There was something soulful about Heather Bradley’s face. If it hadn’t been for the high voice that depended on the word “really” like oxygen and ended most sentences with a question mark, she might have seemed older than her young age.
“What about boyfriends?”
“Megan? No, not really. I mean, there was a guy right when I moved in—Keith something—but that was a few months ago. They were already on the outs, you know? Like Megan told me a couple of times at the beginning that he wasn’t quite getting the hint, but that was it. At least as far as I know.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“He came around a couple of times, but I never got to know him.”
“Any idea where we might find him? Was he also at NYU?”
She shook her head. “Definitely not. I think that was part of the issue. He was like some really funky musician type. He’d wander around the city recording weird noises on his laptop and then mix it into dance music and stuff. It was a little whackadoo. Oh my God, you don’t think it was him, do you?”
“Like I said, we’re just considering the possibilities. What about you?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Anyone on your end we should talk to?”
“Gosh, no. Wow, I didn’t even think about that. I just assumed this was some crazy person. It happens, you know?”
“So you don’t have a boyfriend? Even an ex?”
Heather shook her head. “No, I just transferred here from Arizona, and NYU’s been kicking my ass, you know? I haven’t even had a date. I can write down my schedule or something if that would help.”
“Yeah, sure, if you’re up to it. Anything you can think of.”
“Is everything all right in here, Heather?”
Ellie turned around to see the young doctor lingering in the doorway.
“Detectives, I can make sure that any notes Heather writes get to you, but if you’re about done—”
Ellie felt her cell phone vibrate against her waist, flipped it open, and saw a text message from Max Donovan: “Call me about Campus Juice.”
“How much do you love me?”
Max used a four-letter word that had not quite been uttered yet between them, but Ellie knew he hadn’t meant love, love. She plugged her free ear with her finger to block out the sounds of approaching sirens outside St. Vincent’s on Seventh Avenue.
“I take it you’ve got good news?”
“How soon can you get to the courthouse?”
“We’re in the heat of this thing right now.”
“Trust me. It’ll be worth your time.”
Max’s office was on the fifteenth floor of 100 Centre Street, home to many of Manhattan’s criminal courts and most of its five hundred assistant district attorneys. Ellie and Rogan breezed past the receptionist for the homicide investigation unit and headed directly to Max’s open door, adorned by a bulletin board plastered, as usual, with the various news clippings and cartoons that Max had found sufficiently amusing to earn a spot on his office mural of humor.
As Ellie rapped her knuckles against the fake wood grain of the door, she noticed the board’s latest addition—a story in this morning’s Post about a fleeing felon who’d lost a race against Seventy-ninth Precinct officers when his baggy pants fell to his knees, causing him to trip over a dozing homeless person’s open jar of urine.
Max rose from his desk and shook Rogan’s hand. “Good to see you back here, man. After this morning, I thought we’d soured you on this building for at least a month.”
“I was tempted to wait in the car, but Hatcher swore you said this would be worth our time.”
“It will be. You want a Coke or something?”
“Max,” Ellie said. “We’re in the hunt.”
“Just a few minutes. I promise. In the meantime, take a look here.” Jiggling the mouse on his desktop, he awakened the computer screen. “This is the Campus Juice Web site you were telling me about.”
He clicked on a menu bar that read “Choose Your Campus,” and then scrolled down a long list of university names until he reached “New York University.”
“Typical format for a message board. A big list of topics, which are the titles of original posts, and then anyone can click on a subject and reply.”
“We got the gist.” Rogan pointed to Ellie. “She’s got a verbatim printout of the posts about our vic from the girl’s parents.”
“Right,” Max said. “But you probably didn’t see this.”
He clicked on a link labeled “Privacy and Tracking Policy.” “This site knows precisely the kind of harassment it’s inviting with these kinds of terms. Look here, in bold letters: ‘Campus Juice does not require identifiable information from users who read or post messages to our Gossip Board.’ And down here, again in bold to make sure no one misses it among the legalese: ‘We share aggregate traffic information with advertisers and potential advertisers, but this does not identify individual users.’ And you’ll love this.”
He scrolled down the screen farther, to a heading entitled “IP Addresses.”
“That’s what we need,” Ellie said. An IP address identifies an individual computer’s connection through its Internet service provider. It was their best shot at determining the author of the posts about Megan.
It was only then that she read the fine text beneath the subject header: “If you are particularly concerned about your online privacy, there are several services that offer free IP cloaking. Just do a quick search on Google and find one you like.”
“This is beyond belief.”
“Like I said, whoever set up this site did it in a way that invites cowards to stay in the shadows.”
“So now what?” Rogan asked.
A young, slender woman in high heels, a fitted navy dress, and a sleek black ponytail slipped into the office and handed Max a stack of papers. Ellie caught herself watching Max to see if his eyes followed the woman out of his office. She was unsurprised, but still pleased, when they did not.
“Perfect timing,” Max said, flipping through the pages of the printout. “So here’s the deal: I ran the domain name registration for Campus Juice, and the owner lives out in Long Island. That means I’ve got subpoena power.”
“And is that what I think it is?” Ellie asked.
“Signed, sealed, delivered,” he said, handing the document to her. “I tracked down the ADA who researched this issue for the Sixth Precinct. Your vic wasn’t the first NYU student to complain about the Web site. Apparently there were enough reports last year that we finally took a closer look. The Web site’s not a company as much as just some dude working out of his basement. The ADA who called him said he’s a total prick who prides himself on all the pain he’s causing. Payback for all the spitballs hurled his way on the playground.”
“And you were able to get a subpoena?” Rogan asked.
“We didn’t stand a chance when it was just a vast graffiti board of anonymous insults. But your homicide nails it down to one specific person and the people who posted messages about her. Judge Jacob agreed that was a narrow and compelling enough request to sign on the dotted line.”
Watching Max beam, she remembered what had initially drawn her to him when she’d first met him here six months earlier. The broad shoulders, curly dark hair, and cute smile probably helped, but there was more to it than looks. Max had an ease about him that showed in his every movement.
The Columbia law degree could have opened any career door he had chosen, but the diploma hung in a simple wooden frame on a wall that hadn’t seen a new coat of paint for a decade. Before she moved to New York, Ellie had once dreamed of a life different from her parents’. Taking prelaw classes in Wichita, she imagined herself in a firm like Ramon Guerrero’s, with all the attendant perks. When she’d briefly lived with an investment banker, she had enjoyed the six-course meals and occasional tickets to Lincoln Center. But for reasons she might never understand, she always found herself uncomfortable with people who occupied that wo
rld she would never be a part of.
But Max never let any of it faze him. The son of a shoe salesman and a dental hygienist, he never seemed tempted to cash in on his education, but was never a martyr about it either. Supremely confident and unflinchingly modest, he would never let a man like Sam Sparks get to him. And Ellie saw the way women looked at Max, even the one who had handed him the subpoena. But Max being Max, he never seemed to notice.
“Thanks, man,” Rogan said, extending his fist for a friendly tap.
Max called out to them as they left his office. “Enjoy the drive to Long Island.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
2:45 P.M.
Like every other Web site on the Internet, campusjuice.com was required to register its domain name and address with the Internet Corporation for Assigned Names and Numbers. According to ICANN, a thirty-seven-year-old man named Richard Boyd had registered the Web site name two years earlier using a residential address in Huntington, one of a chain of towns that comprised Long Island’s North shore.
As Rogan pulled to the curb in front of Boyd’s house, Ellie took in the surrounding area. The split-level ranch had probably once been part of a neighborhood not unlike Ellie’s own working-class street back in Wichita. But Long Island, unlike Wichita, had changed. Most of the homes like Boyd’s had been replaced, torn down to make room for McMansions that sprawled to the edges of their small lots. Ellie noticed the three extra inches of grass and the unkempt edge along the walkway as they made their way to the front porch. She could picture the neighbors complaining about the worst house on the block.
Rogan clanked the front door’s brass knocker three times. An elderly woman wearing a crimson velour housedress opened the door.
“We’re police officers with some questions for a Richard Boyd,” Rogan explained. “Is he here?”
“Oh, sure. Richard’s down in the basement where he works. Come on in.”
Ellie was immediately struck by the smell of mothballs and mildew as they followed the woman into the dimly lit house. It reminded her of her Gram Hatcher’s house, where she had always been afraid to fall asleep.
“You say you’re from the police?” the woman asked, leading the way past a small kitchen with bright orange laminate counters and wallpaper with yellow sunflowers.
“Yes, ma’am,” Rogan said. His tone was considerably more polite than Ellie had heard from her partner that entire day, and she realized that she was not the only one who might have been reminded of a grandmother. “Are you Richard’s mother?”
“Practically, but, no, I’m his aunt. Nearly fifteen years ago, Dick needed a place to stay. They say middle-aged women can’t land a man, but my sister ran off to California with the love of her life when she was fifty years old. Dick’s been here ever since.”
“You’re a pretty generous aunt,” Ellie noted.
“I’d always been on my own, so it’s nice to have the company. I don’t see a ring on that finger of yours, honey.”
“Nope.”
“Well, don’t wait forever like I did. Not everyone’s got the same luck as my sister.”
“Okay, I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am.”
She opened a door leading to a narrow basement staircase, leaned against the oak handrail, and then thought better of it. “These are a bit steep for me.”
“Don’t even risk it,” Rogan said. “We’ll find our way down just fine.”
“Well, all right then. There’s no problem now, is there?”
“Not at all,” he explained. “Just something we think your nephew can give us a hand with.”
“Okay. Because Dickie’s a good boy. A little unusual, and not exactly a looker, but he’s good.”
When the basement door swung closed behind them, Rogan turned his head toward Ellie and winked. “This Dickie guy sounds like a winner,” he whispered. “Maybe we’ll kill two birds with one stone and have a ring on that little finger of yours before you know it.”
“I liked you better when you were pissy.”
“Joanna, is that you?” A voice echoed up from somewhere in the concrete-walled basement. “I told you not to take the stairs. If you need something, I’ll bring it up.”
They took the final step and turned to find a large, unfinished room lined with crammed metal bookcases. Old newspapers, boxes, and magazines were stacked from floor to ceiling in every available space, leaving only a narrow pathway winding through the basement toward the man’s voice.
“Dick Boyd?”
“It’s Richard. And who’s here?”
“NYPD,” Rogan said. “We’re here for information about Campus Juice.”
They took another turn and came face to face with Richard Boyd, who was now standing behind a disheveled sectional desk that contained three separate computer screens.
“I told some lawyer before, I don’t turn over private customer data without a subpoena.”
“Which is why we’ve brought you one.” Rogan wound his way through the clutter, then muttered under his breath to Ellie, “As if we could find anything in this Collyer mansion.”
The reference was to two infamous brothers, hermits and hoarders who were eventually found dead among their eclectic possessions. By the time police removed more than a hundred tons of detritus from the Collyers’ townhouse, New York City law enforcement had added a new term to its lexicon.
“I heard that, you know. And I’m not a Collyer brother. Everything in here, I need. And I can describe for you every single piece of paper, the purpose it serves, and its filing location.”
He peered at them with small, dark eyes from behind a curtain of greasy dark bangs. Folds of fat surrounded his acne-pocked face. His aunt had been generous in her description.
“Well, where do you think you might file this, Dick?” Rogan handed Boyd a copy of the subpoena.
“I told you. It’s Richard.” Boyd sucked his front teeth while he reviewed the document.
“Copies of the posts we’re interested in are attached to the subpoena. ‘Incorporated by reference,’ I believe is the legal term.”
Boyd plopped himself down in a battered chintz-upholstered office chair, wheeled it over to the far side of his desk, and jiggled a computer mouse. He tapped away at his keyboard, shook his head, tapped away some more, and shook his head again.
“Nope. I can’t help ya.” He tried to return the subpoena to Rogan, but J. J. held up a hand.
“You could at least try to hide your glee. What do you mean, you can’t help? Give up the guy’s IP address, and we’ll take it from there.”
“Whoever posted these messages used an IP cloaker, which is precisely what it sounds like. If you’re spooked about privacy, you can download free software right off the net to mask your IP address.”
“And, gee, I guess it’s just a coincidence that your Web site tells people that if they want to hide their trail from the police, they can get themselves one of these IP-cloaking devices.”
“I’m just helping people protect their privacy.”
“Privacy?” Rogan said incredulously. “Doesn’t seem like the kind of privacy you need unless you’re doing some sick shit that’s going to land you in trouble.”
“Just like a cop to say that. It’s about rights, man. I admire this dude for being smart. Besides, these posts are pretty tame compared to some of our content. This bird must be high-fucking-society to bring you guys all the way out from the city with a subpoena.”
“No, Richard,” Ellie said, “that bird’s not part of any society, at least not now. She’s dead.”
“Oh, shit.” Boyd dropped his eyes to the subpoena.
“Very eloquent,” Rogan said. “You still admire this guy and his cloaking software?”
“Hell, man. I didn’t know, okay?” He tapped away at the keyboard again before pushing it away. “Really, I tried. The dude knew what he was doing.”
“Yeah, thanks to your advice,” Ellie said. She looked at the string of dates and numbers on Boyd’s computer scre
en but couldn’t make any sense of it. “You mean to tell me that anyone can just post whatever they want to your Web site? They don’t need to register, or have an account, or tell you who they are in any way?”
“It’s sort of the point, you know? The Web site’s slogan is ‘All the Juice, Always Anonymous.’”
“I don’t get it,” Ellie said. “Why in the world would you create something like this? You knew weeks ago when the district attorney’s office called you how much damage you were causing.”
“It’s words. There’s no damage in words. And why do I do it? Two words: Muh-knee. I get a grand a month for a single ad on that site. I’ve launched probably a dozen Web sites since the nineties, and I finally have one that’s bringing in cash.”
“And what about now, Richard?” Ellie said. “A girl is dead, and it started with words. There’s damage. And you had a role in it.”
Boyd shook his head and tried to hand Rogan the subpoena again.
“That’s your copy,” Rogan said. “Ponder it a little while longer before you file it away in your perfect system here.”
Ellie followed her partner up the basement stairs to find Aunt Joanna waiting eagerly at the kitchen table.
“Did you get everything you needed?”
“We’re good for now,” Rogan said.
“Because Dick can be a little ornery at times. He’ll listen to me, though, if you need me to intervene.”
They thanked the woman for her generosity and then showed themselves to the front door.
“A grand a month times, what, ten ads on there? Not bad cash when you’re living in your aunt’s basement. You sure there’s not the possibility of a little love connection there, Hatcher?”
“With Jabba the Hutt? Don’t think so.”
As Rogan took the corner at the end of the block, Ellie found herself laughing. “Dick Boyd? You know they called him Dick Boy on the playground.”
“Damn. Glad I didn’t grow up with the likes of you.”
“So Long Island was a bust. Now what?”
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