“Nope,” Pettinato said, pivoting back and forth on his fitness ball. “Just the one hit the night before she died. But if I’m right and she was the one who posted the comment, she must have known the website well because she navigated through it so quickly. However, I have found no indication that she ever used this laptop to visit the website previously.”
They had more questions than answers.
“So how do we find out whose blog this is?” Ellie asked. “And what computer was used to post the more recent threats?”
“The blog was created with a hosting service called Social Circle. They should be able to give you the IP addresses. That stands for—”
“Internet protocol address,” Ellie said. She and Rogan had come up against these Internet situations before, where the bad guys cloaked themselves in anonymity. The IP address was like a computer’s numeric address on the Internet.
“Good luck getting it, though,” Pettinato warned. “Unless you’re working with some corporate behemoth, the dudes who run these webites usually won’t cooperate without a subpoena.”
She and Rogan were familiar with that world as well. Fortunately, she knew an assistant district attorney who liked her.
Her cell phone buzzed at her waist. She didn’t recognize the number.
“Hatcher.”
“Detective Hatcher? This is Ramona Langston. You came to my apartment last night to talk to me about my friend, Julia Whitmire? You gave me your card?”
“Sure, Ramona. What can I do for you?”
“It’s not about Julia. But, um—I’m not sure who I should call. It’s about a website?”
“What website?” Rogan and Pettinato both perked up on hearing her side of the conversation.
“Um, it’s at secondacts-dot-com. I’m pretty sure it’s my mom’s? And, it’s about stuff that happened to her when she was young. But, um, I think—well, someone’s basically threatening to kill her. Can the police find out who it is?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The city of New York is home to nearly nine million people. Within it sits the island of Manhattan, only twenty-three square miles of land, but with nearly two million residents, the most densely populated area in the United States. Two million people buzzing around on just twenty-three square miles of land bred a certain culture: efficiency in moving from point A to point B; no eye contact or small talk; no connection to the people one passed on the way. And along with that culture came a distinct feeling of anonymity.
But the sense of anonymity was not the same thing as actual privacy. Among the hundreds of people a busy Manhattanite buzzed past on a daily basis was the guy at the deli counter who poured the same large cup of coffee each morning, two sugars with nonfat milk; the pedicurist who feigned obliviousness to prolonged cell phone calls while she scraped away dead skin from her clients’ cracked feet; the clerk at Duane Reade who pretended not to notice when a husband purchased condoms six hours after his wife picked up her birth control pills.
The Manhattan economy was propped up by people whose very jobs depended on feeding the feeling of anonymity, even as they were entrusted with the most private secrets. And no one knew more about the lives of the seemingly anonymous than a New York City doorman.
The doorman stationed at the entry of the Langstons’ Upper East Side apartment building was the epitome of professionalism, with a neatly pressed navy blazer, perfect posture, and a prompt greeting. “Good afternoon. How may I help you?”
While she and Rogan displayed their shields, Ellie squinted at the name embroidered on the doorman’s jacket. “How are you doing today, Nelson?” The personal touch never hurt. “We’re here to see Mrs. Langston. We were here last night as well. It’s about a friend of Ramona: Julia Whitmire?”
If the name meant anything to Nelson, he certainly wasn’t showing it.
“Of course. Let me call up.” His expression was blank as he placed the call. “Good afternoon, ma’am. There are two detectives here to see you. . . . Detectives Hatcher and Rogan. . . . Yes, they are right here in the lobby now. . . . Very good.” He hung up the phone and extended a white-gloved hand toward the elevator. “To the twenty-first floor.”
“They seem like a nice family,” Ellie offered.
“Very,” he said with a nod. He might have meant exactly what he said. Or he might have meant the Langstons were devil-worshiping cat torturers. His face revealed nothing.
“Do you remember Ramona’s friend, Julia?”
“We have many visitors in a large building like this.”
“My understanding is Julia spent a lot of nights here. I’d think you’d get to know the kids’ friends pretty well.”
“Sometimes, yes. We have very nice families here.”
“Was Julia Whitmire ‘very nice’? Did she seem to still be on good terms with Ramona and her parents?”
“She visited regularly, I believe. Please, Mrs. Langston is expecting you.”
Once they were in the elevator, Rogan gave her an “atta girl” punch in the arm. “Good job interrogating the domestic help there, partner.”
Not all doormen were like Nelson. Some of them were refrigerator-size versions of Joan Rivers, happy to dish endlessly about the residents. It wasn’t her fault that, compared to those guys, Nelson was Fort Knox.
Adrienne Langston was standing just beyond the elevator doors when they opened.
She was dressed in yoga pants and a hoodie from the Pilates session that had given Ramona a chance to hack into her mother’s computer. Ramona had chosen to leave the apartment after speaking to Ellie on the phone, asking Ellie to be the one to tell Adrienne that her daughter had discovered the blog.
“I’m sorry you came all the way up here, Detectives. I’m afraid Ramona is still at school. I tried to convince her to stay home today, but she insisted she wanted to keep her normal routine. She should be home soon, but if it’s important, you can of course pull her from class if necessary. She’s at the Casden School.”
“I appreciate that, Mrs. Langston,” Ellie said. “We’re actually here to speak with you. It’s about a blog.”
No response.
“A blog called ‘Second Acts’? I think the full name is ‘Second Acts: Confessions of a Former Victim and Current Survivor.’ ”
Ellie considered herself a pretty decent poker player. She was good enough that, some months, she brought home more money from Atlantic City than from the NYPD. She did not, however, want to play cards with Adrienne Langston, who was up there in Nelson the doorman’s league of unreadable mugs.
“Do you know of a website by that name?” Rogan nudged.
“What is this relating to, Detectives?”
“It’s just a simple question, Mrs. Langston.” Rogan had used his sweet voice when they were here the previous night, but now he’d upped the ante to what Ellie called his military tone.
“And I asked you one in turn.”
Most people shared a natural tendency to acquiesce to authority. They accompanied police to the station without an official arrest. They answered questions from detectives despite Miranda warnings advising them of their right to remain silent. They consented to searches without warrants. In Ellie’s experience, only two categories of Americans departed from this trend. The first were the hardcore recidivists who could look a cop in the eye and say, “Fuck you, bacon. I want my lawyer.” The second were rich people. And while Adrienne Langston might not be Whitmire wealthy, she was rich enough to think she was owed an explanation.