged’ murderer who’s ‘under investigation,’ but the subtext in every report they file is ‘he dunnit.’”

He was trying not to shout in frustration as he confronted his two friends. “The way things are going right now, unless this lawyer pulls off a miracle, Captain Winters will go to trial. He will probably be convicted. We know he’s innocent. We’ve got to do something.”

“You’re right,” Matt said. “You’ve got your patsy.”

The next morning, during a break between classes, Matt phoned the number Leif had given him. “Mitchell, Liddy, and Laird,” a female voice announced over his wallet-phone.

“My name is Matthew Hunter.” Matt had to fight to keep his voice from rising at the end of the sentence like Leif’s fictitious Tracey McGonigle. “I’m a Net Force Explorer, and I understand that Mr. Laird at your firm is representing the Net Force Explorer liaison officer, Captain James Winters. We’ve been trying to help the captain, and we’ve found out a couple of things that Mr. Laird might want to know.”

The receptionist’s voice was not encouraging. “I’m afraid Mr. Laird is very busy—”

“I don’t expect Mr. Laird will talk to me right off the bat,” Matt said. “But he might check on me with Net Force agent Len Dorpff and with his client, Captain Winters. I think either discussion would change Mr. Laird’s mind.” Matt gave the number for Captain Winters’s old office. That’s where Dorpff would be. He figured the lawyer should have Captain Winters’s home number. “I’ll call again later this afternoon. Perhaps Mr. Laird will speak to me then.”

“Mr. Hunter!” At least Matt managed to surprise a human response out of the receptionist. “Wait!” Matt merely gave Agent Dorpff’s number again, to make sure it was recorded properly.

Then he cut the connection.

By the time he got home after school, Matt was suffering from a bad case of sweating palms. For what had to be the fiftieth time on the trip home, he tapped the pocket containing the datascrip that Leif Anderson had prepared. Matt still wasn’t sure if he had the gumption to pass along his friend’s wild theory—

The autobus came to a stop on Matt’s corner, and he got off. As he unlocked the door of his house, he heard the chime of an incoming call. Mom and Dad were both away at work. Matt dashed into the hall to the nearest holo receiver.

He made the connection, and the image of a face swam into focus on the system’s display — a stranger’s face. A lean-faced man with no-nonsense eyes looked silently at Matt for a long moment. “Matt Hunter?” the man finally said.

Matt nodded.

“I’m Stewart Laird. I understand you called my office this morning in regard to James Winters.”

“I represent a group of Net Force Explorers—” Matt began.

Laird nodded. “So I understand from Agent Dorpff — and from my client. Captain Winters spoke very favorably of you.” The lawyer frowned, then spoke again. “It was the first time he’d been forthcoming since he engaged my services.”

When Laird cleared his throat and hesitated again. Matt began to realize that the lawyer was uncomfortable.

I wonder if he’s got sweaty palms, Matt thought.

“I called you because I’ll listen to whatever you have to say, but first I want to ask a favor,” Laird finally said. “Mr. Winters — that’s how he’s been referring to himself of late — has all but barricaded himself inside his house, using a screening system to ignore most calls. I’d like you to go and see him.”

“I don’t know.” Now it was Matt’s turn to hesitate. “The last time I went out there…”

His voice trickled off.

Stewart Laird nodded. “I know what happened during your last visit. But I also know that when he spoke about you, James Winters actually became animated. I hadn’t seen him act that way since the Net Force Internal Affairs report was issued.”

The lawyer was doing his best to maintain a poker face, but Matt could see the concern in the man’s eyes. “Some people think that all a good legal defense requires is an effective lawyer to argue the case. Your friend Mr. Winters should know better. An apathetic client can sabotage a case as badly, or worse, than an inept attorney.”

Laird’s eyes snapped. “I am not inept. In fact, I have a reputation for being good at what I do. If you want to help James Winters’s defense, you might pay him a visit. My office will bear the charge of round-trip car service.”

The look Laird now sent Matt could almost be called pleading. “I’ve had clients who were innocent, and clients who were guilty. I think I can tell the difference. It…concerns me when I see an innocent man seem to lose all sense of hope.”