Intertect was just about what Joe had pictured it would be. The main room, the computer room, was filled with wall-to-wall supercomputers, whirring and blinking in response to commands given by their operators. Said operators were hard at work, feeding in commands, reading printouts, and talking on the telephone to get more commands and discuss the printouts. Every now and then a secretary passed by with some new information to be input.
The computers were handling all manner of requests, from researching people and finding addresses to calculating probabilities and likely persons of interests on cases ranging from robbery to blackmail to murder. Even though Joe was still skeptical at best, he had to admit it was interesting seeing how they catalogued the information.
One thing that struck Joe the most was that it seemed, surprisingly, a happy atmosphere, instead of either a harried, frantic mess or organized and stiff. The operators enjoyed their work; the agents greeted them, Mr. Wickersham, and even Joe with genuine congeniality and cheerfulness.
Mr. Wickersham responded in kind. Here he was completely in his element. Joe could see how much he loved these big old flashing machines and took pride in the information they were spitting out. And as he pieced things together from said information and brainstormed with the agents and computer operators on their cases, he showed quite a skill for detective work.
"Okay," Joe said at last. "So they're doing pretty well. But how big is their database? How many people are in it?"
Wickersham gave him a mischievous look. "Just about everyone you can think of," he said. "If they're somewhere, anywhere, in a public database, they should be in our computers—even if all we have on them is a name and a birth date."
"What, like me, for instance?" Joe scoffed. "You just met me yesterday. I couldn't be in your database."
"We don't have to know someone to have them in the computer," Wickersham said. "Pender, run off all the information we have on Joseph Mannix."
"Yes, Mr. Wickersham." And with several pushed buttons, the computer responded with several sheets of paper.
Wickersham gathered them with a smile and handed them to Joe. "Is it correct?"
Joe skimmed through the pages, both stunned and a bit creeped out. "Everything," he said. "My family in Summer Grove . . . Pop and Kitty, the café owners who moved here from Summer Grove ahead of me . . . Harry Forrest . . ." He looked up at Wickersham, somewhat accusingly. "How did you get all of this?"
"As I said, Mr. Mannix, it's all a matter of public record," was the smooth and calm reply. "The computer went through and calculated everyone and everything known to have been associated with you. You'll notice it didn't overlook your Army service or your time in college."
"It didn't overlook anything," Joe frowned. "The government boys would have a heyday with something like this."
"Oh, they use things like this," Pender broke in.
"I should've known," Joe grunted, tossing the papers aside.
By the time Wickersham led Joe to his office—a nicely furnished room filled with the personality that paintings, sculptures, and other knick-knacks offered—Joe was quiet. Wickersham glanced over his shoulder, definitely noticing.
"You haven't said much," he commented. "Not since you saw how the computers' information helped at least two of my men obtain possible leads. And how it knew all about you."
"Okay, I'll admit that maybe, just maybe, the computers have some practical use," Joe spoke. "But as far as predicting probabilities and speculating on persons of interest, I just don't buy it. Those computers could be trying and convicting innocent people. They're just examining the cold, hard facts and the evidence, the same as the police do. And I don't think the police always come up with the right answers, either."
"On that we agree," Wickersham said. "But the computers only provide suggestions on who might be the likeliest persons of interest to investigate. They're not saying anyone is positively guilty."
"I suppose. But don't tell me there aren't some eager-beaver gumshoes who'd fall for it hook, line, and sinker," Joe replied. "There's plenty of humans who can cause that to happen without computers backing up their wrong ideas all the more."
Wickersham crossed to his desk and sat down, watching Joe. "I try to curb any such issues before they get out of hand," he said calmly. "Most Intertect agents can manage just fine without throwing accusations around. And on the rare occasions when one of them goes too far, it only takes one prompting to get them back on-track."
"Well, you seem to have it all figured out for yourself," Joe mused. "I have to say I am impressed. You've accomplished quite a lot, getting this place going and making it into something big at your age. You can't be much older than I am."
"All it really takes is an idea, the drive to make it happen, and a lot of hard work," Wickersham said with a slight smile.
"And money. Don't forget that," said Joe, finally plopping into a chair near the desk.
"I saved and built up gradually. Once upon a time, I was the only agent." Wickersham laced his fingers on his chest. "You're so determined to strike out on your own. Let me tell you, it's not always as glamorous as Philip Marlowe makes it sound."
Joe shrugged. "I'll take my chances," he smiled.
"I'm sure you will. You don't seem like a man who would turn against what he wants even if he's advised against it."
"You've got me pegged right."
Wickersham adjusted his glasses, looking down at a report on his desk in a partial attempt to hide his growing smile. "You remind me a lot of myself when I was just starting out," he said. "Most people believed I couldn't do it. My father tried to discourage me I don't know how many times. He wanted me to be a lawyer."
"I saw the degree on your wall," Joe said. "You graduated law school, but went into the private-eye business. Interesting. We're only required to get an associate's degree in criminal justice, not go through a whole legal program. You must have been planning to do what your dad wanted."
"For a while, yes. But then I followed my heart's desire, the same as you. I decided that if I stayed in law school for the full haul, I would be that much more capable of handling whatever came my way in the private investigator business. I didn't ever want to be in a situation where some smart shyster could trick me on loopholes that he understood more than I did."
Joe nodded. "And has it helped?"
"Immensely."
"I can't think of many lawyers who would desire to give up a cushy, safe career for danger behind every door," Joe mused.
Wickersham looked entertained. "I can't either."
"Have you actually been in danger, though?" Joe wondered. "Or do you mostly just stay behind the front lines and command your computers and your agents from the safety of your desk?"
"I've been in quite a bit of danger. What you participated in last night was not the first time I've been accosted."
Joe nodded to himself. "I should've guessed it."
"I would doubt that any good private investigator has ever been free from danger while on the job, no matter where or how he works." Wickersham straightened, letting the chair snap back into place. "Even with the computers that you don't like, Mr. Mannix, I'm certain you would find a lot to like about working for Intertect."
"I guess that's possible," Joe relented, "especially if there's a lot of thrilling cases."
Wickersham stared him down. "Define 'thrilling'."
Joe lopsidedly grinned. "You know—death-defying stunts, someone always trying to kill you to get you off the case, damsels in distress . . ."
"Basically, a James Bond novel," Wickersham sighed.
"Well, minus the whole 'the entire universe is in danger and only you can save it' plot," Joe quipped. "I'd rather work on a bit more of a small scale. Say, one person is in danger and only I can save them."
"Or her." Wickersham regarded Joe in exasperation, but there was a twinkle in his eye. "To be honest, Mr. Mannix, there's some of all of those elements, to an extent. But it really isn't thrilling to be shot at, beat up, or thrown off a cliff."
"It beats sitting around here all day," Joe said. "Well, as long as the shots miss and the beating isn't serious."
"And the cliff is only a few feet to the ground." Wickersham's voice was filled with dry sarcasm before sobering. "Mr. Mannix, this is real-life. Real-life doesn't follow James Bond or U.N.C.L.E. or Philip Marlowe or whatever it is you think you're in for. If James Bond were a real person, he would have been dead a long time ago. No one can cheat death that many times and come out on top of it."
"I suppose you're right," Joe said, spreading his hands.
"Honestly, if that's what you're expecting, I'm not sure you should be a private investigator at all," Wickersham frowned.
"Maybe not, but I'm going to find that out the hard way," Joe declared, getting up from the chair. "Thanks for the tour, Lew. It's been fun, but now I have a license to procure. I've clocked in the necessary experience working for Harry Forrest, so the next step is sending in my application."
"Wait a minute." Wickersham leaned forward, his gaze boring into Joe. "What did you just call me?"
"Well, if we're going to keep running into each other, I can't see myself continuing to say 'Mr. Wickersham'. And no way am I going to walk around saying a formal mouthful like 'Llewellyn' every time I want to talk to you. So I'm shortening it. You said you shorten it sometimes."
"Yes," Lew said slowly. "And to that."
"Good guess." Joe headed for the door. "You don't mind, do you?"
Lew looked a bit overwhelmed. "Right now I'm not sure if I mind or not." He waved in a dismissive manner. "Go on and send in your application."
Joe smiled. "Wish me luck."
"I do." Lew watched him go. When he was alone, he leaned back and pondered for a moment.
Were he and Mannix going to keep running into each other? There was really no reason why they should. But there was something he liked about Mannix, and apparently the feeling was mutual. Now that such a strange person had wandered into his life, it was hard to imagine him wandering out again so soon.
Perhaps it was just that Lew wasn't sure he wanted Mannix to wander out. He found Mannix intriguing in spite of himself. And in spite of the fact that they could barely agree on the time of day.
Normally Lew was a non-confrontational person, preferring to avoid conflict whenever possible. But he was willing to rise to the occasion when it was necessary, as many had found out. And with him and Joe, the arguments—or banter, even—came so naturally. They both seemed to handle it good-naturedly. It wasn't like arguing at all, or at least, not like a raucous, vicious quarrel.
The ringing of the telephone jerked him back to the present. "Hello? . . . Oh, hello, Mom." He relaxed, toying with a pen on his desk as he talked. "Yes, everything's fine. . . . You heard what?!" He sat up straight with a jerk. "Who told you that? . . . No, I didn't get hurt. Someone helped me. . . . A strange character named Joe Mannix. . . . I didn't know him at all. I know him now. In fact, he was just here.
"But Mom . . . ! Mom, what about the woman who called you today? Did she say anything else? . . ." He scowled darkly, dropping the pen to the desk. "It's not true, Mother. I don't have any interest in her. Oh, she tried to reel me in, alright. She thought I'd be another of her paid pigeons come home to roost. She told me she hadn't thought that any private detective would be honest, at least to the point where he couldn't be bought at all. That shook her up quite a bit. . . . No, there shouldn't be any more trouble from her, not with her boys in jail. She was just trying to scare you and get me angry through you." And it was working; Lew's eyes were flashing and he was holding the telephone in a death-grip.
"Yes, I'm still coming for dinner. . . . Joe Mannix? Mom, he helped me last night and I was just giving him a tour of Intertect. There's no reason why we'd ever run into each other again. . . . Yes, I'll be over at seven. I love you too. Goodbye, Mom."
Lew hung up and stood, heading for the door. He didn't want his mother to worry, but he had a very bad feeling that the woman behind the men who had attacked him last night was not about to let up. And the very fact that she had dared to contact his mother meant she was bound and determined to play even dirtier than before.
He was not about to stand for that. He was going to take out a restraining order and go with the officer who served it, to give her a piece of his mind.
And if she dared to have anything to do with him or any of his family again, she would regret it.
