ever read it.
She took a seat in his office and said, “BullettBeep is just another secret chat room, based in Bulgaria. Most are in Eastern Europe because privacy laws are tighter there. Crazy Ghost is based in Hungary. I found three dozen of these sites in half an hour. They’re legit, for a fee. Most are around twenty bucks for thirty days.”
“Can they be hacked?” Bruce asked.
“In my opinion, it would be very difficult for someone stalking you to read your messages on one of these sites.”
“Why not? Let’s assume I’ve been hacked as of now and they’re reading my mail. When I log in and go to BullettBeep or whatever, they’re watching, right?”
“To a point. Once you pay up and become a ‘member,’ for lack of a better term, your messages are instantly encrypted and protected. They have to be or these sites couldn’t work. They have to guarantee complete anonymity.”
“And they’re popular?”
“Who knows? It’s all secret. I mean, I never use them and I don’t know anybody who does, but then I’m not having an affair or selling arms or doing whatever Nelson was up to in his novels.”
“Thanks.”
She left and Bruce waited, and waited. At exactly 3:01, he went to BullettBeep, followed instructions, paid with a credit card (which was also being watched, he presumed), and said hello as 88DogMan. He was already tired of the silly names.
Hello HooDeeNee36. I’m here.
Good afternoon. How’s married life?
The same. Why did you mention my wife? I don’t like that.
I shouldn’t have. Sorry.
Friend or foe? I’m not sure.
Brittany was murdered. Would the enemy tell you this?
Yes, if the enemy was trying to scare the hell out of me.
You need to be scared. So am I. May I suggest a destination for the honeymoon?
Oh go ahead.
New York City. I’m there on business next week. We really should meet face to face. There is so much to cover.
And what will we cover? And where is this going? What’s the endgame?
You want Nelson’s killer?
Only if no one else gets hurt, including me. I can walk away right now.
Don’t do that. They will not walk away. They don’t want his book published.
They being Grattin, right?
There was a long pause as he waited and gawked at the screen. He took a deep breath and tapped his fingers beside the keyboard. Finally,
I think you just gave me a heart attack.
Sorry, didn’t mean to. Look, I know some things.
Obviously.
And I’m tired of these little chat rooms and silly names. Are we going to meet and have a serious discussion?
New York, next week, honeymoon. I’ll be there on business.
Any particular hotel?
The Lowell, on 63rd. I’ll find you.
10.
After two days and nights at the Lowell with no contact, Bruce was privately bitching about Manhattan hotel prices and thinking of leaving. To make matters worse, Noelle was shopping out of boredom. Whatever the reason, the prices were high and the boxes were piling up. Bruce had lunch with Nelson’s editor, and he had drinks with an agent, and he hung out in a couple of his favorite bookstores, but he was tired of the city. On the third day, Noelle was having tea in the hotel bar when an attractive brunette stopped at her table and said, “You’re Noelle, right?”
The “i” was flat, as in North Florida.
“I am.”
She handed over a small envelope, yellow. “Please give this to Bruce.” And she was gone.
Bruce read the note: Meet me in the second floor bar of the Peninsula Hotel on 55th at