The Anti-Social Network, Part Two

James Keeton had steely gray hair and thin eyeglasses. In his late 30s, he looked like the stereotypical tech startup CEO, including the black turtleneck, jeans, and sneakers of Steve Jobs. “What can I do for you, Mr. Jurgen?”

            He’d agreed to the meeting knowing I was a private detective, but without knowing what I wanted. So he was either curious or confident. I set my card on his desk.

            “I’ve been hired to look into the circumstances of Morgan Montez’s murder of Eric Grace.”

            This was 10:30 a.m., two days after my meeting with Gena Montez. “My client is interested in the influence your website, Capper, had over Montez.”

            Keeton laughed. “Is it that idiot wife of his? She came in here ranting that I’d brainwashed her husband. At least she left before my assistant had to call the police.”

            “What about Eric Grace? He worked for you, didn’t he?”

            Keeton lowered his face. “Eric was—he stole thousands of dollars from me. I could have sued him for every last cent. I could have had him arrested. I trusted him.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry he’s dead. But it had nothing to do with me or Capper.”

            “Did he help you develop it?”

            “He was an accountant, for god’s sake!” Keeton leaned forward. “Not a programmer. I did all the work! Me and my IT people. Eric was supposed to keep the money flowing. He did, but he kept most of it flowing to him. I almost lost the company!”

            “I’m sorry.” I held up a hand. “I’m just asking questions. It’s my job.”

            “Eric’s dead. It’s all over.” Keeton took a long, slow breath to calm himself. “Sorry. It’s just that, when you run a business and people betray you . . . you get mad.” He shrugged. “Can you understand that?”

            “Sure.” I nodded. “So what’s different or unique about Capper? You’re going up against Facebook and Pinterest and all the rest of them—”

“People love our content.” He was calm again, getting to talk about the topic he wanted to discuss. “Ads, yeah, but they’re more carefully targeted than the scattershot stuff on all the other sites. We’re small, and I want to keep it that way. I’d rather have a few thousand loyal followers than millions who don’t care what we’re all about. Does that make sense?”

“Sure.” I nodded. “Like I’m an independent instead of working for some big business intelligence firm.” Which was true enough, although none of the major BI companies would have hired me in a hundred years—even if I wanted to work for them.

“Right!” Keeton beamed as if we’d finally made a connection. “You should join Capper. Here—” he scribbled on a Post-It note. “Find out for yourself. Use this access code—it’ll get you to premium content. For 30 days.”

I folded up the note and stuck it into my pocket. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Keeton.”

“Anytime.” He waved. “Have a cup of coffee on your way out.”

Back at the apartment I went into research mode again, looking for former employees of KeetonTech who might talk to me. LinkedIn helped, as well as some other networking sites.

            By midafternoon I’d assembled a list of a half dozen possible sources. I sent out cautiously worded emails. Then I called my client to report.

            “Keeton denies everything,” I told her.

            “Of course.” She snorted.
            “I didn’t ask him point-blank whether Capper could actually brainwash someone, though.” I hesitated. “He mentioned that you’d visited him face to face.”

            “Yeah.” Gena Montez signed. “I was upset. And a little drunk. I shouldn’t have said brainwashing.”

“There is a connection between Eric Grace and Keeton.” I told her what Keeton had said.

“But Morgan didn’t know him at all! That’s what so crazy about this.” She sounded near tears again. Her moods were shifting like wind chimes in a stiff breeze, but I couldn’t blame her.

“Here’s the thing.” I took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I can really believe your husband was literally brainwashed by a website—”

“I know.” She blew her nose. “It sounds crazy.”

“But I’ve heard crazier. Did he use a laptop, a tablet, or something I could examine?” Actually, I’d have to get Rachel to do it, but—

“His laptop, yeah. That’s what he mostly used. I use the computer. I almost bashed it with a hammer, but—you could look at it, if you want.”

I wasn’t sure if it could tell me anything, but it was worth a shot. “I’ll be right over.”

Rachel had spent all day onsite with a client. I was working at the dining table when she walked in the door. “Hi, honey! I’m home! What’s for dinner?”

            “Hi, sweetheart!” I looked up from Montez’s laptop. “How was your day?”

            “It’s a jungle out there.” She kicked off her work shoes. She was wearing black slacks and a blue blouse. Every inch a professional woman of the 21^st century. She put her hands on her hips. “Hey, I thought you said you were cooking dinner.”

            “I said I’d be in charge of dinner.” I stood up. “I thought we’d try out that new Ethiopian place down the street. I called and they said they have lots of vegetarian dishes.”

            “Sounds good.” She started unbuttoning her blouse. “Let me change.”

            “Afterward . . .” I tried not to stare as Rachel’s blouse came off. “Do you think you could check out Morgan Montez’s laptop for me?”

            “So this is a bribe, right?” She punched my shoulder. “Jerk. I’m going to order something expensive.”

            I grinned. “Deal.”

Dinner was different, but good. Rachel found something she liked, and didn’t even kick me under the table when I ordered something I couldn’t pronounce that had beef. We walked home holding hands.

            The evening was warm. Early summer. The street was quiet, leaves rustling in a light breeze. KInda romantic. Maybe we could put off looking at Montez’s laptop until the morning . . .

            Then a man approached us on the sidewalk. Caucasian, in his late 20s, blond hair, wearing a light gray windbreaker. Which was unusual, because the weather was low 80s. Also because he had one hand in a pocket.

            He stopped in front of us. “Are you . . . Tom Jurgen?”

            I let go of Rachel’s hand. “Uh, yeah?”

            His hand came out of his pocket. A switchblade snicked open.

Uh-oh. I stepped back, pushing Rachel away as the guy lunged at me.

            I twisted. He waved his knife wildly. The blade slit my shirt, drawing a trickle of blood. I punched at his arm and jumped away, crashing into a big plastic garbage can.

            He plunged forward again—but he’d forgotten about Rachel. She’d taken a few krav maga classes.

She kicked his leg out from under him. He fell, and Rachel kicked him again. I moved to do some damage myself, but he rolled over, dropping the knife, and scrambled to his feet, panting.

            “I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I’m sorry . . .”

            He turned and ran.

            Rachel yanked a red handkerchief from the back pocket of her jeans and pressed it against my wound. “Are you all right?”

            “I think so.” I leaned against the garbage can. “Thanks.”

            “Who the hell have you pissed off now?” She watched the would-be switchblade artist run down the street and turn the corner, then pulled out of her phone.

            “I didn’t get his name.” But he sure had mine.