I forgot what it was like to be a college student.
Abigail Cole had one hundred and ninety-seven friends on Facebook. Many of them had public profiles, and from that I was able to glean phone numbers and sometimes e-mail addresses. To those who had e-mail addresses, I sent notes asking to speak to them in a matter pertaining to an ongoing investigation. I clearly identified myself, hoping one would cop to giving Chester the photo.
At least four of them picked up their cell phone during class. I could tell this because someone said quite audibly that if the phone wasn’t turned off posthaste, F would be merely the first of four letters on that student’s papers.
When I was in college, one of my dreams was to have a beeper some day. As young as I was, sometimes I felt pretty old.
Frustration began to seep in after I’d contacted nearly thirty of Abigail’s friends and made no headway. I wasn’t even sure how many of these people she was still close to, or whether or not they were real friends or just random friends-of-friends-of-friends.
There had to be an easier way to do this. And just when I was about to brainstorm what that was, Jack came walking over.
He had a big smile on his face, the kind of smile that you didn’t often see on a man approaching seventy. This was more along the lines of a young child who’d accidentally discovered a hidden Christmas present that they didn’t expect to be there. Jack almost looked embarrassed to be happy.
“What’s got you so toothy?” I said.
“I think I found it,” he said.
“Found what?”
Jack took a chair from an empty cubicle and pulled it over to my desk. He laid a series of printouts in front of me.
They looked to be from some sort of Web sites. They were chock-full of random ruminations, thoughts and pictures.
“What is this?” I said.
“Well,” Jack continued, the pride in his voice unmistakable, “I took the list of all of Abigail Cole’s online friends. I did every kind of search imaginable-Google,
Yahoo, LexisNexis, you name it-and cross-referenced her name along with Web sites that contained photos. I figured if somebody had access to personal photos, they might have had access even earlier than when Paulina was first taken.”
“Why would you assume that?” I said.
“Whoever took Paulina wanted her to write that article to help publicize the Darkness. Which means these plans have been in the works for a lot longer than the little time gone by since her abduction. This blond guy needed to know how to get to Paulina well before he actually did it, meaning he needed to be sure of who had access to her daughter’s photos ahead of time. So when I did all that…I found something.”
“A Web site,” I said.
“A blog,” Jack continued. “Not active anymore, but get this. It was deleted just three days after Paulina was abducted. Coincidence, right?”
“Could be,” I said. “What makes you think it has anything to do with this story?”
“The blog was deleted, but a few cached pages were still available to see. Other Web sites had links to it.
That’s part of the reason I was able to find it.”
“And?”
“And the blog’s creator is a girl named Pamela
Ruffalo,” Jack said. “I know you haven’t had time to read all of these pages I printed out yet, but I’ll save you the detective work. Pam Ruffalo either was, or, more likely, still is Abigail Cole’s girlfriend.”
“You’re kidding me. Her girlfriend posted pictures of her on the blog?”
“No sir, Henry. Take a look for yourself.”
I picked the half a dozen pages up, began to shuffle through them.
There were about fifteen blog entries on the pages.
They were dated starting about three months ago, and continued up until the last few days when the account was deleted.
The posts were fairly specific about their relationship.
According to the second entry, Pamela had met Abigail in college during a job recruitment fair. They’d both been online to hear more about an environmental consulting firm, got to talking, and had dinner at a campus eatery that night.
Their first official date was that weekend. Weekend at
Bernie’s, which Pam had rented on Netflix. She marveled at how they both had an appreciation for bad movies. And since that first date had gone so well, Pam had ordered
Showgirls, Battlefield Earth and Mother Dearest for her new romantic interest.
As the relationship progressed, Pam began to post pictures of the couple on the page. Some of the pictures were innocuous. The couple out at a party. Watching a field hockey game together. Sitting under a tree reading.
Some of the pictures, though, were far more intimate.
The first one that caught my attention was the two girls lying in bed, sheets up to their chins, bare shoulders visible. The photo must have been a self-portrait taken by one of the two girls, as a finger smudge obscured part of the right side of the shot.
In another photo, the girls were dressed up in bustiers and garter belts. It looked like they were about to go to some sort of party.
And in another shot, the two girls were snapped kissing passionately. I’d say one thing, they were kind of cute together.
“These all came off the blog?” I said.
“Every one.”
“Were there any photos of Abigail Cole in a bikini? Or on the beach at all?”
Jack squirmed. “Listen, I know she’s a good-looking girl but I’m not about to…”
“No, that’s not why I’m asking. Paulina said when the guy took her, he showed her a photo of her daughter wearing a bikini on the beach. Paulina told me the photo the guy used was private. She said Abigail never posted it online, and she was clear about that. So where did the photo come from?”
“I think I know,” Jack said. “But I need two things to confirm it.”
“What are they?”
“First off, I need you to find out one thing for me online. I don’t have access to it, but either you do or know someone who does.”
“What do I…”
“And the second thing,” Jack said, looking me dead in the eyes, “is that I need to talk to Paulina Cole.”