Caught (17 page)

She opened her eyes and leaned forward. Okay, Facebook. She had signed on, found the Princeton class page, but how could she join? There had to be a way.

Ask the resident Facebook expert, she supposed.

"Charlie!"

From downstairs: "What?"

"Can you come up here?"

"Can't hear you."

"Come up here!"

"What?" Then: "What for?"

"Just come up please."

"Can't you just yell down what you want?"

She grabbed her mobile and sent a text telling him she needed emergency computer help and if he didn't hurry, she would cancel all his online accounts, even though she didn't really know how to do that. A moment later, she heard a deep sigh and the sound of heavy footsteps as he ascended the stairs. Charlie poked his head in the door.

"What?"

She pointed to the computer screen. "I need to join this group."

Charlie squinted at the page. "You didn't go to Princeton."

"Thanks for that in-depth analysis. I had no idea."

Charlie smiled. "I love when you go all sarcastic on me."

"Like mother, like son." God, she loved this kid. Wendy had one of those waves, the ones that sneak up on parents and crush them and make them just want to wrap their arms around their kid and never let him go.

"What?" Charlie said.

She shook it off. "So how do I join this group if I didn't actually go to Princeton?"

Charlie made a face. "You're kidding, right?"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

"Hard to say, what with your sarcasm and all."

"I'm not kidding or being sarcastic. How do I get in?"

Charlie sighed, bent over, and pointed to the right side of the page. "You see that link that says 'Join Group'?"

"Yes."

"You click it."

He stood upright.

"And then?"

"That's it," her son said. "You're in."

Now Wendy made a face. "But, as you so wisely pointed out, I didn't go to Princeton."

"Doesn't matter. It's an open group. Closed groups say 'Request To Join.' This one is open to anyone. Click and you're in."

Wendy looked dubious.

Charlie sighed again. "Just do it," he said.

"Okay, wait." Wendy clicked it--and just like that, voila, she became a member of a Princeton graduating class, albeit the Facebook version. Charlie gave her a told-you-so glance, shook his head, and clumped his way back downstairs. She thought again about how much she loved him. She thought about Marcia and Ted McWaid getting word from the police about that iPhone, one Haley probably really wanted and squealed with delight when she got, being found under a strange man's bed.

Not helpful.

The page was up, so back to work. First Wendy scanned through the ninety-eight members. No Dan, no Phil, no Farley. Made sense. All three were probably keeping a low profile. If they had ever joined, they were probably off Facebook now. None of the other names were familiar.

Okay, now what?

She checked the discussion boards. One about a sick class member, offering support. Another about regional gatherings of class members. Nothing there. Another about the upcoming reunion. She clicked around that page and landed on a link that held promise:

"Dorm Pics--Freshman Year!"

She found the three of them in the fifth photograph of the slideshow. The caption read "Stearns House" and featured about a hundred students posing in front of a brick building. She spotted Dan first. He had aged well, the curls shorter as an adult, but otherwise, he looked the same. No question about it--he'd been a good-looking guy.

The names were listed on the bottom. Farley Parks, ever the politician, was front and center. Phil Turnball stood on the right. While Dan was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, both Farley and Phil were decked out for the cover shot of
Snooty Prep Monthly
. Khakis, collared shirts, loafers without socks--the only thing missing was a sweater tied around their necks.

Okay, so she knew the name of the dorm. Now what?

She could Google every other guy in the picture--the names were listed below--but that could take a while and might not give her what she needed. It wasn't like people listed their freshman roommates on the Web.

Back to it: Wendy started scouring through the Facebook page again. Ten minutes later, she hit pay dirt:

"Our Freshman Face Book on Facebook!"

She clicked the link, downloaded a PDF file, and opened it with Adobe Acrobat. The freshman face book--Wendy smiled at the memory. She had one at Tufts, of course. Your high school yearbook picture along with your town of origin, high school, and--best of all for her purposes tonight--your freshman room assignment. Wendy clicked the
M
button, jumped two more pages, and found Dan Mercer. There it was, his freshman picture:

Daniel J. Mercer
Riddle, Oregon
Riddle High School
Stearns Suite 109

Dan grinned in the photograph, his whole life supposedly in front of him. Wrong. Probably eighteen years old when this picture was taken. His smile said he was ready to take on the world, and yep, he'd graduate from Princeton, marry, divorce . . . and what?

Become a pedophile and die?

Did that add up? Was Dan already a pedophile then, at the age of eighteen? Had he abused anybody? Were there tendencies as a college student--or more than that? Had he really kidnapped a teenage girl?

Why was she not buying that?

Didn't matter. Focus. The entry gave her the room number in Stearns. Suite 109. She clicked to the
P
s to double-check. Sure enough, Farley Parks of Bryn Mawr, P.A., and Lawrenceville School was also in Stearns 109. Philip Turnball of Boston, M.A., and Phillips Academy Andover looking very much as he did today--yep, Stearns 109 too.

Wendy hit the search button and put in "Stearns Suite 109."

Five hits.

Philip Turnball, Daniel Mercer, Farley Parks--and now the two new ones: Kelvin Tilfer, an African American with a cautious smile, and Steven Miciano, who wore one of those ropey necklaces with a big bead in the middle.

The two new names meant nothing to her. She opened another browser, typed "Kelvin Tilfer" into the search engine.

Nothing. Almost literally. One hit from a list of Princeton graduates--and that was about it. No LinkedIn. No Facebook. No Twitter. No MySpace.

Wendy wondered what to make of that. Most people, even the most innocuous, you can find something about them online. Kelvin Tilfer, especially when you consider his roommates, was a ghost.

So what did that mean?

Maybe nothing. Too early to hypothesize. Gather more information first.

Wendy typed "Steven Miciano" into the search engine. When she saw the results, even before she clicked on any of them for details, she knew.

"Damn," she said out loud.

From behind her: "What?"

It was Charlie. "Nothing, what's up?"

"Do you mind if we head over to Clark's?"

"I guess it's okay."

"Cool."

Charlie left. Wendy turned back to the computer. She clicked the first hit, a news article from four months ago from a paper called the
West Essex Tribune
:

Local resident Steven Miciano, an orthopedic surgeon at St. Barnabus Medical Center in Livingston, NJ, was arrested last night and charged with possession of illegal narcotics. Police, working on a tip, found what was described as a "large haul of illegally obtained prescribed painkillers" in the trunk of the doctor's car. Dr. Miciano was released on bail pending a hearing. A spokesman for St. Barnabus Medical Center said Dr. Miciano would be put on leave until the matter was investigated fully.

That was it. Wendy searched the
West Essex Tribune
for follow-ups. Nothing. She went back to the Web and found hits on blogs and even on Twitter. The first was from a former patient talking about how Miciano sneaked him drugs. Another was from a "drug supplier" who had turned state's evidence in nailing Dr. Miciano. Still another blog entry came from a patient who said Miciano had been "inappropriate" and "definitely seemed high on something."

Wendy started taking notes, checking the blog sites, checking the Tweets, the postings on various boards, the links to MySpace and Facebook.

This was too crazy.

Five freshman roommates from Princeton. Nothing on one. Okay, subtract Kelvin Tilfer out for a second. The other four: a financial consultant, a politician, a social worker--and now a physician. All four had been taken down by scandals within the past year.

That was a hell of a coincidence.

CHAPTER 18

WITH HIS ONE CALL, Ed Grayson woke up his attorney, Hester Crimstein. He told her that he'd been arrested.

Hester said, "This sounds like so much bull that I would normally send an underling out."

"But?" Ed said.

"But I don't like the timing."

"Me neither," Ed said.

"I mean, I just ripped Walker a new hole a few hours ago. So why pick you up and actually arrest you?" She paused. "Unless I've lost my touch?"

"I don't think that's it."

"Neither do I. So that means that they have something new."

"The blood test?"

"That shouldn't be enough." Hester hesitated. "Ed, you're sure there is no way they found, uh, anything more incriminating?"

"No way."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay, you know the drill. Don't talk. I'll have my driver take me out. Shouldn't be more than an hour this time of night."

"One more troubling thing," he said.

"What?"

"I'm not at the Sussex County police station this time. I'm in Newark. That's Essex County, a different jurisdiction."

"Any idea why?"

"Nope."

"Okay, sit tight. Let me throw on some clothes. I'm bringing my A game this time. No mercy on these asswipes."

Forty-five minutes later, Hester sat with her client Ed Grayson in a small interrogation room with Formica floors and a bolted-down table. They waited. They waited a long time. Hester grew furious.

Finally the door opened. Sheriff Walker entered, wearing his uniform. Another guy--potbellied, around sixty, in a squirrel gray suit that looked as if it had been intentionally wrinkled--was with him.

"Sorry for the wait," Walker said. He leaned against the far wall. The other man took the chair across the table from Grayson. Hester was still pacing.

"We're leaving," she said.

Walker gave her a finger wave. "Bye, Counselor, we'll miss you. Oh, but your client is going nowhere. He's under arrest. He's going through the system--being processed and held. It's late. We'll probably have the bail hearing first thing in the morning, but don't worry, we have cozy accommodations."

Hester was having none of it. "Excuse me, Sheriff, but aren't you an elected official?"

"I am."

"So imagine when I put my full resources into getting your ass canned. I mean, how hard will this be? Arresting a man whose son was a victim of a heinous--"

The other man finally spoke. "Can we just cut through the threats for a moment?"

Hester looked at him.

"Do whatever the hell you want, Ms. Crimstein, okay? I don't care. We have questions. You're going to answer them or your client is going to get very lost in the system. Do you get me?"

Hester Crimstein squinted at him. "And you are?"

"My name is Frank Tremont. I'm an Essex County investigator. And really, if we could cut the posturing for a minute, maybe you'll get why you're here."

Hester looked as though she was ready to attack, but she pulled back. "Okay, big boy, what do you got?"

Walker took that one. He slapped a file down on the table. "A blood test."

"Saying?"

"As you know, we found blood in your client's car."

"So you said."

"The blood in the car is a perfect match with the victim, Dan Mercer."

Hester faked a big yawn.

Walker said, "Maybe you could tell us why that would be?"

Hester shrugged. "Maybe they took a ride together. Maybe Dan Mercer got a bloody nose on his own."

Walker folded his arms. "Is that really the best you can offer up?"

"Oh no, Sheriff Walker. I can offer up much better, if you'd like." Hester batted her eyes and put on a fake girlie voice. "May I give you a hypothetical?"

"I'd rather have facts."

"Sorry, handsome, that's the best I can do."

"Fine, go for it."

"Well, here's one hypothetical, if I may. You have a witness to the alleged murder of Dan Mercer, isn't that correct?"

"That's correct."

"Now hypothetically, let's say I've read the statement made by your witness, that TV reporter Wendy Tynes."

"That would be impossible," Walker said. "The witness's statement and identity are both confidential."

"Gasp oh gasp, my bad. The
hypothetical
statement made by a
hypothetical
TV reporter. May I continue?"

Frank Tremont said, "Go ahead."

"Super. Now according to her hypothetical statement, when she encountered Dan Mercer at this trailer, before any shooting took place, there were clear signs that he'd suffered a recent beating."

Nobody spoke.

"I like feedback," Hester said. "One of you nod."

"Pretend we both did," Frank said.

"Okay, good. Now let's say--again hypothetically--Dan Mercer met up with one of his victims' fathers a few days earlier. Let's say that a fight ensued. Let's say a little bit of blood was spilled. Let's say that little bit of blood ended up in a car."

She stopped, spread her hands, and arched her eyebrow. Walker looked at Tremont.

Frank Tremont said, "Well, well."

"Well, well what?"

He tried to smile through the strain. "If a hypothetical fight started, that would certainly give your client motive, now wouldn't it?"

"I'm sorry, what's your name again?"

"Frank Tremont, Essex County investigator."

"You new on the job, Frank?"

Now he spread his hands. "Do I look new?"

"No, Frank, you look like a hundred years of bad decisions, but your statement about motive would be the kind of thing some oxygen-deficient rookie might try on a brain-dead paralegal. First off--pay attention here--the loser of the fight is usually the one who seeks retribution, correct?"