Mr. Mercedes (Bill Hodges Trilogy, #1)(42)
Jerome pops this romantic thought like a balloon. “Looks like a porn site, doesn’t it?”
“Now what would a young pre–Ivy Leaguer like yourself know about porn sites?”
They are seated side by side in Hodges’s study, looking at the Blue Umbrella start-up page. Odell, Jerome’s Irish setter, is lying on his back behind them, rear legs splayed, tongue hanging from one side of his mouth, staring at the ceiling with a look of good-humored contemplation. Jerome brought him on a leash, but only because that’s the law inside the city limits. Odell knows enough to stay out of the street and is about as harmless to passersby as a dog can be.
“I know what you know and what everybody with a computer knows,” Jerome says. In his khaki slacks and button-down Ivy League shirt, his hair a close-cropped cap of curls, he looks to Hodges like a young Barack Obama, only taller. Jerome is six-five. And around him is the faint, pleasantly nostalgic aroma of Old Spice aftershave. “Porn sites are thicker than flies on roadkill. You surf the Net, you can’t help bumping into them. And the ones with the innocent-sounding names are the ones most apt to be loaded.”
“Loaded how?”
“With the kinds of images that can get you arrested.”
“Kiddie porn, you mean.”
“Or torture porn. Ninety-nine percent of the whips-and-chains stuff is faked. The other one percent . . .” Jerome shrugs.
“And you know this how?”
Jerome gives him a look—straight, frank, and open. Not an act, just the way he is, and what Hodges likes most about the kid. His mother and father are the same way. Even his little sis.
“Mr. Hodges, everybody knows. If they’re under thirty, that is.”
“Back in the day, people used to say don’t trust anyone over thirty.”
Jerome smiles. “I trust em, but when it comes to computers, an awful lot of em are clueless. They beat up their machines, then expect em to work. They open bareback email attachments. They go to websites like this, and all at once their computer goes HAL 9000 and starts downloading pictures of teenage escorts or terrorist videos that show people getting their heads chopped off.”
It was on the tip of Hodge’s tongue to ask who Hal 9000 is—it sounds like a gangbanger tag to him—but the thing about terrorist videos diverts him. “That actually happens?”
“It’s been known to. And then . . .” Jerome makes a fist and raps his knuckles against the top of his head. “Knock-knock-knock, Homeland Security at your door.” He unrolls his fist so he can point a finger at the couple under the blue umbrella. “On the other hand, this might be just what it claims to be, a chat site where shy people can be electronic pen-pals. You know, a lonelyhearts deal. Lots of people out there lookin for love, dude. Let’s see.”
He reaches for the mouse but Hodges grabs his wrist. Jerome looks at him inquiringly.
“Don’t see on my computer,” Hodges says. “See on yours.”
“If you’d asked me to bring my laptop—”
“Do it tonight, that’ll be fine. And if you happen to unleash a virus that swallows your cruncher whole, I’ll stand you the price of a new one.”
Jerome shoots him a look of condescending amusement. “Mr. Hodges, I’ve got the best virus detection and prevention program money can buy, and the second best backing it up. Any bug trying to creep into my machines gets swatted pronto.”
“It might not be there to eat,” Hodges says. He’s thinking about Mrs. T.’s sister saying, It’s as if the guy knew her. “It might be there to watch.”
Jerome doesn’t look worried; he looks excited. “How did you get onto this site, Mr. Hodges? Are you coming out of retirement? Are you, like, on the case?”
Hodges has never missed Pete Huntley so bitterly as he does at that moment: a tennis partner to volley with, only with theories and suppositions instead of fuzzy green balls. He has no doubt Jerome could fulfill that function, he has a good mind and a demonstrated talent for making all the right deductive leaps . . . but he’s also a year from voting age, four from being able to buy a legal drink, and this could be dangerous.
“Just peek into the site for me,” Hodges says. “But before you do, hunt around on the Net. See what you can find out about it. What I want to know most of all is—”
“If it has an actual history,” Jerome cuts in, once more demonstrating that admirable deductive ability. “A whatdoyoucallit, backstory. You want to make sure it’s not a straw man set up for you alone.”
“You know,” Hodges says, “you should quit doing chores for me and get a job with one of those computer-doctor companies. You could probably make a lot more dough. Which reminds me, you need to give me a price for this job.”
Jerome is offended, but not by the offer of a fee. “Those companies are for geeks with bad social skills.” He reaches behind him and scratches Odell’s dark red fur. Odell thumps his tail appreciatively, although he would probably prefer a steak sandwich. “In fact there’s one bunch that drives around in VW Beetles. You can’t get much geekier than that. Discount Electronix . . . you know them?”
“Sure,” Hodges says, thinking of the advertising circular he got along with his poison-pen letter.
“They must have liked the idea, because they have the same deal, only they call it the Cyber Patrol, and their VWs are green instead of black. Plus there are mucho independents. Look online, you can find two hundred right here in the city. I thinks I stick to chos, Massa Hodges.”