“Exactly,” Jason said. “But the technology provides the incentive. The black hats can hit thousands of potential marks with a single e-mail. The stolen credit card numbers can be used to wire money to a Western Union, where it’s picked up using a fake ID.”
Ellie knew that the profitability of identity theft had created a vast market for the sale and purchase of personal information. “So the same simple tricks people use for identity theft could’ve been used by our guy to access a victim’s FirstDate account,” Ellie said.
“Yep. Or, like I said, it could be super low tech if her password was obvious.” Jason shut down Amy Davis’s computer and handed it to Flann. “At first I thought you meant someone was using FirstDate to find women, like a big search engine. But if he was actually snooping through her account – I’m not a psychologist, but isn’t that, you know, sort of obsessive?”
“That’s what we thought,” Ellie said. “Not just killing, but stalking first.”
“If that’s the case, he probably did a lot more than read a few of her e-mails. Do you have any idea how much you can learn about a person without ever leaving your office? Even here,” Jason said, “the attorneys ask me to do research on opposing parties all the time. I can pull up a person’s divorce records, income levels, real estate transactions, an entire life picture. Pretty helpful stuff when you’re trying to figure out how deep a person’s pockets are or where they’re hiding money. And it’s all publicly available, thanks to data-mining companies that aggregate information from the public domain and pop it up on the Internet for all to see. Now imagine if someone with competent hacking skills decided to break the rules.”
DOWN IN THE MARBLE lobby, men and women in thousand-dollar suits bustled through at fast clips to make the elevator, Starbucks cups in hand. Corporate types were always in a hurry, Ellie thought, but they always seemed to have time to stand in line for a five-dollar cup of coffee. Once they made it through the crowd, Ellie asked Flann about his visit to Mark Stern.
“He was actually cooperative. I told him how we connected Tatiana Chekova to Caroline Hunter through ballistics. He immediately saw why we’d want to know if she was a customer. I watched over his shoulder while he checked, and, unfortunately, Tatiana’s name was nowhere in the system. He double-checked by calling accounting to see if anyone named Chekova had ever been billed by them. Nothing. He looked pretty relieved.”
“So where does that leave us?” Ellie asked. If Stern was relieved, it meant he was even more convinced that FirstDate was unrelated to the murders. She was having some real doubts about their theory as well.
“Same place we were before. We keep working all the angles and hope something breaks.”
“On that note, I’ve got real names for both Taylor and Mr. Right.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“They both sent me phone numbers.”
“Jesus, it really is easier for women, isn’t it?”
Ellie removed a small notepad from her handbag. “I ran the numbers through the reverse directory, and voilà. Mr. Right’s real name is Rick Newton.” He was the one Ellie thought of as dirty birdy, so fond of double entendre. “He’s got a drunk and disorderly three years ago at a bar in Tribeca. I took the liberty of calling him. I told him it was about some found property. He’s coming into the station this afternoon.”
“And Taylor?”
“Taylor Gottman. Two different women have obtained restraining orders against him in the last five years.”
“Ding ding ding,” Flann said, touching the tip of his nose.
“No arrests, but he’s definitely interesting. Him, I think we need to surprise.”
Flann stole a glance at his watch. “No time like the present.”
“Sounds good.”
On the way out of the building, Ellie pulled on her gloves and looped her scarf around her face.
“Doggone it,” Flann said, patting the pockets of his coat. “I left my gloves upstairs.” He headed in the direction of the elevators. “I’ll be right back. Can you do me a favor? I don’t want to waste the rest of the day trying to find this guy Taylor. Call his cell, make up some story, and figure out where he is?”
“I’m supposed to do all that while you go fetch your gloves? Maybe I’ll get myself a manicure while I’m at it.”
“See the confidence I have in you,” Flann said, his ruddy face beaming. “Oh, and, no pressure, but my lieutenant called. He wants a briefing this afternoon so we’d better nail down something soon.”
Right, Ellie thought, flipping open her phone. No pressure.
“MAY I PLEASE speak with Mr. Gottman?” Ellie had dialed the number Taylor Gottman had e-mailed to the woman he knew as DB990.
“This is him.”
Ellie fingered Jason Upton’s Larkin, Baker & Howry business card. “This is Larkin Baker calling from CellularOne. Can you please verify your home address and telephone number for identification purposes?”
“What is this about?”
“There’s been some recent activity on your cellular account that we need to confirm for security purposes. Can you please verify the address and home telephone number on the account?”
Taylor rattled off a Brooklyn street address and a 718 area code number.
“And can I get a work number for you while I have you on the line?”
He recited a 212 number that she added to her notes.
“Okay. And in the event we’re disconnected, is the work number where I can reach you now? Great.” She circled Gottman’s office number. “I’m calling because we recently received a request to add cellular telephone insurance to this account. Was that request made by you?”
“No, it wasn’t,” Taylor said, sounding alarmed. “I don’t even know what that is.”
“All right. There’s no need for concern. That’s why we make these phone calls, to make sure there’s no fraudulent activity on the account.”
“Fraud? Someone’s using my phone?”
“No, sir. Everything’s fine. The insurance covers the replacement of your telephone in the event that it is lost or stolen. Unfortunately, some people have been adding insurance to accounts, then making claims in our branch stores for very expensive telephones. Now we call customers to ensure that the insurance and any claims are authentic. Since we caught it up front, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Okay. I guess I should be grateful you guys are on top of it.”
“We try our best,” Ellie said, hitting the end button on her phone. A quick call to the precinct for a reverse phone directory search of Taylor Gottman’s work number yielded a Midtown address. She was clicking her phone shut as Flann emerged from the elevator with his gloves on.
“We ready to roll?” he asked optimistically.
“Taylor Gottman’s office is six blocks from here.”
17
SMO MEDIA OCCUPIED FOUR FLOORS OF A MIDSIZE OFFICE tower at Forty-ninth and Lexington. The marketing firm’s receptionist was a young lithe brunette with full lips and flawless skin – undoubtedly an aspiring model when she wasn’t wearing that headset. She was squinting at Ellie and Flann, polite but clearly confused.
“I’m sorry, who is it you’re looking for?” A well-polished fingernail ran again down the pages of names on the desk in front of her.
“Taylor Gottman,” Flann said.
“Do you know what department he’s in?”
The man’s FirstDate profile described his job as “marketing/advertising/other” and his annual income as more than one hundred thousand dollars. “We’re pretty sure he’s one of the marketing or advertising executives,” Ellie said.
The receptionist’s big green eyes roamed the phone list again as she shook her head bewilderedly. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t see him here. You’re sure he works here? SMO? You know, there are a bunch of other marketing groups in this building.”