212

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 screen 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?”

“Run Megan’s calls through the reverse directory and see what comes up?”

“Or go to her friends. I got a list from the mom. According to her, there’s one girl we go to first. She’s in the city.”

“Okay, you see her, but drop me at the precinct and I’ll start working on the phone history. See if our girl was calling anyone her parents didn’t know about.”

Ellie dialed Courtney Chang’s number.