"Vann found the Private Eye-PO," DiGenovese continued, taking a seat opposite Dodson. "His name is Raymond Luca. He's a resident of Delray Beach. M.I.T. grad, and get this… an ex-con."

"And what does Mr. Luca do, pray tell, when he's not playing the Private Eye-PO?"

"No idea. Just got a name and an address. Vann said he could find out more, but he's already run over his hourly commitment and it would run us another few thousand dollars."

"Very well," said Dodson. "Run Mr. Luca's social security number through the IRS, do a thorough credit check on the man, contact M.I.T.'s alumni relations board. Someone can tell us how he earns his daily bread." He shifted in his seat, unsatisfied. "What else did Mr. Vann have to tell us?"

"Nada. Just gave me the same info he gave Gavallan."

"And how much did Mr. Gavallan pay our Mr. Vann?"

"Didn't ask."

"Next time ask," ordered Dodson, wondering if Vann might be holding something back. "And find out where Vann likes his funds wired. I don't take to people double-timing the Bureau- goes against my sense of patriotism. While you're talking to our colleagues at the IRS, why don't you have them take a peek at Mr. Vann's latest 1040s. Might be nice to have some leverage in the future."

DiGenovese had been writing all this down on a notepad he carried in his left hand. Finished, he looked up. "Next flight down to Miami's at seven-fifteen. I booked us two seats."

"Pardon me?"

"You heard Gavallan," DiGenovese said, in a tone as surprised as his superior's. "He wants to permanently shut Luca's mouth."

"And do we have any evidence that Mr. Gavallan's going anywhere near Florida these next few days?"

"Well, no. I mean, not yet. We don't get transcripts of the wiretaps until twenty-four hours after they're picked up. I thought it would be a good idea to have a talk with Luca, let him know that he might be in some danger."

Dodson shot DiGenovese a stern glance as if to say he'd been silly even to think of flying to Florida that evening. In fact, his reluctance to leave so quickly was rooted in his domestic situation. His wife, Clara, was a woman of the times, and would raise holy hell if he popped down to Florida without advance warning. She didn't stand for unannounced departures, late nights at the office, or working more than a half day on weekends unless absolutely necessary- and "necessary" meant that an agent's blood had been spilled.

"Calm down, Roy. If you're so worried about Mr. Luca, give him a call on the telephone. Tell him to lock his front door. I would, on the other hand, enjoy speaking with Mr. Luca about where in God's name he's been getting our confidential information. Book us first thing in the morning."

"You don't think he needs protection?"

"No, Roy, I do not. Now off you go. Book us those seats for tomorrow."

DiGenovese shifted in his chair, and Dodson could see he was using all that Ranger discipline of his to keep from arguing. The Army's fine training won out over DiGenovese's impetuous Sicilian blood, and after a few seconds he complied. "Yessir. I'll get back to you about the times."

"Good man," said Dodson, beaming. "What's that you always say when things are going well?"

"Drive on, Airborne."

"Yes, yes. Well then, 'Drive on, Airborne.' "

23

Cate Magnus held the Nokia cell phone close to her ear, clicking the volume higher so she could hear the man's voice over the earsplitting whine of a jacksaw.

"It's just not what we want this week," Jimmy Murphy was saying. "Metrics are so dry. Your readers don't give a fiddler's fart whether Yahoo! gets two million hits a day or two billion. And they care even less what exactly constitutes 'a hit' on a website. This isn't a scientific review here. You're supposed to liven up the rag, not dull it down."

"It's not the methodology I'm interested in, Jimmy," she retorted, pacing the length of her bedroom. "It's the way you can cheat on these things. Use one method and it looks like five hundred users a day are logging onto your site; use another and it's more like five thousand. The whole thing stinks. I mean, who are you supposed to trust?"

"Good question, Cate. Tell you what: Let's leave that question until next month. Give me something lively, something dishy."

Cate lowered the phone from her ear and mouthed a very nasty word in Mr. Jimmy Murphy's general direction. Murphy was the features editor at the Financial Journal, a rail-thin, choleric Kansan who took it as part of his job description to be permanently dissatisfied with his writers' offerings. More and more, he was pushing the column away from the serious fare she favored- namely, an examination of the personal and societal ramifications wrought by a once-in-a-century upheaval in technology- toward dishy, prurient pieces on the lifestyles of the sick and famous. It was partly her mistake. A year ago, she'd written a piece on young women who worked for a certain gentlemen's club in San Mateo that catered to the wild and wildly expensive whims of the valley's glitterati, such as they were. One of the girls she'd interviewed had talked about the habits of one of her regulars, a nationally known Internet exec who liked to do weird things with whipped cream, motherboards, and electrodes on his nipples.

Or there was the time Murphy had sent her to Bangalore, India, to check out the booming matchmaking market for up-and-coming high-tech wizards. It was the Indian women who paid for introductions to men, and the depth of questioning they had to endure approached the ridiculous. "How would you propose to cure your husband's impotence?" "What family remedies can you offer for baldness?" "Would you object to your husband's taking a mistress? Two mistresses?" and her favorite, "What is the proper serving temperature of chicken tika-tika? In Celsius and Fahrenheit, please."

It wasn't lost on her that 90 percent of the Journal's readers were men.

This week's "Gold Rush" dealt with a more serious topic: the internecine warfare going on among competing firms in the field of metrics. "Metrics," as related to the Internet, involved defining precise methodologies to measure usage of the World Wide Web, or more important these days, providing objective information as to exactly how many visitors clicked onto specific websites.

Now that the bloom was off the rose and the new economy was looking a little long in the tooth, metrics had assumed a new importance. Acquisition had replaced IPOs as the prevalent exit strategy for start-ups, and the price a company could demand was directly correlated to the number of hits its website received. Each company in the metrics game claimed to offer the sole, incontrovertible means of measuring a site's popularity. The only hard part for the client was finding the boys who'd put you at the top of the list, and Cate was sure that a little extra vig would better your final score.

"Look, Jimmy," she started again, wincing at the syrupy sound of her voice. "Maybe the piece is a little heavy on the number crunching. Let me talk to rewrite; I'll soften it up, give it a little more color."

Cate was frustrated. She'd finally come up with a story that allowed her to put into practice some of the financial carpentry she'd picked up at Wharton, and no one gave a damn.

"You're not listening to me," carped Murphy. "Where are those personal items we so loved? Remember last year when you followed a Range Rover into and out of a shop six times in three months? We had letters for a year wondering what happened to that lemon- some nut even wanted to buy it. Hey, hey, here's an idea! Hot off the wire. Why not give me something about the house. How does a savvy reporter knee-deep in tech hoopla deal with the down-and-dirty world of home renovation? Give me a thousand words on pouring a new slab. How do they do that, anyway, without having to tear down the house?"