Mr. Mercedes (Bill Hodges Trilogy, #1)(48)

“Yeah.”

“The Blue Umbrella servers are in Olovo, a Bosnian ville that was mostly known for bullfights until 2005 or so. Encrypted servers. We’re talking NASA quality, okay? Traceback’s impossible, unless NSA or the Kang Sheng—that’s the Chinese version of the NSA—have got some super-secret software nobody knows about.”

And even if they do, Hodges thinks, they’d never put it to use in a case like the Mercedes Killer.

“Here’s another feature, especially handy in the age of sexting scandals. Mr. H., have you ever found something on the Net—like a picture or an article in a newspaper—that you wanted to print, and you couldn’t?”

“A few times, yeah. You hit print, and the Print Preview shows nothing but a blank page. It’s annoying.”

“Same thing on Debbie’s Blue Umbrella.” Jerome doesn’t sound annoyed; he sounds admiring. “I had a little back-and-forth with my new friend Berni—you know, how’s the weather there, what’re your favorite groups, that kind of thing—and when I tried to print our conversation, I got a pair of lips with a finger across them and a message that says SHHH.” Jerome spells this out, just to be sure Hodges gets it. “You can make a record of the conversation . . .”

You bet, Hodges thinks, looking fondly down at the jotted notes on his legal pad.

“. . . but you’d have to take screen-shots or something, which is a pain in the ass. You see what I mean about the privacy, right? These guys are serious about it.”

Hodges does see. He flips back to the first page of his legal pad and circles one of his earliest notes: COMPUTER SAVVY (UNDER 50?).

“When you click in, you get the usual choice—ENTER USERNAME or REGISTER NOW. Since I didn’t have a username, I clicked REGISTER NOW and got one. If you want to talk with me under the Blue Umbrella, I’m tyrone40. Next, there’s a questionnaire you fill out—age, sex, interests, things like that—and then you have to punch in your credit card number. It’s thirty bucks a month. I did it because I have faith in your powers of reimbursement.”

“Your faith will be rewarded, my son.”

“The computer thinks it over for ninety seconds or so—the Blue Umbrella spins and the screen says SORTING. Then you get a list of people with interests similar to yours. You just bang on a few and pretty soon you’re chatting up a storm.”

“Could people use this to exchange porn? I know the descriptor says you can’t, but—”

“You could use it to exchange fantasies, but no pix. Although I could see how weirdos—child abusers, crush freaks, that kind of thing—could use the Blue Umbrella to direct like-minded friends to sites where outlaw images are available.”

Hodges starts to ask what crush freaks are, then decides he doesn’t want to know.

“Mostly just innocent chat, then.”

“Well . . .”

“Well what?”

“I can see how crazies might use it to exchange badass info. Like how to build bombs and stuff.”

“Let’s say I already have a username. What happens then?”

“Do you?” The excitement is back in Jerome’s voice.

“Let’s say I do.”

“That would depend on whether you just made it up or if you got it from someone who wants to chat with you. Like he gave it to you on the phone or in an email.”

Hodges grins. Jerome, a true child of his times, has never considered the possibility that information could be conveyed by such a nineteenth-century vehicle as a letter.

“Say you got it from someone else,” Jerome goes on. “Like from the guy who stole that lady’s car. Like maybe he wants to talk to you about what he did.”

He waits. Hodges says nothing, but he is all admiration.

After a few seconds of silence, Jerome says, “Can’t blame a guy for trying. Anyway, you go on and enter the username.”

“When do I pay my thirty bucks?”

“You don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because someone’s already paid it for you.” Jerome sounds sober now. Dead serious. “Probably don’t need to tell you to be careful, but I will, anyway. Because if you already have a username, this guy’s waiting for you.”





17


Brady stops on his way home to get them supper (subs from Little Chef tonight), but his mother is gorked out on the couch. The TV is showing another of those reality things, a program that pimps a bunch of good-looking young women to a hunky bachelor who looks like he might have the IQ of a floor lamp. Brady sees Ma has already eaten—sort of. On the coffee table is a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff’s and two cans of NutraSlim. High tea in hell, he thinks, but at least she’s dressed: jeans and a City College sweatshirt.

On the off-chance, he unwraps her sandwich and wafts it back and forth beneath her nose, but she only snorts and turns her head away. He decides to eat that one himself and put the other one in his private fridge. When he comes back from the garage, the hunky bachelor is asking one of his potential f*ck-toys (a blonde, of course) if she likes to cook breakfast. The blonde’s simpering reply: “Do you like something hot in the morning?”

Holding the plate with his sandwich on it, he regards his mother. He knows it’s possible he’ll come home some evening and find her dead. He could even help her along, just pick up one of the throw pillows and settle it over her face. It wouldn’t be the first time murder was committed in this house. If he did that, would his life be better or worse?