Private Lives

Megan nodded. “When I was talking to Wellman, he was going over flatcopies of images to use in his story about Tori and I-on.” She grinned. “I just happened to capture them onto my system.”

For a second she just sat there on the couch, silently communing with her implant circuitry. When she turned to Leif again, she had a sheaf of papers in her hands.

“Here’s the elusive Mr. Kovacs, in three pictures — two and a half,” she amended, shuffling through the images, “unless you count the palm of his hand. Apparently, he’s very camera-shy.”

Leif took the pages and stared at the pictures. “Looks prosperous,” he muttered, taking in the cut of the man’s expensive suit jacket. An eagle-beak of a nose dominated his face, looking like an aiming device for deep brown eyes that almost looked black. As for the rest of the face…“I guess we should also mention hairy,” he said.

“Very hairy,” Megan agreed, tapping a finger on the graying jet-black mane. “When was the last time business-people wore their hair this long?”

“There was that whole revival of the ponytail thing when we were kids.” Leif frowned, moving on to the next picture. “But that was for supposedly creative types — fashion designers, heads of Hollywood studios, public- relations geniuses.”

“Lawyers, too, I thought,” Megan put in.

“In holos, maybe,” Leif said in disgusted tones. “I remember my father saying he’d never do business with what he called ‘the ponytail boys.’ He told me, ‘Never trust anyone who’s a slave to fashion — it means they can’t think for themselves.’”

“Well then, maybe Mr. Kovacs is an original.” Megan grinned. “Nobody is going around with a big mane of hair right now — unless it’s a European thing.”

“Not that I know of.” Leif looked at the second image, where Kovacs had absently brushed back his hair. Then came the third, with the palm of Kovacs’s hand filling most of the image space.

What in he hiding? Leif wondered.

Then the idea that had been tickling around the back of his brain began to come into focus. Take the stuff he’d been hearing about I-on Investigations. Mix it with what the Squirt had to say earlier this evening…

“Computer,” he suddenly ordered, “Net search, public databases, concentrating on news sources. Images, Michael Steele, former Net Force specialist agent. Time frame—” He turned to Megan. “When was the captain’s wife killed?”

“July 21, 2021,” Megan said, baffled.

“Time frame, third and fourth week of July, 2021,” Leif finished. “Execute.”

“Working,” a silvery female voice replied.

Megan rolled her eyes. “Even your computer has to be sexy.”

“It’s a proven fact,” Leif said stiffly, “that men hear female voices more clearly.”

“Unless they’re saying something the men don’t want to hear,” Megan shot back.

Long minutes ticked by in silence. Leif had expected a bit of a wait — his search engine would probably have to access dead storage to dig up a four-year-old news story. But their prickly exchange made the down time seem interminable.

“All right,” Megan finally said, “I’ll bite. What are you doing?”

“It’s a long shot,” Leif had to admit. “We’ve got the head of a detective agency who creates evidence for a living. Four years ago we had a Net Force operative who got bounced from the agency for false evidence. Do you see a connection?”

“A very hazy one,” Megan replied. “After all, one of those people is dead.”

“Reported dead,” Leif corrected her. “Suspected of having a Viking funeral far out at sea. How much would be left to identify after that?” He frowned. “A lot of Marcus Kovacs’s past can’t be checked, either. So I thought it would be interesting to see what both of our mystery men looked like, side by side.”

“You did, did you?”

Before she could tell him what she thought of that idea, the computer’s silvery voice chimed in. “Search completed. Eighteen matches.”

“Have her say, ‘Oh, baby,” Megan suggested. “Just once.”

Leif studiously ignored her, looking at the first of Megan’s captured portraits of Marcus Kovacs. “Computer, are any of the matched images three-quarter views of the face?”

“Three,” the computer responded.

“Display each. Format, nine inches by twelve inches,” Leif said.

Three portraits popped into existence in front of them, all of them apparently shot on the fly. Each image showed the same grim-looking man, his hair cut so short it looked like a sandy fuzz on his skull. In contrast, Mike Steele’s eyebrows were long and tangled, a solid line of darker hair stretching over his broken nose.

Megan made a raucous sound, somewhere between a buzz and a hoot. “AAAaaaarrrrkkkkk! You lose, monkey-boy. If you were ever hoping for a match with Marcus Kovacs, you definitely didn’t get one!”

13

Megan cut the phone connection and scowled at her computer. Maybe she shouldn’t have mocked Leif Anderson and his idea quite so heartlessly. She hadn’t had a bit of luck in the two days since.

Leif had only shrugged at her laughter and downloaded a facsimile of the scrap of paper Bodie Fuhrman had given him — her name and number, a New York City phone code.

Megan glared at the printed flatcopy printout lying in front of her. The name and numbers were half printed, half cursive, in a round, bold, extremely feminine handwriting. It could be worse. At least Bodie didn’t use a little heart to dot the i in her name.

The number turned out to be a phone in a Columbia dorm. The past few days hadn’t exactly been a game of phone tag. It had been more like phone hide-and-seek. Megan would call and leave a message with one of Bodie’s roommates. But Bodie herself would never call back.

What was the problem with these people? Megan wondered. Did they forget to pass the messages along? Megan had a couple of older brothers who had the same problem. Or was there a black hole in Bodie’s computer memory that ate any trace of call-back records? Maybe the roommates just left a paper note somebody’s dog scarfed up.

Or could it be that Bodie Fuhrman was simply trying to duck her?

Whatever the reason, Megan’s patience was wearing pretty thin by the time she finally caught up with the seemingly shy college girl.

Megan watched the image of a short, round-faced redhead in a tight purple sweater giving her a blank look. “Oh, yeah,” Bodie finally said. “You’re the kid who’s been calling from Washington.”

Kid? Megan thought, bristling at the older girl’s condescending attitude. I’m the same age as Leif. And you certainly didn’t seem to think he was a “kid.”

Of course, she couldn’t say that, not without calling attention to the Anderson connection. Instead, Megan introduced herself as a Net Force Explorer trying to help Captain Winters.

“You mean the guy who killed the gangster? I can’t imagine that anyone named Steve the Bull didn’t get what was coming to him,” Bodie said. “But this country has a little thing called due process. You’ve got to be able to prove the guy guilty in court before you start punishing him. Besides, do-it-yourself executions can be kind of rough on innocent bystanders.”

“My friends and I don’t think the captain killed anybody,” Megan began.

“Oh, please — he’s innocent?” Bodie scoffed. “You sound like the neighbors in any big ax-murder case. ‘He was such a nice, quiet man,’” she said in a quavering falsetto. “‘Always kept the lawn neatly mowed.’”

Bodie sneered. “Right. Until he mowed down half his family — or, in this case—”

“We think your former boss framed him,” Megan interrupted.

Well, at least Bodie wasn’t laughing at her anymore. The girl in the holographic display suddenly looked wary. “What do you mean?”

“Tori Rush has been trying to turn herself into a star attraction, churning out scandal stories for the past few