by Ray Daniel
“Graxton knows me,” Jael said. “I cannot accompany you.”
“I’ll be fine. He won’t shoot me in a Starbucks.”
“What if he sees what you are doing?”
“He won’t.”
“I will stay here,” Jael said. “Call me if you need help.”
“Will do.” I grabbed my laptop and headed for the Starbucks.
The Chestnut Hill Starbucks is a low rectangular box with a barista station in one corner. I entered and scanned the place. I saw the usual assortment of blond wooden tables, merchandise racks filled with dozens of ways to make or drink coffee, and tall metallic bags of the stuff itself. It was eleven o’clock in the morning. We were between the first-cup rush of the day and the afternoon pick-me-up crowd. Five people were sitting in the Starbucks. Four of them had Macs, one had a PC.
The guy with the PC was a human boulder. He pecked at the thing with thick fingers, his lips moving. He sat at the last table in the Starbucks. Boulderman sat next to another guy with a brand-new MacBook Air. From Jael’s description, the guy with the new Mac was Hugh Graxton.
Graxton looked as if he frequented the cricket club. He was fit, craggy, and handsome. His short salt-and-pepper hair gripped his scalp; it would not, could not, be mussed. He was wearing a white shirt, open at the throat, and a gray checked sports jacket. Graxton made eye contact with me as I entered and broke it immediately.
I got myself a coffee and a chocolate biscotti. While they poured my coffee, I texted Lucy. She was teaching class, so it was pointless to call.
Thanks for the help last night. Call you later.
I ensconced myself far away from Graxton and his pet rock. Then I opened my computer and launched Firefox. Time to do some Facebook hacking.
Thirty-One
Say the name “Eric Butler” to anyone in computer security, and you’ll get one of three responses: an eye roll, as in Oh jeez, that guy is a tool; red-faced indignation—Son of a bitch!; or a thoughtful pause—Well, I wouldn’t have done it, but he has a point. I fall into the third camp.
Eric Butler took a vexing computer security problem that was being ignored by Facebook, Twitter, and other sites, and turned it into a public security problem that would cause either panic in the streets or improved computer security. Butler wrote Firesheep, a hacking tool so fiendishly easy to use that your grandmother could sit in a Starbucks and spy on your Facebook account.
Whenever someone logs into Facebook, the site checks their username and password and then puts a little file on their computer called a cookie. The cookie is their key into Facebook. Normally Facebook doesn’t encrypt these cookies, so Firesheep steals them and presents them to you as a neat list of hackable people. You just double click on the picture of the person who interests you and voilà, Facebook thinks you are that person. I was going to use Firesheep to learn more about Hugh Graxton.
I started up Firesheep. It presented the profile pictures of the three hackable people in the Starbucks. I looked around and matched them up.
A fat guy named Wallace Jones was sitting in an easy chair across the room. His blubber filled the chair the way pudding fills a bowl. His computer rested on his immense stomach, a gut-top. His profile picture was an unsightly closeup. He looked like Jabba the Hut wearing hipster glasses.
The next profile belonged to a voluptuous nurse named Nancy McCarthy. She wore stretchy tights as pants and a long cable-knit sweater as she sat at a table and pecked away on her iPhone. I figured she was a nurse because her profile picture showed her in scrubs. I flirted briefly with the possibility of using Firesheep to pick up women. Nancy! How are you doing? It’s me, Tucker! You remember me, right?
I reminded myself that I must only use my powers for Good.
Hugh Graxton was not on the list. Graxton had to assume that the FBI would follow all his WiFi traffic. He was probably using hidemyass.com to make himself invisible on the WiFi network. But Hugh Graxton was not my target.
My target was the boulder sitting next to Graxton. I had guessed that he was less likely to be computer savvy, and more likely to be stupid about his online presence. I was right. His Facebook account said his name was Oscar Sagese.
Oscar had a profile picture of himself with a shot glass in his hand and a blonde on his lap. I clicked on the picture and logged into Facebook as Oscar. I jumped to his info page. It told me that he was Catholic, interested in women, and lived in Watertown. I took a screenshot of his contact page in case I wanted to use his cell phone number or email address later. Then I got to work.
Social network users are the barnyard animals of the server farms. They feast happily on the free offerings of Farmer Facebook, Farmer Twitter, or Old Man Google, but they never stop to consider why they are being given free room and board in the barn. They complain about every change to the service, every moment of downtime, and every lapse in privacy as if they were the customers of social network companies, never realizing that they are not the customers. They are the products.
In exchange for letting Oscar Sagese post a picture of himself groping a blonde and drinking a shot, Facebook gathers and sells information about where Oscar shops, what Oscar likes, and who Oscar knows. That was the key. I never expected to find an incriminating status message, I just wanted incriminating friendships.
I poked and clicked at underlined hyperlinks until I found Oscar’s friends list. Facebook had changed its interface since the last time I was on it. I had closed my account soon after my wife was killed, tired of the deluge of “How are you doing?” messages from all quarters. I hadn’t wanted more friends. I had wanted to be left alone.
Oscar had forty-three friends. I took a screenshot of the Friend page, scrolled down, and took another screenshot. I’d peruse the list later. Next, I jumped to the photos. Oscar liked to upload pictures. There were pictures of three guys at a Bruins game, waving plastic cups of beer; pictures of three guys at a Red Sox game, waving plastic cups of beer; and pictures of three guys standing on a beach, waving plastic cups of beer. Clearly Oscar was a man of range and sophistication. Each photo album had a URL at the bottom that was to be shared with “friends and relatives”—and snoops. I ran through the partying photo albums, copying the URLs into a file to examine later. Then I reached a wedding photo album and slowed down.
When it comes to mining social networks, weddings are the mother lode. Most of us have a small circle of friends, and those people show up over and over in casual photos. Weddings, on the other hand, cast a wide net over all your acquaintances.
Casual relationships are like Schrödinger’s cat. They have an equal chance of being alive or dead. Since it’s uncomfortable and awkward to admit that a relationship has died, we try to leave them in a state of quantum superposition where they could be alive or dead and we don’t know unless we look.
Wedding invitations, however, collapse that superposition and make the state of the relationship clear. If you got the wedding invitation, you are in; if you were snubbed, you are out. Wedding lists grow because people would rather spend $25 to feed a guy a rubber chicken dinner than to admit that they don’t like him anymore.
The album was called “Stevie’s Wedding.” I skimmed through the photos looking for pictures of Oscar, and found several pictures of him dancing with a brunette in an electric blue dress that rode high on her thighs and low on her boobs. There was a picture of Oscar doing tequila shots, with limes and salt scattered across the bar; a picture of Oscar raising his glass in toast; and then the picture that I was afraid I would find. I pressed “download.” I wanted a copy of this.
I felt a change in the air, as if the gravity around me had shifted slightly in response to a large mass. I looked up and saw the man himself, Oscar Sagese, looming over me. Oscar was leaning down, about to see himself on my computer screen. I slammed the screen shut, not sure whether the download had completed.
Oscar said, “Mr
. Graxton wants to talk to you.”
Thirty-Two
I said, “Who’s Mr. Graxton?”
Oscar looked around at the Starbucks. He pulled up a chair, sat down. He had a soft squeaky voice, more pebble than boulder. “Why are you fucking with me? Mr. Graxton says your name is Tucker. He says you’re Sal’s cousin, and he says he wants to talk to you. He didn’t tell me that you were going to play fucking games with me.”
I’m a big believer in the scientific method. I was going to get to use it now. I had a theory that Graxton wouldn’t hurt me in public. This would be the experimental test. I predicted that I’d remain uninjured. If Oscar beat the crap out of me, my theory would be disproved. I said, “Okay.”
I gathered up my laptop and coffee and followed Oscar to Hugh Graxton’s table. He looked up at me with a smile that I took to be friendly. He closed his computer and gestured to the chair across from him. “Tucker, have a seat. Want a refill on your coffee?”
I said, “No. I’m good.”
Graxton leaned closer and looked at my head. He said, “Jesus, you got the crap kicked out of you. Good stitches, though.”
I thought back to the picture I had just downloaded. “Of course, you didn’t have anything to do with my beating.”
A little smile tweaked the corner of Graxton’s mouth. He said, “You’re Sal’s cousin, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I see no family resemblance whatsoever.”
I said nothing.
“You should take that as a compliment.”
“Why? What’s wrong with Sal?”
“Nothing. It’s just that you seem like a happy guy. Your cousin Sal, on the other hand, is a Grumpy Gus.”
“A Grumpy Gus?”
“The grumpiest.”
“Hard to argue with that.”
Graxton drank his coffee and said, “Still, he’s a loyal bastard, old-school.”
“Also true. Are you old-school?”
Graxton gestured to his MacBook Air and asked, “What do you think?” A big college ring with a red stone graced Graxton’s right hand, flashing as he moved.
I asked, “Where did you go to school?”
“UMass Amherst.”
“Zoo Mass?”
Graxton’s smile tightened. “C’mon, Tucker, you’re better than that. You went to MIT. You going to use that education to repeat tired cliches?”
“How did you know I went to MIT?”
“People talk.”
“Which people?”
“I thought you MIT guys were supposed to be wicked smaht.” Graxton did a poor imitation of a Boston accent.
“We are.”
“So use your MIT brain and figure it out. Who do you know that I know?”
“Walt Adams.”
“Walt Adams? What does Walt have to do with it? Sure, we’ve done a little business, but I have to admit that you never came up.”
“How much does Walt owe you?” I asked.
“That’s between me and Walt. There are privacy laws in this country.”
“There are also laws against having someone beaten up.”
“I had nothing to do with you getting beaten up.”
“So who do you think did?”
“How should I know? Maybe you’re an asshole. C’mon, MIT, think. You got any enemies? Anyone threaten you?”
“One guy.”
“Who?”
“This little guy named Talevi.”
Graxton scratched his ear and said, “Never heard of him.”
Oh, Hugh, you big fat liar.
I said, “Sal told me that Talevi was a mean little bastard.”
Graxton leaned back forward and said quietly, “So this mean little bastard, what’s-his-name—”
“Talevi.”
“Talevi comes up to you and threatens you. Probably tells you to stop poking around in this business.”
“Yeah.”
“So then you don’t stop poking around and you get the crap beat out of you.”
“Right.”
“And so your big MIT brain says, ‘Let’s go visit Hugh out in Chestnut Hill.’ Jesus, Tucker, that’s right out of A Beautiful Mind. Have you been hearing voices or seeing patterns in numbers?”
“No.”
“Because it might be schizophrenia.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“Well, you’re not stupid, so I’m at a loss as to why you came out—”
Graxton stopped talking and looked over my shoulder. Jael was standing in the doorway. He smiled and said, “Ms. Navas! You are looking beautiful, as always. I assume you’re here with Tucker.”
Jael walked into the Starbucks and stopped behind my chair. She said, “Hello, Mr. Graxton.”
Graxton said, “Tucker, did you hire Jael to help you with this? That’s the first smart thing you did.”
I stood next to Jael and said, “We’re friends.”
“Friends with benefits?”
Simultaneously, I said “No” as Jael said, “Yes.”
Graxton grinned, and I whispered into Jael’s ear, explaining the phrase “friends with benefits.” Then Jael said, “No.”
Graxton said, “Jael, your friend Tucker here said that he was threatened by a guy named Talevi.”
“Yes.”
“So why did he come see me?”
Jael said, “He insisted.”
“He’s not as smart as he thinks he is,” said Graxton.
Jael said, “I know.”
I looked from one to the other. “Hello. I’m standing right here.”
Graxton’s iPhone played “I’m Shipping Up to Boston.”
Graxton said, “I’ve got to take this.” He answered the phone and said, “Tony! Guess who I’m talking to? No. It’s your old friend Jael Navas … Tony? Tony? Look, don’t piss yourself, you don’t have to ever go near her again.”
Jael tugged at my arm, and we left.
Thirty-Three
Jael pulled her MDX onto Route 9 and headed back toward Boston. She asked, “Why were you talking to Graxton? Your plan was to spy on him.”
“I was spying on him, actually on Oscar, but Graxton recognized me and wanted to talk.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“I learned more from Oscar than Grax—” I was interrupted by my Droid. Usually, the thing just said, “Droid,” but I had special songs for some numbers. This one was the Wicked Witch’s flying music from The Wizard of Oz.
Jael asked, “Is that your phone?”
I said, “Yes. It’s a special ringtone.”
The theme song ended and started up again, its cyclonic hyperactivity filling the car.
“Who is it?”
“My mother.” I steeled myself, took a deep breath, and answered the phone. “Hello, Ma,” I said.
“Hello,” she said. “I am going to the police station in Boston to talk to Lieutenant Lee. I thought you would like to come.”
“Why are you going to talk to him?” I asked.
“He told me to come to the police station. I had no choice.”
“Of course you have a choice. You shouldn’t even be answering their questions. They think you killed Cathy Byrd.”
“That’s ridiculous. Of course I didn’t kill her. I haven’t thought about her in years.”
“All the more reason not to talk to them.”
“Aloysius Tucker, I am not going to disobey the police. Do you want to come to this meeting with me, or should I go alone?”
“Do you have a lawyer?”
“Of course I don’t have a lawyer. I am not wasting money on a lawyer when I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Oh, for God’s sake—”
“Are you coming?”
“Yes.
I’ll be there in an hour.” I hung up and turned to Jael. “Would you drive me to the police station?”
“Would you like me to accompany you inside?”
“Why not? The more the merrier.”
I settled into a sullen silence, contemplating my mother and her descent into incompetence. The woman had managed to grow up, get married, buy a home, and raise a son. She had, at one time, been a normal and productive member of society. Now she lived in a trash pile as she contracted in upon herself and rejected a world that she no longer seemed to understand.
Though the red marks on my cheek were gone, I could still hear the cracking sound of her hand across my cheek. Lee had seen it too. Probably made him feel superior, gave him the upper hand. It made me wonder why I was going to this meeting. I knew that she’d ignore my advice and that we’d probably fight. I hoped that Jael, a stranger and a woman, might be a calming influence. Besides, I was curious to hear what my mother had to—
“We are here,” Jael said, shocking me out of my reverie.
I said, “Let’s get this over with.”
Thirty-Four
Boston’s police headquarters looks less like the home of the first police department in America, and more like the home of a rapidly rising software company. The building dominates a city block on Tremont Street, where it overlooks the transition between the new student dormitory buildings of Northeastern University and the old housing project buildings of Roxbury.
Jael and I entered through a gigantic plaza where flat planes of glass folded in upon themselves to create a lobby. My mother stood in the lobby in her Sunday best, Lee next to her. They were talking and laughing. They looked like they were at a cocktail party. The laughter stopped when they saw me.
I kissed my mother on the cheek. She touched the stitches on my temple and asked, “What happened to you?”
The last thing she needed to know was that someone had kicked the shit out of me in a Quincy Market toilet. I said, “I had an accident on my bike.”