Mrs. Cameron hired a dog walker, and neighbors pitched in to take her to church and grocery shopping. But her age and poor health caught up with her, and she was dead within a year after her husband. I realized I’d never seen a For Sale sign on the house and had assumed it had gone to some distant relative.
I switched over to the state’s corporation database and found nothing of use. In each case, the sole owner of the LLC was another corporation, this one headquartered in Delaware. Corporate regulations there were notoriously lax, probably because legend had it that DuPont had controlled the state for decades.
I was stymied. I couldn’t learn anything useful about the LLCs from either Pennsylvania or Delaware. There had to be a way I could learn something, though. I knew that new buyers had to be approved by the HOA, so surely somewhere in their records there was a connection between the LLC and the human being behind it.
When I first came to live at River Bend and transferred the deed to the townhouse into my own name, I went into the office for an interview. I had filled out a form, and one of my new neighbors, from the approvals committee, had met with me and filled out a form herself. Were those forms online?
My fingertips tingled. I was pretty sure I could hack into the HOA website; I’d visited it a few times to look for information and had noted that the security wasn’t very good. The only time the https prefix came up, the one that indicated you were on a secure website, was when you switched over to the Pennsylvania Properties site to make payments.
Or I could just ask Lois if she had a list, and if she’d share it with me.
I looked at the clock. It was almost eleven, and I knew that the HOA office was open until noon on Saturday. I gave Rochester a green dental stick to chew and hopped into my car. The sun was high in a nearly cloudless sky, and a light breeze ruffled the remaining red and gold leaves of the maples and oaks along River Bend Drive.
There was a party out by the pool, and the few parking spaces not taken up by landscaping vehicles were all full. I parked by the curb and hurried inside. Lois wasn’t at her desk, and I was surprised to see Earl Garner in Todd’s office. “I’m busy here, and Lois has the day off,” Garner said brusquely. “You’ll have to come back on Monday for whatever you need.”
And good morning to you, too, I thought. I held up my hand. “No problem.”
Yeah. No problem for me. I’d get that list of names the way I wanted.
19: Neatsfoot Oil
Lili was still at the hairdresser in New York, so I could retrieve my hacker laptop, do what I needed, and have it put away before she came home. At least that’s the way I justified it.
I set the ladder up in the hallway outside the second bathroom and climbed up, pushing away the hatch that led to the attic crawl space, where I kept it stowed away, so that I’d have to make a conscious effort to retrieve it.
Rochester slumped behind me in the second floor hallway, as if he knew I was up to something and needed to be watched carefully.
The laptop wasn’t quite so secret as it had been – Rick and Lili both knew that it existed. It had once belonged to Caroline Kelly, Rochester’s first mom, and after she died I loaded my hacking tools on it and used what I learned online to help Rick figure out who killed her. I kept it in the attic so that I would have to make a conscious choice to retrieve it and use the tools on it, and so that I’d have to think twice about retrieving it.
Since then I had used the tools there occasionally, for the most part in legal pursuits. I justified my exploit because I was a homeowner at River Bend, and I ought to have access to this information on that basis. And if there was a connection to Todd’s murder, I had a moral obligation to pursue it.
That explanation wouldn’t have held up in a court of law if Rick needed to use the information, and if I was caught I’d have to hire a very savvy attorney. But I was confident that the tools I had could hide my identity and my IP address enough so that no one would notice I’d dipped in and retrieved the information I needed. Lili was in New York, and while I wouldn’t lie to her if the question came up, I didn’t have to justify myself to her the way I might if she was there.
Act first, apologize later. And if I found something useful for Rick, I’d wiggle around until I found a legal way to deliver the information to him.
While I waited for the old laptop to turn on, I considered what I had to do. First, I had to set up a VPN, a virtual private network, that would protect me while I was online. The one I used, a commercially available one for which I paid a monthly fee of a couple of dollars, promised that their strict zero-logs policy would keep my identity under wraps while I was online. Primarily it was designed to protect your online data while banking, paying credit card bills and so on, but it meant that no one could track my activity online back to me and my home’s IP address.
Once the VPN was running, I set up a port scanner and aimed it at the River Bend HOA website. Essentially, a port is like a doorway into your home, and a port scanner knocks on every port on a network to see if it’s available for entry. The port scanner can also reveal the presence of security devices like firewalls that stand between the sender and the target. This technique is known as fingerprinting.
There was a firewall around the HOA site, but it was a cheap commercial one that came with the purchase of a bunch of computer tools, and whoever installed it either hadn’t followed the instructions, or hadn’t been keeping up with regular updates, because I had my choice of three different ports that would let me in.
I could have found out information like the operating system the computer was using, the internet service provider the HOA used, and how long that particular computer had been online. But all I cared about was getting a look at the root directory – what on a regular computer would be considered the C: drive.
When your browser sends a message to a website, it generally displays an HTML page which contains directions on what to show you—what images, what text, what other features like video content. That page sits in the root directory of the hard drive where the website is housed. I wanted to see what else was in that root directory—for example, folders of information about homeowners.
Rochester kept nuzzling me, and it was hard to work one handed, while the other scratched behind his ears. I had to nudge him aside with my knee and focus on typing in the right commands.
At some point, after all the current fuss blew over, I’d have to volunteer to help the association with the community’s website and install some better security, without revealing how I knew it was necessary. For the moment, I let my fingers dance over the keyboard, searching for the files I was interested in.
I downloaded a spreadsheet of renters and one of owners. But I was worried that they’d only have the name of the LLCs who owned the property, not the person, or persons, behind them. So I kept snooping.
It was almost too easy to find a folder called “Interviews,” where all the forms filled out by the new owners and the board members had been scanned and uploaded. I quickly downloaded the folder and shut down the laptop, not wanting to stay connected to the HOA site for a minute longer than necessary. I had learned through years of experience that the longer you remained somewhere you didn’t belong, the greater the chance that you could be discovered.
If, for example, one of the board members was logged in legitimately to the site, he or she could easily see who else was online at the time. If that person was savvy enough to recognize that my VPN address wasn’t on the list of authorized users, my hack could be discovered. I might not be implicated directly, but it would be a way for that person, or the board, to note that someone was looking into protected information.
I took the laptop back up to the attic and returned the ladder to the garage. Rochester followed me the whole time. “There. You satisfied?” I asked him.
He didn’t say anything, just looked up at me with those big brown eyes of his. I leaned down and petted him. “I know you’re watching out for me, puppy. And I appreciate
it. But sometimes I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do.”
There were over seven hundred homes and townhouses in River Bend, and the folder of interview sheets contained nearly two thousand forms. How could I ever get through all of those on my own? It would take hours, maybe days.
I looked over to where Rochester was nosing under the sofa, searching for a bone he’d accidentally kicked under there. I got up, moved the sofa, and he pounced on the bone, which looked pretty much like every other bone on the living room floor. “See, your search paid off,” I said.
I smiled at him, and he began to chew. Search, I realized. That’s what I needed to do. I could do a basic search from my own computer, without any special tools. I set up the computer to look through the PDF files for the word LLC, and then sat back, very pleased with myself.
While I waited, I thought about what else I could do. Oscar Panaccio owned a couple of properties in River Bend; perhaps that meant he knew who else did. How could I reach out to him?
I looked over at Rochester, who was chewing happily, while surrounded by bones and toys. But I knew that if I gave him a new one, he’d jump right on that.
Maybe Oscar would, too. Suppose I emailed him, mentioned that I knew him through Eastern, and that I was considering selling my townhouse. I could invite him over on that pretense, and then sound him out.
I logged into my Eastern College email. It wasn’t the most effective way to get a response from him, but it was logical. I sent him the message, and then sat on the floor to play with Rochester.
We were playing tug-a-rope when Lili got home from New York. Her hair, usually so exuberant, was flat and wet, and so were her Italian leather jacket and her skinny jeans. She looked drenched, even though the sun was shining outside. “What happened?” I asked, as I jumped up to take the leather jacket from her.
“I had to park in a far lot at the Trenton train station, and when I was halfway to my car it just started to pour.” She caught a glimpse of herself in the sliding glass door and started to cry. “I look terrible!”
“It’s not that bad,” I said, as she ran for the stairs.
I stood there holding her dripping jacket. One of the things I loved about Lili was that though she had a fiery personality, she almost never cried. My ex-wife had been a crier, and I always felt so helpless when she burst into tears, whether they were because of something I’d said, her hormones, or the general feeling of loss that pervaded our marriage in its later years.
I could deal with the jacket, though. I found a padded hanger in the downstairs closet and hung the jacket up in the half bathroom off the dining room. I began to blot off the excess moisture, and while I did I had an inspiration. I found my phone and called Tamsen. She was such a kind person, and always looked so perfectly put together that I was sure she’d be able to help Lili salvage her fancy cut.
“A bit of an emergency,” I said, and explained what had happened. “You think you could come over and give Lili some sisterly advice?”
“I’m at Justin’s Pop Warner game, but I can duck out for this. Be there in a few.”
Rochester knew something was wrong, and he kept threading his way around my feet. I went back to the bathroom and continued drying Lili’s jacket, and he slumped on the tile beside me.
The jacket was one of her prized possessions; she’d told me how during her first marriage, when she was living in Milan, she had stumbled on a designer’s private sale and talked her way in. She had spotted the jacket and fallen in love with it, and even though she was nearly broke and the jacket wiped out her bank account, she bought it.
Tamsen arrived as I was finishing the blotting effort. I sent her upstairs and heard her knock on the bedroom door. “Lili? It’s Tamsen. Can I come in?”
I didn’t hear the response, but the door opened and closed so I assumed it had been a positive one. Then I retrieved a tub of neatsfoot oil from the garage. I had a boss once in California who had sung its praises, though he had a heavy Southern accent and pronounced the last word “awl.” Since then I’d found it came in handy for treating any kind of leather.
Rochester did not like the scent, and he left me and went upstairs, where I heard him plop on the floor—I assumed in front of the bedroom door. I heard the dim whirr of a blow dryer and hoped Tamsen was working her magic on Lili’s new do.
By the time I had massaged the oil deeply into the leather, the door opened upstairs. “Thank you so much, Tamsen,” Lili said. “I feel a whole lot better.”
“And you look terrific, too. That’s a very flattering cut for you.”
They came down the stairs, Rochester threading his way between them. “Wow,” I said when I saw Lili. Her hair was much straighter than usual, though still with a gentle wave, and the stylist had cut it into a bob that made her look like a 1920s flapper. “That’s an amazing cut.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t style it as well as the guy in New York did, but it does look good, doesn’t it?” Tamsen asked.
I kissed her cheek. “Thanks for saving the day.”
She looked at her watch. “The game’s about to finish. I need to hustle to pick up the guys.”
After she left, Lili turned to me. “You really like it?”
“Honey, you know I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, and I’m incredibly lucky you put up with me and Rochester. I love your hair in curls—but this new look is pretty awesome, too.”
“Thanks for calling Tamsen,” she said. “I was so upset—I felt like I’d wasted all that time and money.” She sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”
“Neatsfoot oil. I dried your jacket and I’m moisturizing the leather now.”
“You really are a lifesaver, aren’t you?” She took my hand. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me and let me show you how much I appreciate you.” She smiled. “Just be careful with the hair.”
20: Property Values
I didn’t get a chance to check on the search results from the PDF files until after dinner. My laptop had gone into sleep mode, and when I woke it I discovered it had found thirty-five examples of LLC in the scanned interview forms. Eager as I was to look through them, Lili was upstairs, and I figured that she still needed some reassurance, so I spent the time with her instead.
Sunday morning Lili reminded me we had promised to join Mark and Joey on a trip to a big flea market in Bryn Mawr, in a neighborhood of Philadelphia that took its name from a railroad called the Main Line. The name had become a metonym for the series of wealthy towns it passed through. When you said Main Line, you meant more than just the railroad; the term conjured up images of wealth and privilege. One of my favorite movies, High Society, with Grace Kelly, Bing Crosby and Louis Armstrong, was set there.
“Tell me again why we’re going all the way to Bryn Mawr?” I grumbled to Lili over breakfast. “Lambertville is a lot closer.”
Throughout my childhood my mom, dad and I spent Sunday afternoons at the flea market in Lambertville, upriver from Stewart’s Crossing, though on the Jersey side of the Delaware. My mother collected Lenox china, Lalique crystal, and a host of other knickknacks. I looked through boxes of books, often paperbacks with the covers ripped off that retailed for a dime or a quarter.
My father always had an eye out for tools. He’d walk up to a table full of wrenches, screwdrivers, pliers and other ordinary stuff, and pick out the strange one in the bunch. He’d hold it up and ask the guy behind the table, “What does this do?”
Usually the owner would say something like, “Damned if I know.”
“How much do you want for it?” my dad would ask. If the price was right, he’d buy it and add it to his collection. Any time something broke around the house, or I needed my bike adjusted or a toy fixed, my dad had the tool and the skill to handle the repair.
When he sold the townhouse, he sold off most of his tools, too. I wondered if he had ever found out what those oddball tools did, or simply passed them on to some other curious soul.
“T
his Bryn Mawr market is a once a year thing,” Lili said. “A big benefit for a local charity. According to Mark, the rich people all donate stuff and he can pick up a lot of merchandise for his store.”
“Are we taking the dogs?”
“Joey says yes,” Lili said. “Apparently the property is spread out enough that as long as we keep them on a close leash they can go with us. And this is a compromise with Joey—that he’s taking a day off from obsessing about his dad to do something fun.”
I leaned down to scratch behind Rochester’s ears. “You want to see your buddy Brody?” I asked, and he opened his mouth in a broad doggy grin. “Well, that’s it. Rochester wants to see Brody, so I guess we’re going.”
Mark picked us up a half hour later in the van he used to transport merchandise. As soon as he opened the back door, Brody jumped out and began to chase Rochester around the driveway. “Come back here, Bro,” Joey said.
Brody ignored him. He was having too much fun. “Rochester, come here.” I knelt and sent him some kissing noises. He looked up at me and started back, but then Brody woofed, and Rochester was distracted.
“Your dog is a troublemaker,” I said to Mark. I was worried because Brody and Rochester were roaming farther down the street. I trusted Rochester, but I was worried that he’d get too caught up in chasing Brody and get himself in trouble.
“Brody, come!” Mark said in that authoritative voice, and Brody immediately turned and high-tailed it right to Mark, who grabbed his collar. “Good boy.” He leaned down and kissed the top of Brody’s pure-white head.
Rochester was right behind him, and we loaded them both into the back of the van. Mark had rigged up a mesh net that created a separate area for the dogs, but while the van was empty, they had the run of the back. “We have a good cop, bad cop thing going on with Brody,” Joey apologized. “You can guess which one I am.”
“You just have to be stricter with him,” Mark said. “You give in too easily. To everybody.”
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