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THE SYLVESTER AFFAIR, BY MARK HERTZ For more information,email Mark at cyber-mystery@mailexcite.com

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A CYBERMYSTERY NOVEL BY MARK HERTZ (a pseudonym)

THE SYLVESTER AFFAIR

(DISCLAIMER: ALL THE PERSONS AND EVENTS IN THIS CYBERMYSTERY ARE FICTIONAL. ANY SIMILARITIES WITH PERSONS LIVING OR DEAD, OR WITH ANY EVENTS, ARE PURELY COINCIDENTAL)

CHAPTER ONE

1

When Alan Cassway came down to the kitchen for his breakfast, he knew this would be one of those days. His wife, Nora, was already at work preparing cereal and toast for the family. She was wearing her out-of-style house robe, which he had given her as a gift several years before. Nora was a supervising nurse at a local suburban hospital. Today would be the start of her "graveyard shift", and she was trying to overcompensate her sentiments of guilt by putting some extra touches to the family's early meal. Joey Cassway, who was seventeen and on his way to the "breakfast club" at the high school, was raising his voice outside the family bathroom. His sister, Anna, two years younger, was in the midst of her morning routine, interminable in Joey's lack of understanding. "How long are you going to be there?" he cried in desperation "It's been almost an hour." The muffled voice from within responded with some grumpy advice. Joey ran down the stairs, stormed into the kitchen with his bag strapped to his shoulder, and rushed out the back door of the house. "Wait, Joey," cried his mother. "Have something to eat." "Say good-bye, at least," suggested the elder Cassway. Joey waved to him, kissed his mother's cheek, grabbed a brown paper bag and rushed out to mount his bicycle and off to school. "What's your day like?" asked Nora, as she sat by her husband at the kitchen table. Alan Cassway was negotiating his bowl of cereal and a wonderfully aromatic first cup of the morning's coffee. "Oh," he said, "same old, same old. I may be late because Charlie wants me to wrap up the year two thousand problem and file some kind of a report on where we stand."

Nora sighed. "I hate the midnight shift," she said in agony. "I hardly see you and the kids when this happens."

Anna waltzed into the kitchen wearing what her father would later describe as a god-awful pair of jeans overall with a yellowish blouse and heavy black shoes which would better suit a ditch-digger. He and Nora had already succumbed to the current teen fashion wholly embraced by the fifteen-year old.

"Bye," she said hurriedly, planting a resounding kiss on her father's forehead.

"Wait," cried Nora "have some breakfast!"

"I'll have something with the girls at the 7-Eleven,"uttered Anna as she was leaving through the back door.

Nora sat at the table, breathless and tired. She finally ventured a smile at her husband and declared, matter-of-factly, "just a normal morning at the home of a normal American family".

"Amen!" said Alan. It was going to be one of those days.

2

Lovemaking in the afternoon was always an opportunity for Rich Powers to unwind and enjoy the company of his beautiful companion. This time Veronica was superb, perhaps because of the variety and the quantity of drinks she had voraciously consumed since lunch. They felt totally abandoned, and he was happy.

Rich had a late afternoon appointment in the Loop, with an alderman of the City of Chicago. Later, he would take his wife to a dinner party on the Gold Coast, at the home of one of his business associates. But for now, he was enjoying the company of the beautiful young Veronica was a godsend gift that the rich and powerful so much enjoy in their blessed lives. She was a struggling young model and actress, half his age, with a vitality and the beauty to match. Rich arranged for her latest photo-shoot for a television commercial. Quid pro quo, but she enjoyed the sex, and he adored it.

He straightened his tie and stood by the door of the bedroom, slowly and delightfully absorbing her marvellous figure stretched on the satin sheets. Her long and luscious hair was sprayed over the light blue pillow. She eyed him with an inquiring smile. He held his hand to lift her from the bed.

"You have a photo-shoot today," he reminded her. "Try not to be late again." "I'll be there..," she barely moved her lips. She would have another drink, get dressed, and hop into her new Camaro, a marvellous gift from Richie. He was surely a man of valor who knows his woman and has enough money to purchase the right gifts that make life bearable.

When Rich left, Veronica got up and somehow readied herself to leave. Her house in a Chicago suburb was her only inheritance from her father, who passed away two years earlier. The one-and-a-half car garage attached to the house now accommodated her red Camaro. She would drive like hell. She must not be late.

3

Veronica took the turn without slowing down. Her tires screeched and the engine roared ferociously as she pressed the gas pedal to the limit. Her vision was blurred, and she focused her eyes directly on the horizon. The kid appeared from nowhere, and when her car struck his bicycle, he was thrown to the ground and his head smashed against the front of the Camaro. She lost control and the car mated with an adjacent tree.

The police arrived within minutes, and the ambulance seconds later. The paramedics saw a glimpse of life and hurried with the kid to the hospital. Severe trauma to the chest, they radioed the emergency department of the hospital, plus lacerations throughout the body and face, perhaps broken limbs. The bicycle lay on the ground, crippled by the Camaro. Two suburban police officers were the first to arrive on the scene. They helped Veronica out of her car by freeing her from the inflated driver-side bag. She stumbled to the sidewalk and sat on the grassy area by the tree. The officers could not help noticing her dizziness and the smell of alcohol that emanated from her face. They asked her to stand and to walk in a straight line. She yelled at them and she refused to go further after she had taken the first few steps, and again collapsed on the grassy area by the tree.

Frustrated, the officers made certain that she was not hurt, handcuffed her and gently inserted her into their squad car. When the ambulance finally left in a rush towards Evanston Hospital, with the sirens blaring and the lights flashing, the police officers cordoned off the area with their yellow tape and awaited the arrival of the detectives. Dozens of curious citizens began roaming into the corner of the two streets where the accident occurred. The asphalt was reeking from the stains of blood and motor oil, mixing in an eerie chemistry of a seemingly inevitable destiny.

Veronica sat quietly in the back of the car. She barely noticed the people who peered inside. Her eyes semi-closed, she was hungry and cold. She sort of remembered that her car had crashed into a tree, and the unkind police officers had been rude and had physically restrained her movements. It had been a nice afternoon. She let her head rest on the back of the seat. It's just a bad dream, she thought. They are going to do the photo-shoot, and I'll be radiant, as always. Then, there was Richie. He'll know what to do. He always does. She awoke when the older officer was reading from a card and speaking of her rights. She wanted the right to eat something and to have a drink. She was also tired. The officer asked if she understood. She nodded. Does this mean I can have something to drink and close my eyes? The officer was rude. Anyway, Richie will deal with it, tomorrow.

CHAPTER 2

1

The call came in at dusk, when the workday was winding down. Alan Cassway took the call as he was unloading several files from the various federal departments he had contacted about the year two thousand problem. He was the Chief Information Officer for the midwest region of the Federal Department of Agriculture. He rose through the ranks, having joined the Federal service after graduating with honors from the University of Chicago.

His area of expertise was computer and network security. As a methematician, Alan had helped develop the department's patches for several security breaches. In particular, he was proud of his links to the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, the Futures Exchange, and the Department of Defense.

Nora Cassway was hysterical. Alan could barely decipher what she was trying to say. The semi-intelligible words came flowing in, in a mix of tears, and a shriekingly sobbing voice. Finally it dawned on him: Joey was in an accident and had been taken to Evanston Hospital. Nora received the call from one of her fellow nurses, who was posted to the emergency department and had recognized Joey's name and features. There was no news yet about his condition.

Alan rose from his desk while his fingers were still pounding on his personal computer. He entered some codes, prepared the machine to download the files, and ran to the elevator. It was late in the day. A beautiful day in May, it was one of those few days a year when the weather in Chicago is polite and comfortable. The Federal building was a massive, dark composite of steel and glass. Taxicabs came passing by in the heart of the rush-hour. He walked, pensive, as if on his usual way to catch the train. He hailed a cab, and luckily enough one stopped for him. He was on his way to Evanston Hospital.

2

When the call came, Rich was in the shower. His wife, Janet, answered, and upon hearing the incoherent voice of a woman, handed over the mobile phone to her husband. Rich immediately recognized the voice and realized the delicate situation in which she had placed him. Veronica was calling from the suburban jail, following an accident. He recognized the pattern. Veronica was as drunk as a skunk. "I must go," he said to his wife, "a friend needs my help. Please appologize for me to the Bakers," Janet did not answer. She walked out of the bedroom and slammed the door. She was, again, going alone to the social function that promoted her husband's business interests. She would be damned if she would apologize for him. She'll probably tell a fat little lie and enjoy the evening.

Rich raced to the suburbs from his finely appointed apartment on Chestnut Street, in the heart of Chicago's Gold Coast. Lake Shore Drive was packed at the height of the rush-hour. The engine of his Mercedes Benz 450 roared submissively as he contained its energy by constantly hitting the brakes. Fifty minutes later he finally parked in front of the Village Hall and announced himself to the desk seargent. Earlier, on the car phone, he had contacted Jerry Flynn, his loyal friend and attorney. Jerry was also on his way. Powers decided to wait for the lawyer. Then, the police captain introduced himself. He advised Powers that the woman was, in his words, "in deep trouble". She had two prior arrests for drunk driving, and a third for hitting another car while intoxicated. The captain didn't quite know who Powers was, only that he was a friend of the offender. He was polite but hardly obsequious. Powers had been accustomed to the servility of Chicago cops, who immediately acknowledged money and influence. God knows, Powers had bundles of both. He did not push the issue here. Let the attorney. Flynn, deal with it. Flynn was a top criminal lawyer in Cook County. Let him deal with it. Rich lit a cigar and waited.

3

Joey Cassway was in a coma and on life support for five weeks. He never regained consciousness. Joey died on a Friday night in June, as summer settled in the Northern hemisphere and the song of the cicadas enfatuated the manicured lawns of the suburbs. Joey died with his father holding his hand, while his mother and sister were crying in the hall. Joey never played football and he wasn't the president of his class. He was a regular kid, just a kid, who rode his bike to school and who routinely forgot to put on his helmet. He had his father's inclination for mathematics and dreamed of becoming some kind of a scientist.

The trial was swift and efficient. Two witnesses appeared out of the blue to point the finger at the kid. "He came out of nowhere," said one of the witnesses in the preliminary proceedings in Cook County Court. To accommodate the wishes of attorney Flynn, the trial was moved from the suburban branch to the massive courthouse on 26th and California in Chicago. This was Flynn's territory, and shine he did. Veronica's prior record was not introduced. Veronica's case went before a judge, as a bench case. The trial, if that's what it was, lasted two days. Veronica was set free, with a warning.

Alan and Nora Cassway did not attend the proceedings. They were at their son's bedside, hoping and praying. When it was all over, Alan went to see the Assistant State's Attorney who prosecuted the case.

"That Myers woman killed my son, and she gets away with murder," said Alan. Even in his grief he was a gentleman and a scholar. He did not raise his voice. His pain resided in his entire existence. The prosecutor vaguely apologized. She had so many cases to prosecute. Jerry Flynn was a powerful attorney, and Mr. Powers stood behind the defendent. The State's Attorney himself treated these two powerful men with immense respect. Richard was the owner of a major construction company and several manufacturing enterprises. He employed thousands of county people, and he held numerous contracts from the city, the county and the state. He was a huge contributor to the political establishment of the area. "We did the best we could, under the circumstances," said the prosecutor. Alan looked at her for a moment, and calmly said, "now it's my turn."

CHAPTER 3

1

The four men sitting around the oval table were silent. The fifth man, tall, lanky, and prematurely bald, was pacing the floor on the other side of the room. "I spoke with the President this morning," he finally said. "He is adamant that we solve this problem and retrieve what we lost."

"Sir, what are their demands?" asked a younger man, wearing the uniform of a Navy captain.

"We don't know yet, but whatever they are, we may have little choice but to negotiate."

"Any contingency plans, General?" asked a third man, in civilian clothes. "The President could use something...God knows I can use something..anything you can give me."

Retired Major General Lem Bradock was the Director of the National Security Agency, the most secret organization in the intelligence community The NSA, with an annual budget of many billions of dollars, was in charge of, among other things, the intelligence gathering network of "spy" satellites. Bradock's tall and lanky figure turned towards the table.

"No," he replied, and his fiery eyes landed on the people around the table, carefully observing them, one at a time. "We have no such plans. This is incredible, unplanned. We never imagined it would happen. We do have a general plan for emergencies, but it's too early to speculate."

The fourth man, in a light blue suit, immaculately tailored, was Albert Kohn, Deputy Director of the agency. He was in charge of operations and special projects, and for all practical purposes, ran the agency. He was an old CIA operative, among the few to make a healthy transition from the cold war climate to the present environment in the intelligence apparatus.

Bradock turned to Kohn. "Where is the computer expert?" he demanded. Kohn smiled, "Dr. May Gorsky is waiting outside."

"Then, bring her in, bring her in," barked Braddock. He admired and mistrusted his deputy.

Kohn was the quintessential intelligence maven. His previous life with the Central Intelligence Agency and other organs of the defense establishment made him an invaluable resource in promoting and maintaining the network on which the NSA depended. But Kohn was also (so Bradock believed) duplicitous, conniving, and heaven help us, a "bon vivant" who preferred good wines and beautiful women to the rigor of military discipline.

Dr. May Gorsky made a grand entrance. She was a tall blonde with a shapely figure ensconced inside a perfectly tailored grey suit that accentuated her soft hips. Kohn knew better than to succumb to the beauty of her hair, neatly arranged behind her neck. The power of this woman lay INSIDE her head, not on top of it. Dr. Gorsky was a graduate of MIT in computer science, and already, at the age of thirty six had over thirty scientific papers published in the open literature, plus a variety of papers and reports that were unpublished due to the confidentiality of their content.

2

"I am seeing the President later today," said Bradock distastefully. He dreaded the upcoming meeting. The directors of the CIA and FBI would be present, and all he, Bradock of the NSA, had to say was, "we were caught with our pants down." He needed answers and he needed them fast. Dr. Gorsky was efficient and direct.

"The party or parties who have possession of the program have the real McCoy," she declared. "Are you certain?" asked Kohn.

"Absolutely, the parameters are authentic. By the way, the parties are very proficient with computers," she replied.

"What bugs me is, how the hell did they penetrate our security? I was told it was foolproof," said Bradock with disdain.

"Sir," Dr. Gorsky's voice was calm, yet she spoke with authority and full understanding of the technical issues at hand. "Our system is, was, the most protected. I don't believe these are hackers, you know, the high-school kid type who dabbles in computers and decides to penetrate the defense establishment. No, this is a one in a million chance that someone would knowingly break our security. I am puzzled."

"YOU are puzzled!" uttered Braddock. "We are in a much worse state than this. Anyway, can we restore the integrity of the system and prevent these parties from using it to blackmail us?"

"No," said Dr. Gorsky, "even if we change the codes and the coordinates, the system itself is very complex and requires changes at various levels. It will take weeks!"

"So, what you are saying, Doctor, is that the threat is real," said Kohn as if stating an irrelevant fact. He understood the system and the threat now posed to it."

"Yes," answered Dr. Gorsky, "it's very real. In my calculations, if they carry out the threat, the damage to our national defensive posture will be immeasurable." Kohn nodded in agreement.

"Any recommendations, before I see the President?" asked Bradock.

The captain spoke gently. "We put all the defense resources to find these parties."

"Nonsense," said Kohn, "the threat is real. We need several weeks to restore integrity. By the time we find them, they'll execute the threat. We have no choice but to meet their demands."

"What the hell do they want?" asked Bradock. "Any ideas?" He stared at Kohn.

"Not yet. First they authenticated the threat. We should hear from them shortly."

"How do we acknowledge their demand?" asked Dr. Gorsky.

Kohn smiled. He loved a good opponent. The whole situation reminded him of the good old days of the cold war. It was also a wonderfully attractive intellectual challenge.

"We print a pre-agreed-upon ad in several newspapers: the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, the Toronto Star, the Chicago Tribune, and the Cleveland Plain Dealer. I think that the parties are located in one of these cities."

"And that's all we know?" asked Bradock in desperation.

"No," said Kohn, "we know that they are clever, resourceful and cyber-wizards."

"So is my ten year old grandson," said Bradock. "I need something more concrete."

"I suggest that we initiate plan Alpha. Dr. Gorsky and I will coordinate the task force."

Kohn's offer made sense. Bradock agreed. "That's what I'll tell the President. At least we are doing something."

3

As the meeting dissolved, Bradock huddled with Kohn. The Director was adamant. His voice was partially muffled, but firm. "Wait with special operations until we know what are the demands and who we are dealing with," he demanded.

Kohn counter-argued, "at least let me start the ball rolling," he said. "I'll put in the ad as requested, and order teams to these cities."

"Is this Dr. Gorsky aware of special operations?" asked Bradock.

"No, Sir," said Kohn. "It's only you and I. But, we'll need Presidential approval."

"I'll get it today," said Bradock, and departed.

Kohn left the building and walked a distance to a public telephone. He dialed a local number. The answering machine was terse, with a funny message of the three stooges singing the "Curly shuffle."

Kohn's message was short. "We need to talk," he said, and hung up.

CHAPTER FOUR

1

Judge Raymond Possover was an associate judge of the Cook County court system. He resigned his position in mid-July, and on the first day of August he walked into the sauna of his health club in the Loop, armed with a 38 special rolled in a towel. Judge Possover shot himself in the mouth. He was dead on arrival at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Although he was under suspicion in the Federal probe of corruption in the Chicago courts, his probable offenses were minor and would not have resulted in anything beyond perhaps a reprimand.

Two weeks later, Judge Henry J. Albertus, of the criminal division of the Cook County Court system was found dead in his car, parked in the forest preserve west of the city. Initially, the county coroner declared it to be a heart attack, but later changed his finding to murder. The Chicago Police were investigating. The Chief Judge was enraged and demanded a quick resolution to the mystery.

"It's safer to be a criminal in this city than a judge," wrote one columnist. Letters to the editors and television and radio commentators agreed. The police had no clues.

2

The cops came to the door at six o'clock in the morning, armed with an arrest warrant, a duly executed search warrant, and four police officers in riot gear. They banged on the door, and when Janet Powers opened it, burst into the apartment, grabbed Rich in his pajamas, handcuffed him, and dragged him to their van, like a common criminal.

The seargent announced the charge, "...that you murdered one Veronica Myers."

Janet tried to reason with the officers. They told her to stay away and to not interfere. As soon as the officers and her husband went out the door, Janet called their attorney. She was in tears. Jerry Flynn came over in his golf clothes. It was a Saturday and he was all set to play at an exclusive club near Highland Park. He comforted Janet, then made a few calls to the Chicago Police department to verify the exact location of his client.

"It'll be all right," he said to Janet, as they sat on her couch and he held her hands, "I'll take care of Richie. It's probably a mistake. We'll clear this up shortly."

On the way over to the police lockup he was tense. Somebody killed the damn broad, he thought, perhaps even Richie, in a fit of rage. Anyway, his job now is to get him out on bail. He pondered the various strategies he could use, the possible judges who would be on the bench at this hour, and the chips he had sent out there to be redeemed one rainy day. This was one of those rainy days; time to cash in the chips.

3

Captain Adam Barcinsky had heard of Jerry Flynn, and the important people who catered to him. The captain was a veteran of the police department, with some years as police chief of a small town in South Dakota. He was a no-nonsense man, son of Polish immigrants, who painstakingly acquired a college education and a law degree. He took over the district after a two-year corruption investigation by the internal affairs division and later by the Feds. Mr. Flynn came to the wrong place if he was about to ask for special favors.

"My detectives have enough evidence to make a cast," Captain Barcynski told Flynn, as the lawyer sat in his office. "The case has been turned over to the State's Attorney, and they got the warrant from Judge Ryan," he explained.

Flynn sat patiently, carefully observing the manicured nails of his left hand. He was studying the Captain, although the matter was really out of the hands of the police. The issue now was to make Richie's life as comfortable as possible until he can talk to the judge and to the prosecutors.

"I understand that Assistant State's Attorney Zelnik is in charge of the case," he finally said. "Yes," answered the Captain.

"I also understand that your officers were quite unkind to Mr. Powers and to his wife. Police officers in riot gear?" he asked with a tone of incredulity, mixed with unmasked disdain.

"I do everything by the book. Your client is suspected of first degree murder," said Barcynsky. "He is well known and has resources. He probably owns some guns. I did what I had to do, as with any other suspect."

"No doubt," said Flynn. He was going at it the wrong way. The Captain was getting mad. It was time to mend the fences and do some damage control. "My only concern is that Mr. Powers will be treated fairly in your jail. I'm off to see Mr. Zelnik, then Judge Ryan," he said with a dose of fake humility. "Mr. Powers will probably be out on bail."

"Your client will be OK," affirmed Barcynsky. He did not like the interference.

Richie looked horribly shaken. He kept insisting with Flynn that he had not done it.

"I don't understand it," he said repeatedly. "She was alive when I left her."

"Don't worry," said Flynn. "Are they treating you well?"

"Well? Hell, Jerry, it's a police lockup! Get me out of here," shouted Powers.

"It'll take time. I need to speak to the prosecutor and request a judge to issue an order and get bail."

"Then do it," ordered Powers.

Flynn asked him to describe that Tuesday afternoon. He took some notes and taped their conversation.

"I'm off to see what they've got on you," he said to Rich as he nodded to the cops.

They took Rich back to his cell. Flynn left the building with a sigh of relief. He always hated the smell of police stations.

4

When Jerry Flynn looked for Assistant State's Attorney Ira Zelnik, he could not find him. The office could not locate Mr. Zelnik, although the clerks who worked there that Saturday insistently beeped him. Flynn talked it over with one of the junior lawyers in the office, and after a call from someone in charge, he was allowed to look at the file.

Rich was being accused of murdering Veronica. The young woman was found in her bed; no forced entry into the house. The only fingerprints in the house were those of Veronica, her maid, and a third person, presumably Richard Powers. Veronica had some skin under her fingernail, persumably the killer's. The autopsy showed that Veronica had been engaged in a sexual encounter just before her death. She had been strangled with a pillow. Neighbors told police that Mr. Powers was the only person to enter the house on that day. The maid had found the body the next morning as she was entering the house for her daily cleaning job. Powers was therefore the only suspect. He had been seen previously, on a number of occasions, with the victim. He was the only person who entered the house. He had opportunity and perhaps a motive (jealousy?). His fingerprints were on file because, some ten years earlier, he had been arrested for beating up his girlfriend (before he met and married Janet). The prints matched those of the third person in the house. He was there, and they accused him of murdering Veronica in a fit of rage.

Rich had an alibi, but only for the time after the death of the victim. He told police that he met with Veronica, that they made love, and that he did have an argument with her, due to her consistent drinking habit. He told police that, after leaving her house, he had driven around for about an hour, had parked on the beach in one of the suburbs, then had driven back to Veronica's house, stopped in front of the house, but had decided against seeing her again that day. Then, he had driven back home. The coroner contended that Veronica was killed sometime between four and six o'clock in the afternoon. Rich's alibi started at six twenty when the attendant at his building had parked his car and he had joined his wife for cocktails in their apartment.

Flynn finished reading the file and returned it to the clerk. He did not like the case. The facts were bad, they looked bad, and he wanted to talk to Zelnik and get a judge to order bail. The case would be given to one of three judges. He decided to make a personal visit to a coupld of people. Damn the weekend. He needed bail now.

It was not until Monday morning that bail was finally granted. It was set at two million dollars, despite the strongest objections from Mr. Zelnik. Judge Louis Brown ordered bail, and advised the parties that the trial would begin in his courtroom three weeks hence. Jerry Flynn hurried Rich out of the building after depositing a cashiers' check for one tenth of the face amount of the bail. They drove in Flynn's car directly to the Powers' apartment.

CHAPTER 5

1

"We need to talk," said Jane Powers to her husband the day after he was released from jail. It sas an unusually warm afternoon, Rich was standing by the French windows that offered a breathtaking view of Lake Michigan and the Oak Street beach. He held a martini and was sipping slowly. His wife was sitting on the cream colored couch, caressing a gin and tonic.

"There is nothing to talk about," replied Rich. "I didn't do it. You have your little revenge by making me sleep in the guest room. That should be enough."

"I know you did not kill that woman," declared Janet. "You may be a jerk and a cheat, but you are not really a murderer, although you do have a violent streak. Besides, what convinced me was the fact that she was one of your prize possessions, as long as she was useful to you, why kill her?"

"Exactly," said Rich.

"You never gave up any of your possessions, Richie. Janet was carefully observing her husband. His back was to her and his eyes fixed on an imaginary boat in the blue and silvery waters of the lake.

"So, what do you want to talk about?" asked Rich.

"About getting you some help," said Janet. "That fool, Flynn, may be an asset to you in your dealings with the politicians, but he is useless as a criminal lawyer. He'll probably bring in some big gun to help him with your defense, but I want some form of insurance. I want to talk to Kerri and Dan Miller."

"How can they help?" asked Rich. "Your friends Peg-leg and Freud are hardly a match for good detectives."

Janet was adamant. "They can collect information about this case. The police will not try any harder, they already have you. The State's Attorney wants to get you, what with his re-election and all. Flynn will milk you, and the chances are not good that you'll beat this rap. I am certain that you are innocent, and I don't want to see you rot in jail for a crime you did not commit."

"That's very noble of you," said Rich with a smile.

"Save the sarcasm for the court and your little girlfriends," said Janet emphatically.

Rich shrugged his shoulders. "Alright," he uttered, "talk to the Millers. It's your dime."

"No, my darling, it's yours."

2

Kerrie and Dan Miller sat on the couch across from Janet. They had agreed to meet with her and to hear her story, although both disliked Rich. Each competed with the other for the prize of "who hates Richie more."

Janet was the college roommate of Kerrie's sister, Brandi. When Brandi was having a rough time, Janet had helped her through. This is how she met Kerrie, and the two had struck a long-time friendship. After Janet married Rich, their encounters rapidly diminished to once a year, then to Christmas cards and infrequent phone calls.

Kerrie was a clinical psychologist, having graduated Cum Laude from an Ivy-League university. She had a limited practice, since deciding to work with her husband. As personal computers had become prevalent, Kerrie had studdied them and soon became an expert. Her home office featured three pcs, two dedicated phone lines, an ISDN connection, and all the software known to man. She was a slender five-foot-ten red-haired dynamo, with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue.

Kerrie had met Dan Miller while she was consulting for the FBI. Dan was built like a football player. He was over six feet tall, with big bones and curly dark hair. Kerrie adored his sober brown eyes and his impeccable sense of humor. Dan had received his law degree from a Big-ten university, and soon after had joined the FBI as a special agent. His superiors at the Bureau had recognized his talents, and assigned him to the office of liaison with other intelligence agencies. He later went to graduate school and received his doctorate in philosophy, with emphasis on logic. He was also an avid sportsman and a reckless adventurer. In one of his jumps from an airplane he had broken his left leg, which subsequently had to be amputated. The artificial leg he had had fitted was "almost as good as the real one," Dan used to brag. His impairment could not slow him down, although it earned him the nickname "Peg-Leg". Dan was as active as before the accident. He also used to emulate the former head of British counter-intelligence, Colonel Menzies, who had had a wooden leg, by startling his visitors. He would suddenly and without warning, stab himself in the left leg with a sharp stiletto he kept in a desk drawer, to the utter horror of his guests.

After a decade with the FBI, Dan had decided to consult for large corporations, by assisting them to solve cases of industrial espionage. Soon, his wife, Kerrie, joined him half-time, by offering psychological advice, as well as running the computer side of their operation. By the time Janet had asked them over for a drink to discuss her case, Dan and Kerrie had already amassed an exceptional portfolio of corporate clients.

"Richie is innocent," said Janet, "I want you to help clear him of this charge."

Dan stood up and walked across the room. His almost imperceptible limp had reminded Janet that he had a prosthesis.

"How is your leg?" she asked.

Dan smiled. He didn't mind. "OK," he replied, "except that it's half metal and half wood, so in the Spring I attract lightning, and in the summer squirrels want to set up their home up my leg." They laughed. "We are really swamped with work...," said Dan. Kerrie hurried to complete the sentence, "but we'd love to help you." She gave Dan a punishing look. This was her friend in need, and no amount of prior commitments would keep them from assisting her. Dan gave up.

"We'd need all the facts you have, names, dates,...and we need to talk with Richie."

"I'll tell you what I know, and instruct Jerry Flynn, Richie's attorney, to give you all the information he has," said Janet. "Of course," she continued, "I'll pay you for your time and any expenses you may have."

Kerrie moved over to the loveseat, where Janet was sitting, and put her arm around her friend's shoulder to comfort her.

"Why are you doing this?" asked Dan. "Richie is a slimeball, you should divorce him and run him out of town."

Kerrie gave him another of her castigating "looks that can kill", as Dan would call them. Her red face approached the color of her hair, neatly arranged in an unfashionable turban-like pile on her head.

"No," said Janet, "Dan is right. It's a legitimate question. I should get rid of him, but after all these yars of marriage, at least I should help him extricate himself from this false charge. Richie may be a heel, and you are right, Dan, but he is not a murderer."

"I agree," said Dan, "he's too much of a coward to be a cold-blooded killer."

Kerrie stared at him again. He'll never change, she thought, always so tactless and direct, but, damn it, he is also always right!

4

Dan Miller took several days to tie up some loose ends in the on-going projects of the firm, while Kerrie interviewed Richie (Dan could not stand him, so he was glad Kerrie took it upon herself to carry out this assignment). She also collected the material gathered by the defense team set up by Flynn's office. At first the lawyer refused to cooperate, charging that he had his own detectives at work, but after a terse phone conversation with Janet, he reluctantly parted with the information.

Kerrie also consulted the files of the Chicago police department, and accessed several files of information directly via her computer. The most challenging encounter was with the Assistant State's Attorney, Ira Zelnik. He was as cold and uncooperative as a shark to an amateur fisherman's bait. Zelnik contended that he gave all the relevant information to the defense lawyer. He objected to the rich-and-powerful sending an unending parade of investigators to poke into the prosecution's affairs. It would not have happened to a kid from the ghetto, he reminded her. Kerrie's short temper flared. She reminded him several times that he was an employee of the people, and that saving an innocent man's life is an obligation, regardless of his power or bank account. Zelnik laughed at her outbursts, which only aggravated her irritated state, and so she resorted to her usual trick of analyzing Zelnik's motives from a psychological angle.

The police had done a credible job in interviewing neighbors and friends of the deceased. Veronica had been a true party-girl, and was beloved by many of her fellow workers. She had flair and a colorful personality - qualities highly regarded in the world of fashion and fashion photography. One snoopy neighbor even volunteered some aadditional information. She gave the exact time that Rich had left the house, as the neighbor was watching a fascinating television show at exactly the time when she saw Richie's car pull away from the driveway across the street.

The flood of information about the case had to be analyzed and concentrated into meaningful categories. Kerrie started the painful task of going through reports, testimonies, photographs of the crime scene, and the report from the coroner. She stared at the brown board onto which they would pin the relevant information, then wrote in a thick red pen on a yellow piece of paper: "Why was Veronica killed?" Below this she wrote "Who killed her?"

CHAPTER 6

l

"Now, what do we have?" said Dan, looking at the brown board which was by now covered with pieces of white and yellow notes, photographs, and a map of the residential area where Veronica was killed. Kerrie pointed to the board.

"We start out from the assumption, no, the fact that Richie is not the murderer," answerred Kerrie. "We also know that nothing was stolen, and that her purse and other valuables in the house were left intact. So, we are dealing with a crime of either passion or revenge."

"So, what do we know about her life, during and prior to her affair with Richie?"

"Not much," said Kerrie, "she was somewhat reckless, drank a lot, and had a few traffic tickets. Her previous boyfriend is married, so we strike him out."

"Wait a minute, my dear Holmes," countered Dan. "You are dismissing our usual suspects very handily and promptly."

Kerrie was not amused. To her, the best road between two pints was still the shortest way. Why complicate matters? The boyfriend had no apparent motive, although she had not discovered whether he had an alibi for the time of the murder. Besides, Dan always envisioned the complicated side of a case, always after a conspiracy, even when such hardly presented itself for easy discovery, or was a figment of his nimble imagination.

"Let's reexamine the mode of operation of the killer," said Dan, looking at photographs from the scene of the crime that were spread on the coffee table in their office. Since much of their thinking and analysis occurred in Kerrie's computer room, they had added a coffee table, a comfortable love seat, and a comfortable large, red leather arm chair. Besides the living room, Kerrie's office was the largest room on the first floor of their suburban house.

"The M.O. was strangulation," said Kerrie. She was usually in charge of collecting the information, while Dan, with his steel-trap brain would analyze it and make some sense out of it. She willingly delegated this task to her husband, although many of their tough cases were solved because she had a sudden insight. The role of analyzer was suitable to Dan's "macho" personality. Kerrie nurtured this side of him, even though he also had a tender side of caring about feminist issues. If we ever have a daughter, she daydreamed, Dan would be a marvelous father, who would give her the strength of his male image, and the caring of an understanding father.

"Any other cases with similar M.O.s in the past few months in this neighborhood?" asked Dan.

"No, it's a quiet residential area."

"So, Veronica's murder was a targeted event, which just happened to be in her house, which is in this quiet area," concluded Dan.

"I guess it stands to reason," concurred Kerrie.

"So, we have two avenues for investigation," declared Dan. He was offering such grandstanding statements as a matter of fact, designed to accelerate their analysis. Kerrie loved his mode of thinking and the evolution of his reasoning, as information kept accumulating and the boundaries were narrowing. "One avenue is that this is an isolated case. Someone wanted to eliminate Veronica, for some reason, or she was killed by accident because of a struggle about something else. In any case, this would be an isolated incident."

"And the second avenue?" asked Kerrie.

Dan pondered the answer for a while. "Well," he said, you won't like it."

"Try me," said Kerrie in her challenging voice, inviting him to utter some seemingly unrealistic observations based on an outrageous theory.

"The second possibility is that Veronica's death is part of a string of other deaths, seemingly unrelated, but sharing some common motive," Dan said with conviction.

"Such as?" she kept the challenge.

"Such as, that she was involved in something way over head, perhaps something she witnessed, or something in her past."

"This is almost as absurd as the time you started to play the Kalimba," said Kerrie with a smile.

Dan laughed, "I had just returned from Africa and the Kalimba is a very attractive instrument."

"You tried to play Bach on that thing, for God's sake," said Kerrie.

Dan laughed again. He enjoyed her challenges; they made him think beyond the existing facts and the obvious conclusions.

2

"My clock is ticking," said Kerrie that night, as she huddled with Dan in their comfortable bed. He was reading the text of their report to their previous client, a major chemicals company.

"What clock?" asked Dan, "It's only ten thirty."

"My biological clock, silly," said Kerrie. He brushed off her volumes of red hair spread over his chest, where she had rested her head.

"Here we go again." Dan put aside the report. "You want a baby," he said.

"You are a genius, Sherlock," Kerrie lifted her head and stared into his eyes.

"We are still young," said Dan.

"No, YOU are still young. You can have a child until you are a hundred, but I can't. I want a baby!"

"Now?" asked Dan with a smile.

She laughed, "After we solve this case!"

Dan knew better than to argue with her. He kissed her hair. "We solve this damn case and we take a vacation to some warm spot with a beach, palm trees and a spa. We lock ourselves in our room and, bazzoom, let nature take its course. You leave the pills at home and I eat "baby enhancing" food."

"Such as?" she teased him.

"Such as oysters and mushrooms."

"You hate oysters and mushrooms," she said.

"You are a genius, Sherlock, now you know why we have not conceived."

She kissed him and fell asleep. He gave up the reading of the report. Kerrie was right, damn it, she was always right.

There are perhaps very few things that are more macabre than to unfold the life of a young woman killed in tragic and mysterious circumstances. Kerrie explored Veronica's past, collecting evidence about her doings and undoings, since she graduated from high school. While Dan flew to New York to report to their former client, Kerrie compiled a tapestry of events and people in Veronica's past. She looked particularly for any former boyfriends, or people who might have had a grudge against the young model. She divided the possibilities into four piles: lovers, brushes with the law, family ties, and money problems. The last two proved to be empty sets. Kerrie could not find any financial obligations. Family ties did not unveil any skeletons in Veronica's family, on both her father's and mother's side. They had rather boring lives, thought Kerrie with despair.

The pile of lovers was surprisingly thin. One boyfriend for two years, prior to Richie's arrival was the sum total of former lovers. Before them, there was an empty case of casual acquaintances. The boyfriend happened to have a solid alibi. Another dead-end in her investigation.

Kerrie then moved to brushes with the law. Veronica had a thick file, which Kerrie had obtained from the police department after invoking the influence of her friendships within the department. Several drunken driving arrests, no convictions. Veronica was also arrested some years ago for disorderly conduct in a downtown bar, but was released the next day. Kerrie entered the data into her computer and printed several possible permutations of the information she had obtained. One event stood out. Veronica was arrested for hitting a young man. She was not intoxicated at the time, and she was let go with a warning. The young man later died from his wounds. His parents lived in the suburbs. She and Dan should interview them before long, as soon as Dan returns. Kerrie also made a note of the assistant state's attorneys involved in the cases in which Veronica was arrested. She and Dan should interview them soon, perhaps they can shed some light on the case.

4

"Here is a case of a young woman, essentially without enemies, yet brutally murdered in her own bedroom, and we don't have a clue," said Kerrie to Dan. The trip to New York had been a partial success. The client had understood the report but did not agree with the conclusions, nor with the recommendations.

"Never mind, as long as they paid their bill," insisted Dan, at ease in his shorts and a white -shirt, looking intensely at the board, then at the piles of documents and computer printouts laid on the coffee table.

"You were mean to Mr. Fredericks, and that's why he was unhappy with the report," said Kerrie. She changed the subject. She always changed the subject.

"I was not mean," Dan replied with a tone of a wounded child. "I was, infaact, very nice to him and to his staff. We solved the case for them and they simply would not believe us."

He unhooked his prosthesis, and proceeded to lubricate the remainder of his natural leg. A Gluck automatic pistol was strapped to one side of the artificial limb, and a hunter's knife strapped to the other. Since the prosthesis was narrower than his natural leg, his trousers did not reveal the protuberances of the armaments he routinely carried. Kerrie did not mind. At first it was somewhat appalling to see him do this, but then she became accustomed to the daily ritual.

"Yes you were mean to them, and you probably told them that they were idiots," insisted Kerrie.

"I resent that," said Dan. "I did no such thing. Trust me, they are paying clients!"

"Exactly my point," declared Kerrie. She believed him, of course. She was just trying to raise his awareness to the feelings of other people, particularly paying clients. Dan had a very low level of tolerance for idiots, or semi-idiots, or even idiots-in-training, as he sometimes classified other people.

"The clues are in here," said Dan, after a while. He had scanned much of the material she had collected. "You are correct that the answer is in the brushes she had with the law. Any luck with the family of the boy who was killed? Or the State's Attorney?"

"No, I was waiting for you to return. We should see them together,"

"Agreed, call them and make the appointments."

"Why is it always me?" asked Kerrie with an indignant tone in her voice.

"Because, my darling, you are more tuned to people's feelings, you don't insult them, and above all, you are not mean to them."

"Touche," said Kerrie. Damn it, he was always right.

CHAPTER 7

1

"We all understand what operation Alpha means," said Director Bradock. He was talking to the man and woman sitting in his office. The man was deputy director Kohn and the woman, Dr. May Gorsky.

"We now know who those people are and what they want," said Kohn. He smiled, "their demands are reasonable, and on a national scale even laughable."

"I don't find any of this funny," uttered Bradock distastefully. Lately almost everything he heard gave him a bit of indigestion. "The President is mad a hell, and worse, word of all this has leaked to the intelligence community. I want a quick resolution to the problem."

Dr. Gorsky leaned forward and explained. "I was working on the cyber end of this, General." She pointed to a two page report on Bradock's desk. "I believe that I now know how they got into the system. It was a mix of fluke and updated knowledge. We sealed the entrance, so that any further hacking is impossible."

"In this particular entrance," said Bradock, "somebody else will find a hole tomorrow and crawl into it." He did not believe in the rule of computers. He didn't quite understand them.

"It's the price we pay for technology, Lem," said Kohn. May Gorsky was his choice, so he had to defend her from the fiery outbursts of their superior. But, Dr. Gorsky could take care of herself.

"General," she declared, "this is a technology that changes and evolves with lightning speed. The people who penetrated our defenses are experts, but, the key is that they were working from within the system. They did not do it for money, nor for any of the usual reasons of espionage or worker's discontent."

"This is all very fascinating, Doctor," said Bradock, rising from his chair and pacing around his office, "but I need resolution of this mess, and I need it fast!"

"Our fear that the people who did this could change the parameters on us at any time, is still quite real." Kohn reminded them of the dark cloud that faaced them.

"Which means that we plugged the hole, but the rats are already inside," said Braddock, "which also means that we closed the barn door after the horses escaped."

"Or got in," Kohn was quick to add. He loved a good challenge. "But, my best judgement is that they will not try to harm the system."

"Assuming you are correct," said Bradock, "what course of action is open to us?"

"Dr. Gorsky and I believe that we should abide by their demands. This whole thing will be silenced after the fact, so there is no issue of acceding to the demands of terrorists. These people are not your usual terrorists, nor your usual hackers. It's an isolated case, and we sould treat it as such. We abide by their demands, get the problem resolved, and eliminate the file."

"What do you mean 'eliminate the file'?" asked Dr. Gorsky. "There is so much we are learning from this. We should add it to our training curriculum."

Kohn smiled. He began to silently count: five, four, three.... Bradock will take it over. "There is no file, no vestige, no memory of this incident," said Bradock raising his voice and pointing his finger at Dr. Gorsky. "Once we resolve it, it's gone, forgotten, it never happened. Understood? You will then surrender all your files, hardcopy and cyber. Understood?"

She lowered her head and sent a furtive look towards Kohn. His face was serious, but his eyes werre smiling. He loved a good challenge.

2

The meeting with the judge was cordial, yet tense. The man in the dark suit and the dark blue tie was very precise, perhaps because of some legal training in his past. He explained the background, the consequences, and the possibilities. The judge could not be persuaded. The man in the dark suit was in his thirties, agile and eloquent. He hammered the issue of national security.

"It's really a matter for the State's Attorney's office" argued the judge. The man replied that his people were already talking to the prosecutors. "What you are asking of me is impossible" pleaded the judge, "Don't you people understand the principle of separation of powers?" he asked. The man in the dark suit was not moved.

"This is a matter of urgency, and of the utmost national security. Besides, it's also a matter of justice. I was always taught that the lady with the balance is blined". "Indeed she is, at least in my courtroom" replied the judge. He abhorred the occasion and the arguments. "The matter was before the court and already adjudicated" he said with restrained finality. His visitor relentlessly continued, "Your honor, this is a very serious matter, and I have the highest authorities involved. It's not going away just because your honor decides not to act. I regret the cloak and dagger appearance with this meeting, but we must reach an agreement. Incidentally, our conversation is being recorded by my people" The judge uttered in desbelief, "You are not carrying any recording device?" "No", said the man in the dark suit, "but my people can record the sweet-nothings that two flies in love exchange in the middle of rush hour in Manhattan. It's done long distance".

The judge sent a furtive look unto his window. The street below had the usual mid-day Chicago traffic. He looked across the street. "Yur honor, I need an answer", said the visitor. The judge tried one last approach. "We get so many such requests, but most of the time from attorneys" he said in a weakening voice, "this is highly unusual" "So is the case in question, Your Honor" replied the man in the dark suit.

He rose from his chair and extended his hand to his host. "You are in receipt of our request" he said as he shook the judge's hand, "we expect an answer within twenty four hours. We'll be in touch"

As the visitor left, mingling with te crowd in the courthouse, the judge sat in amazement. There were too manyparameters to consider: legal, political, procedural. And then, there were also personal issues. What if he refuses? He finally decided to call the prosecutor's office.

3

Mr. Ira Zelnik stared at his visitors with incredulity. A young man, perhaps in his thirties, and a young woman, both were well dressed in business suits. They sat in his office and told him the wildest story he had ever heard.

"Haven't you people ever come across the principle of 'double jeopardy'?" he inquired forcefully, "I cannot reopen a case and re-prosecute a case that was already tried in open court" "You will not do it, the judge will. Our people are talking to the judge now" said the young woman, "We'll repackage the case with new evidence and new charges"

"Who the hell are you people?" asked Zelnik in desperation.

"This is a matter of national security. We are asking you to be ready to prosecute this case, which will be re-packaged and re-opened," said the young man in the business suit.

"Are you lawyers?" asked Zelnik.

The woman nodded. "I am," shereplied.

"Then you must know that we connot do that. Find something else on this person and I'll look at it," Zelnik said.

"We have little time to waste," said the woman. The young man concurred by nodding his head. "YOU must find something, to enter new charges," she added.

Zelnik sat in his comfortable chair, somewhat stupefied. He revolved his chair to look at the wall behind him, at his diplomas and awards. God, my mother worked and prayed for me to become a big-time lawyer, and now I am down to this, he thought to himself. "No," he finally broke his silence and said, "YOU find something and I'll prosecute."

The man looked at the woman. The man then nodded. "It's a deal," he said, "we'll give you a case to prosecute."

"It had better be a real case," warned Zelnik.

The woman smiled. They rose from their chairs and walked towards the door. "Come now, Mr. Zelnik," said the man with a smile, "this is hardly Kansas anymore, this is Cook County."

Ira Zelnik stared at them with growing irritation. What the hell was that all about?

4.

With the Federal probe upon them, judges and lawyers kept a very low profile. They watched their actions, in and out of the courtroom. The young man in the dark suit had not been persuasive enough. When Ira received the new material and forwarded it to the judge for consideration, he was amply berated for his incompetence.

"I know what this is about, Ira," said the judge on the phone.

Now Zelnik was less confrontational. "It is my considered opinion that this is part of the Federal probe. They have been known to create fictitious cases before."

"Sadly enough, this is not a fictitious case," replied the judge, toning down his anger. "It's very real. The Feds are all over me, and another judge, too. The pressure is mounting, but I can't oblige them."

"The material I provided you is enough to reopen the case," said Zelnik. He was still in the dark as to why the Feds would bother with cases in the Cook county jurisdiction.

"No, it's not, Ira, and you know it. There is nothing here that a first year law student would not be able to appeal on grounds of double jeopardy."

Zelnik agreed. "What now?" he asked, and added, "and besides, why won't the Feds take it to a Federal jurisdiction?"

"It's not a Federal case, and however we twist it, it can't be," said the judge. His voice reflected the agony of his position.

"Your honor," said Zelnik, transferring the conversation to a more formal level, "was this case disposed of in a manner consistent with good practice?"

"I know what you mean, Mr. Zelnik, you mean was there any hint of twisting the law. I don't know, this case was mired in influence peddling from the word go."

"Your honor, I believe that our phones may be tapped; perhaps we should meet in person," said Zelnik. The judge didn't heed the warning.

"It was my case and I thing my disposition was correct, albeit a casual observer might disagree," he said.

Zelnik decided not to push his luck, and terminated the conversation.

This was a bad situation, thought Zelnik, as he paced in his office, following the strange phone conversations with the judge. Federal agents visiting everyone who had involvement in a simple case, and asking for the impossible. Yet, not one whisper about corruption or the Federal probe on the county's judiciary. Was there any connection? Was the judge guilty of "selling out" the case? Why were the Feds all over the place? He was willing to reopen the case. What the heck, he had smelled a rat when reading the transcripts. Everything was too slick, too simple, and very unusual, even for a case in this county. But, why would the Feds be interested in this, and what is the connection to national security?

He should call the Federal agents and advise them of the judge's decision not to reopen. Then he would have a drink, a double.

CHAPTER 8

1

After their interview with the Cassway family, Dan and Kerrie went to a late dinner at one of their favorite Italian restaurants. Dan ordered a bottle of Chianti, although he preferred a French Bordeaux. Kerrie joined him in a drink, since Chianti was her favorite wine. The lasagna was passable that night, prepared by Chef Antonio with an unnecessary extra touch of garlic.

The interview produced no exciting findings. The Cassways had alibis for the time of Veronica's murder. Alan, the father, was working late that day, and his co-workers at the Department of Agriculture corroborated his story. Mrs. Cassway was attending a shower for the birth of a neighbor's baby, a fact corroborated by the women who partook in the event. Even the daughter had an alibi for that day.

"I congratulate you on your interviewing skills," said Dan to Kerrie, "you are the prettiest interrogator this side of the Mississippi, and I am in love with you."

Kerrie smiled and raised her glass. She thanked him and sent him a furtive kiss. While Dan was engaged with his lasagna with meat sauce, Kerrie, a vegetarian, was enjoying a special dish of spinach and tomatoes. She stared at the strong features of her husband's face, his straight nose, the powerful chin, and the softness in his eyes. She was falling in love again. She also felt the urge to have a child with this man, even though a stain of meat sauce had just appeared on his immaculate tie.

"We are back to square one," said Kerrie as she awoke from her day-dreams. "The Cassways are in the clear, the boyfriend is in the clear, and the dead girl had no other enemies, or at least no enemies with any reason to kill her."

"True," said Dan, "yet, I have a strange sensation that we are missing a big chunk of something, right under our nose."

"It's a beautiful nose," said Kerrie leaning over the table and holding her husband's hand. Dan smiled, leaned over and lightly kissed her hand. She was precious and he loved her very much.

2

"I have examined the similar cases of murders in the county, and I think that there is something we have missed," said Dan the next day. He held a certificate signed by the Coroner.

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