Leann Sweeney

“Baca asked for your help?” Gosh, I felt like such a fake. And I didn’t like that one bit, so I said, “Actually, let me correct that. I heard he asked you to help. I, too, listen to the Mercy grapevine.”

Tom laughed. “Did Candace encourage you to accept a date with me to find out what I learned? Because I know that girl, and she is steaming mad that she’s been pushed aside.”

“She may have encouraged me, but it didn’t take much convincing. I wanted to go out the first time you asked,” I said. “Although maybe I should be worried about Lydia finding us together. You sure she’s not waiting outside?”

His jaw tightened. “I cannot shake that woman. Did you know she and Mike Baca were involved once? She was on him like a fly on sticky paper the first time they met. He’s since dumped her for Marian Mae Temple, the reigning queen of Mercy. Lydia’s left those two alone, so why won’t she give up on me?”

“I got nothing for you,” I said with a laugh, “except that she maintains she dumped him. I wish Lydia wanted Baca back rather than focusing on you. The elegant and rich Marian Mae is a much better target of her derision, don’t you think?”

“Not in my book. If Lydia thinks she can compete with you, she’s completely deluded. But don’t be fooled by Marian Mae. I installed her security system and she’s as fake as that red-colored crabmeat at the supermarket.”

“You’re kidding. Fake how?”

“I shouldn’t be saying anything about former clients, but since her check bounced and I never collected near what she owed me—mostly because I can’t seem to escape being Mr. Nice Guy—I don’t feel I need to keep secrets about her.”

“She’s not rich? She sure dresses and acts like she is,” I said.

“Rough divorce. Money troubles. I felt sorry for her, I guess. Baca’s taking care of her now, so she’ll be fine.”

“Okay, enough about the Mercy-ites,” I said. “Can you muster a little Mr. Nice Guy and pacify poor Candace? Is there anything you can tell me about that computer?”

“Mom told me that you had Ed open the shop after you heard he’d rescued it from the dump.” He rested a hand on mine. “Even if you’re using me to get information, I don’t give a crap. It’s fine with me.”

“Hey. Don’t think like that. You’re easy to talk to, easy to look at and I’d like to get to know you better,” I said.

“Good. What do you want to know?” he said.

“You’re willing to tell me if you found something on that computer?” I said. This was so much easier than I’d thought it would be—and much more fun than I’d had in the last year.

“Sure, because there isn’t much to tell. Looks like Wilkerson was running his cat business off a MyFriend page. That’s not good news for Baca.”

“MyFriend?” I said.

“Sort of a MySpace and Craigslist rolled into one. But though I reconstructed enough of the hard drive and memory to figure that out, it’s too late for a preservation order. The page he was running—called Match-a-Cat, by the way—has been taken down already.”

“What’s a preservation order?” I asked.

“An order from a judge not to destroy any account access records to the pages a user has created,” he said. “That computer is a challenge all by itself, but then you add the complication of a business run off MyFriend? Tough stuff. Figuring out where the Internet traffic to that site originated is nearly impossible.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Traveling on the Internet is like traveling on any highway. The more turns you take, the harder it is to follow your trail. You log on through your provider, you go to, say, Yahoo or Google or Hotmail, wherever you pick up your mail, and there are passwords at each stop. Using a server like—”

“I got it. It’s sort of like peeling back an onion to find out who’s been logging on. Lots of layers.”

“I’ll quit with the geek speak if you want,” he said.

“If I wanted that, I’d just say, ‘Shut up, Tom.’ ”

He laughed. “I like the direct approach.”

“Can you tell when the page was taken down?” I asked.

“Baca sent a request to the MyFriend owners asking about any sites recently dismantled that had to do with cats, pets, cat breeders, any combination that might offer a clue as to what to look for. He could have been running more pages than his Match-a-Cat. Cheesy name, but probably has good search engine productivity. I don’t expect an answer soon. But whoever dismantled the site had the password, and if it went down after the murder, that’s good information.”

“Meaning the person who shut it down was probably the one who murdered Wilkerson? And perhaps they were in business together?” I said.

“Seems likely, doesn’t it? And probably that person hoped to obliterate all the evidence by smashing that computer to smithereens.”

“Are you sure it’s okay to tell me all this?” I said.

“What am I disclosing? That I did computer forensic work on a battered hard drive and got next to nothing? That’s no state secret. I was glad I got to show the big man I know a few things he doesn’t, though.”

“It’s a competition, then?” I said.

“With men, life’s mostly about competition,” he said.