“What’s the bad news?”
Chad flashed that smirk, back in his element again. “I just gave it to you.”
* * *
• • •
I didn’t understand all of what he went on to explain to me, but I was able to focus on key words and phrases.
“You’re not poor,” Chad said for starters, “just like the victims you uncovered.”
“Meaning, like them, I’m rich.”
“I didn’t want to put it that way. In addition to being of means, you’re widowed. Lonely, in other words.”
“I’m not lonely.”
“No, but the victims in Denver, Houston, and Miami were.”
“They listed ‘lonely’ on their profiles?”
“Nobody lists it that way. They might say looking for companionship or romance. There’s a ton of phrases they use that boil down to the same thing that the algorithm keys off of.”
“And I imagine that describes pretty much everyone who registers on these sites.”
“True enough, but whoever’s using them to target their victims must have written code capable of identifying other tangential and contributing factors to pare down their lists and choose potential victims most vulnerable to the overtures of the bad guys who want to match with them.”
“In other words,” I picked up, “the profiles of these bad guys fit exactly what their victims are looking for.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”
“I don’t think anybody can know that as well as this software they’ve written can. The kind of algorithms these sites use, even at the rudimentary level, are meant to pinpoint things we don’t even know about ourselves in order to find the right match. Because they’re guessing that what you’re really looking for is distinct from what you think, or may say, you’re looking for.”
“In other words, the software knows more about you than you know about yourself.”
“These sites aren’t just trying to match people who both enjoy skydiving, or follow the same sports, or even enjoy the same TV shows or movies,” Chad explained. “They’re matching people based not so much on what they said in their questionnaires, or even interviews in some cases; they’re matching them based on what can be extrapolated from their answers. It’s kind of like, well, remember the other day when I used enhanced facial software to bring to life the features of the man who may have killed Mr. Wirth?”
“Of course.”
“Well, Jessica, what I did to give the man a face on the outside is pretty much what the best dating sites do on the inside. Their algorithms sharpen what’s already there, add clarity to the blurriness in finding potential matches for your profile.”
I thought for a moment, trying to assemble everything I knew. “So whoever’s behind this must be crafting fictional profiles to match the ones of their targets.”
Chad nodded. “Using reverse engineering, pretty much, just like I did when I crafted a profile for Eileen Vogel.”
“Who’s Eileen Vogel?”
“Your alias.”
“Have you posted my—I mean her—profile yet?”
He shook his head. “I wanted you to see it first.”
“Maybe I’d rather not see it at all.”
“It’s a fabrication, Jessica, concocted to contain as many of the factors and attributes Miami, Houston, and Denver possessed. Kind of like the way you must create your characters. No more real than that.”
“My characters are real to me.”
“Just like the profile I’ve built for you will hopefully make you seem real to whoever’s responsible for four murders and probably a whole bunch more.” Chad’s expression lost its boyish glint. “You realize,” he continued, his tone serious, “that once we put this profile up on those sites, you’ll be painting a bull’s-eye on your forehead.”
“That’s precisely the idea.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Harry McGraw looked as rumpled and ragged as ever, a cheap suit with arms and legs hanging out of it and a face that looked like he washed it with coffee grounds. We met at the Tick Tock Diner in Manhattan, located on Thirty-fourth Street not far from Penn Station. And, from the number of torn Sweet’n Low packets, he was well into his third or fourth cup of coffee.
“You’re late,” he groused, ever-present scowl etched onto his features. “I was hoping you changed your mind.”
I slid into the opposite side of the booth. “I haven’t.”
He took his mug in hand and leaned forward. I noticed a small plate with a crumpled-up muffin wrapper surrounded by any number of stray nuts with pieces of batter clinging to them, evidence that Harry had pulled out the nuts prior to ingesting the muffin.
“So let me see if I’ve got this straight, Jessica. Four men—actually three men and one woman—whose profiles were up on these dating sites were murdered shortly after they’d gone on dates with someone the sites had matched them with.”
“Potentially just one site—LOVEISYOURS. But it’s been taken off-line, so we’ll have to hope the killers are still using the others.”
“Let me ask you another question. You mentioned four victims that we know of—your exact words, I think. So how many other victims do you think there are?”
I hedged. “I have no idea.”
“A few?”
“For sure.”
“Ten?”
“At least, I’d say. Beyond that, it’s anyone’s guess.”
I watched Harry considering the ramifications of that. “You mentioned Hal Wirth,” he said.
“A good friend of mine”—I nodded—“and the one victim I was personally acquainted with.”
“And judging by what you told me about him, your working theory is that there’s a direct link between whoever he was matched with on LOVEISYOU and—”
“LOVEISYOURS,” I corrected.
“Whatever,” Harry said, frowning. “A direct link between his LOVEISYOURS match and the financial calamity that followed.”
“Almost immediately,” I added.
“And you intend to find out exactly how they did it, their modus operandi, as you call it.”
“I don’t call it that, Harry. I’ve never used that term in my life.”
I’d told Mort I was leaving town for a few days to teach some classes I didn’t want to cancel at New York University, where I was a visiting professor of criminology, meaning I appeared on campus irregularly. Mort didn’t bother questioning me on that and was probably glad to have me out of his hair for a few days anyway. Of course, we really had no idea how long it would take for the profile Chad had created of me to yield its desired results. He hadn’t used my real name for anything, including billing, and the profile he created fit all the parameters of that algorithm the people behind Porcelain Man had employed to select their targets.
“You’ve got to admit, Jessica,” Harry was saying, after the server refilled his mug, “that all this is a little extreme, even for you.”
“Hal Wirth was a friend of mine, Harry. I can’t let this go.”
“You mentioned the FBI was involved.”
“Through the shady owner of LOVEISYOURS. When I met him after he’d been taken into custody, I knew he wasn’t telling me everything. But he told me enough to convince me he’d gotten in well over his head. Somebody had taken down his site and I got the feeling he was afraid they were going to take him down as well. That’s why he contacted me, and to give me this clue,” I finished, handing Harry a full-page copy of Larry Dax’s hand-scrawled message.
“M-E-two-zero-zero-six-Y,” he read out loud, before handing it back to me.
“Mean anything to you?” I asked him.
“Nope, not a thing. Can I assume you said nothing to the FBI about the note?”
“You can.”
“Worried about your PI license, Harry?”
“What license?” he joked from behind the steam rising from his fresh mug of coffee. “And what exactly do you want me to do?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Well, I’m thinking protection mostly. Another set of eyes on wherever these dates that may or may not happen take place.” He laid his coffee mug down. “Can I ask you another question, Jess?”
“Of course.”
“Besides me, have you dated anyone else since Frank died?”
“I wasn’t aware that I dated you.”
“All things being relative, I mean, and given all the quality time we’ve spent with each other in places like this.”
“Is this a date, Harry?”
“No, because you’re paying. I’m expensing lunch to you.”
“The answer is no,” I told him. “I haven’t dated anyone since Frank died.”
“Unusual circumstances to jump back in.”
“I intend to act natural, which means nervous.”
Harry nodded, weighing what I’d told him. “It might be hard to be inside wherever you end up. So I’ll be listening from a short distance away. I’ve got people who could handle the technical side of things, although I think we can probably wire you up unobtrusively through your cell phone. You do have a cell phone, right?”
I fished the big one from my handbag and flashed it at him.
“Whoa, state-of-the-art. Now I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I miss my flip.”
“Which wasn’t even Wi-Fi-enabled.”
“I’d never have noticed.”
“The way my listening in works is the phone doesn’t have to be on—it just has to be somewhere it can pick up what’s being said, so I can keep ears on you, if not eyes. People place them on the table a lot these days, but we’ll test it from inside your handbag as well.”
“I usually leave my handbag on the floor.”
That drew some concern from Harry. “How about in your lap? Or next to you in your chair?”
“That could work.”
“And we’ll need a signal, something to tell me you need help right away. A word or phrase.”
“How about, ‘Harry, I need help!’”
“I was thinking of something more subtle.”
“Just ‘Help!’ maybe?”
“I was thinking, ‘I love you.’”
“Keep thinking,” I said, when my phone rang and I started to fish it from my bag.
“See,” Harry said, “it works.”
I saw Chad’s number lit up in the caller ID and greeted him.
“Your profile got a hit, Jessica,” he told me.
Chapter Thirty
Harry McGraw accompanied me back to my apartment, where Alyssa and Chad were eagerly awaiting my return.
“I’ve already responded for you,” Chad said.
“Making me seem a bit overeager,” I noted, as if it mattered under the circumstances.
“That’s the point,” he told me, “because overeager also means vulnerable.”
“Vulnerable or desperate?”
“Both, I guess, add up to loneliness.”
“You think my father was lonely?” Alyssa said to Chad, her tone a bit biting.
Part of me regretted letting her and Chad accompany me to New York. But another part was grateful for her presence, the same part that believed she had the right to be involved. This was about her father, after all. I guess I could have thought the same thing about Babs, except I knew her well enough to be sure she’d never have approved of such a crazy scheme. As crazy as it might have been, though, it was all I had.
“Let me take this one,” Harry offered, “having tried my hand with several wives. Didn’t mean I still didn’t love them. It just meant I wasn’t sure about myself anymore.”
“Are you the private detective?”
“Well, little lady, I’m not sure about being the anything. Always been more comfortable just being an a.”
Alyssa didn’t look like she quite grasped what Harry was saying, but nodded anyway. “So long as you can help us.”
“If by ‘help,’ you mean coming to the rescue of my favorite amateur sleuth, then count me in.”
“You know about my father.”
“Yes.” Harry nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“It could have happened to anyone.”
Harry nodded again. “I’ve been a detective about as long as I’ve had teeth, and the phrase I keep coming back to when it comes to victims like your father is ‘wrong place, wrong time.’ You’re right, it could’ve been anyone. But you can bet I’m going to do everything I can to make sure whoever did this to your dad never does it again.”
“Are you going to shoot them?”
“I’d have to carry a gun to do that, little lady.” Harry smiled.
* * *
• • •
“Your date’s confirmed for tonight,” Chad proceeded to tell me.
“Tonight? Already?”
“I answered for you. Details to follow.”
“I’m not ready.”
Harry squeezed my arm tenderly. “Er, it’s not a real date, Jessica, remember?”
“It’s the closest I’ve come to one since Frank died.”
“You’re not counting your time with me?”
“Didn’t we cover this at the diner? That was all coffee out of foam cups and take-out pizza.”
“You like coffee out of foam cups and take-out pizza.”
“I never had to worry about how I looked around you, Harry.”
He rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Jessica, truly. I’ll remember that when you need me to save your life.”
“I think I just came up with our code phrase.”
“What?” Harry asked me.
“Shut up.”
* * *
• • •
Chad brought up my would-be suitor’s profile on a dating site that had been a rival of LOVEISYOURS.
“He’s not bad looking,” I commented.
“His looks might be the only thing about him that’s real. His profile’s got holes in it big enough to drive through.”
“Any way of telling whether he’s cut from the same cloth as the woman Hal Wirth dated?”
“You mean, a murderer?” Alyssa asked, so much bitterness and repressed rage lacing her voice that I began to regret including her in all this.
“Accessory, anyway,” I conceded.
“No,” Chad finally answered, “but I wouldn’t have expected the signs to be obvious, any more than the profile I built for you is.”
“Where’d you come up with the name ‘Eileen Vogel,’ by the way?”
“Alyssa has an aunt named Eileen and I’ve got an uncle whose last name is Vogel,” Chad explained.
Which drew a smirk from Harry McGraw before his expression settled back into its perpetual scowl. “How much are the two of you paying for college again?” he asked as he shook his head.
“Do I have time to get my hair done?” I blurted out. “How long do I have before I need to meet . . . what’s his name?”
“Phil Tabor, on the site anyway,” Chad told me. “Maybe no more real than Eileen Vogel.”
“What should I look for? How will I know if he’s one of them?”
“You won’t,” Harry said, before Chad had a chance to respond. “From what you’ve told me, these people are meticulous in the way they go about their business. I’m figuring the little lady’s dad was a pretty smart guy, and they took him for everything he was worth. Same thing they’re gonna try with you, Jessica. If I’d have to guess, I’d say blackmail. Second choice: hypnosis. Wave some pendulum in
front of your face and get you to hand over all your passwords, security questions, and account numbers. Maybe get you to sign over power of attorney while they’re at it.”
“I’ll be ready for anything,” I told him.
Harry’s perpetual snarl lengthened. “Nobody’s ever ready to die, dear lady.”
* * *
• • •
I have no idea why it was so important for me to look good on my fake date, but it was. Fake date or not, I wanted Phil Tabor to see me as more than just an aging widow, a schoolmarm masquerading as a bestselling author. Except tonight I was indeed playing the role of the aging widow, though in the profile Chad had constructed for me, I’d inherited a ton of money a few years back and I was finally ready to get back into the dating world. Although I wasn’t privy to the details of what he’d done in making my profile match the algorithm conjured by the other victims, and wouldn’t have understood them if I did know, I found myself fascinated by the sophisticated nature of this crime.
I started writing, and sleuthing on an amateur level, before the era of CSI, DNA evidence, AFIS, and other sophisticated criminal databases. A time when law enforcement bodies shared almost nothing with one another, allowing criminals to evade capture by simply moving their crimes across state lines. All that had changed with computers and the Internet age, of course, but with that change had come a new kind of criminal, one equally adept at using technology as the detectives committed to catching him.
Harry’s “wrong place at the wrong time” quote stuck in my mind, because my sleuthing could best be described the same way, or, perhaps, right place at the right time. But this was different. My involvement this time wasn’t random or accidental; it was by conscious choice and duty to a friend. I’d long believed my obsession with catching criminals, in fact and fiction, was rooted in an insatiable desire to see justice done, and that was the case more than ever this time.
My regular New York City hairdresser was off, but I managed to snag an appointment with another stylist for that afternoon ahead of my fake date. A blessing, as it turned out, since it better allowed her to alter my appearance as much as possible from the publicity shot on my book covers. The last thing I needed after all this preparation was to be recognized by someone I was trying to entrap. So the stylist trimmed, coiffed, and blow-dried me, working a mirror about my head to reveal a fresh hairdo that made me look different enough from the Jessica Fletcher who appeared on book jackets. Then again, neither that Jessica Fletcher nor this one was particularly glamorous, so it hadn’t been a difficult task.
Murder, She Wrote--A Date with Murder Page 19