"There isn't anything. I'm telling you. You're barking up the wrong tree."

"How about Kelvin Tilfer?"

"What about him?"

"Did he ever feel slighted by you guys?"

"No."

"He was the only black guy in the group."

"So?"

"I'm just taking stabs in the dark here," Wendy said. "Did something happen to him maybe?"

"At school? No. Kelvin was weird, a math genius, but we all liked him."

"What do you mean, weird?"

"Weird--different, funky, out there. He kept strange hours. He liked taking late-night walks. He talked out loud when he worked on math problems. Weird--mad genius weird. That plays well at Princeton."

"So you can't think of any incident at school?"

"That would make him do something like this? No, nothing."

"How about something more recent?"

"I haven't spoken to Kelvin since graduation. I told you."

"Why not?"

Phil answered the question by asking one of his own. "Where did you go to college, Wendy?"

"Tufts."

"Do you still talk to everyone you graduated with?"

"No."

"Neither do I. We were friends. We lost touch. Like ninety-nine percent of college friends."

"Did he ever come to reunions or homecoming or anything like that?"

"No."

Wendy mulled that one over. She would try to contact Princeton's alumni office. Maybe they'd have something.

Ten-A-Fly said, "I found something."

Wendy turned to him. Yes, the outfit was still ridiculous, what with the baggy jeans, the cap with the bill the size of a manhole cover, the Ed Hardy shirt, but it was amazing how much of a persona is indeed the att.i.tude. Ten-A-Fly was gone now. Norm was back. "What?"

"Before I got laid off, I was a marketing guy for several start-ups. Our main task was to get our company noticed in a positive way. Create buzz, especially online. So we got heavily into viral marketing. Do you know anything about it?"

"No," she said.

"It is getting big to the point of irrelevancy--meaning everyone is doing it so no one will be heard over the din. But for now it still works. We even do some of it with my rap persona. Let's say a movie comes out. Right away, you'll see great reviews or positive comments posted on the YouTube trailers, bulletin boards, blogs about how great the movie is, all that. Most of the early comments aren't real. They are done by a marketing group hired by the movie studio."

"Okay, so how does that fit with this?"

"In short, someone did that here in reverse--with this Miciano guy and Farley Parks, for sure. They set up blogs and Tweets. They paid search engines so that when you perform a search on these guys, your viral feeds get seen first and foremost--right at the top of the page. This is like viral marketing--but designed to destroy rather than build up."

"So," Wendy said, "if I were, for example, to want to know about Dr. Steve Miciano and looked him up online . . ."

"You'd be flooded with negativity," Ten-A-Fly finished for her. "Pages and pages of it. Not to mention Tweets, social networking posts, anonymous e-mail--"

"We had something like that when I was at Lehman," Doug said. "Some guys would go on boards and say positive stuff about an IPO--anonymously or with a fake name, but it was always someone who had a vested interest. And the opposite, of course. You'd post rumors about a strong compet.i.tor going bankrupt. Oh, and I remember once there was an online financial columnist who posted that Lehman was going down, and guess what? Suddenly the blogosphere was filled with fake accusations about him."

"So these charges are all made up?" Wendy asked. "Miciano never got arrested?"

"No," Fly said, "that one is real. From a legit newspaper on a legit site. But the rest on him, I mean, look at this blog about the drug dealer. And now look at this blog from the prost.i.tute involved with Farley Parks. Both plain pages from Blogger--and the author didn't write any other blog entries, just the ones condemning these guys."

"These are just smear jobs," Wendy said.

Ten-A-Fly shrugged. "I'm not saying that they didn't do it. They all might be guilty--not you, Phil, we know better. But what I am saying is that someone wanted the world to know about the scandals."

Which, Wendy knew, played into her scandal-to-ruin conspiracy theory.

Ten-A-Fly looked behind him. "You got anything, Owen?"

Without glancing away from the laptop, he said, "Soon maybe."

Ten-A-Fly continued to study the printouts. A barista shouted out a complicated order involving ventis and half-cafs and one percent and soy. Another barista jotted notes on a cup. The espresso machine sounded like a train whistle, drowning out the Unsprung Unsprung sound track. sound track.

"What about the pedophile you caught?" Ten-A-Fly asked.

"What about him?"

"Did someone viral-market him?"

"I never thought to check."

"Owen?" Ten-A-Fly said.

"On it. Dan Mercer, right?" Wendy nodded. Owen clicked a few keys. "Not much, maybe a few posts on Dan Mercer, but no need. The dude was all over the news."

"Good point," Ten-A-Fly said. "Wendy, how did you find out about Mercer?"

Wendy was already going there in her own mind--and she wasn't crazy about the path her mind was taking. "I got an anonymous e-mail."

Phil shook his head slowly. The rest of the guys just stared for a moment.

"What did it say?" Ten-A-Fly asked.

She took out her BlackBerry. The e-mail was still in the saved file. She found it, brought it up, and handed it to Ten-A-Fly: Hi. I've seen your show before. I think you should know about this creepy guy I met online. I'm thirteen and I was in the SocialTeen chat room. He acted like he was my age, but it turned out he was way older. I think he's like forty. He is the same height as my dad so that's six feet and has green eyes and curly hair. He seemed so nice so I met him at a movie and he made me go back to his house. It was horrible. I'm scared he's done this to other kids too because he works with kids. Please help so he doesn't hurt more kids.Ashlee (not my real name--sorry!)

PS Here is a link to the SocialTeen chat room. His screen name is DrumLover17.

They all read the e-mail in silence, one at a time. Wendy stood there stunned. When Ten-A-Fly handed her back the phone, he said, "I a.s.sume you tried to write her back?"

"No one replied. We tried to trace it down, but it got us nowhere. But I didn't rely just on this e-mail," Wendy added, trying not to sound too defensive. "I mean, that was just the start. We acted on it, but that's what we do. We go into chat rooms and pretend to be young girls and see what pervert comes out of the woodwork. So we went into this SocialTeen chat room like we always do. DrumLover-Seventeen was in there. He pretended to be, well, a seventeen-year-old drummer. We set up a meet. Dan Mercer showed up."

Ten-A-Fly nodded. "I remember reading about the case. Mercer claimed that he thought he was meeting some other girl, right?"

"Right. He worked for a homeless shelter. He claimed a girl he was helping had called him to the location of our sting house. But keep in mind we had solid evidence: DrumLoverSeventeen's chat logs and the s.e.xually explicit e-mails to our fake thirteen-year-old girl all came from a laptop found in Dan Mercer's home."

No one responded to that. Doug took a swing with his air tennis racket. Phil looked like someone had whacked him with a two-by-four. Ten-A-Fly was keeping his wheels in motion. He looked back at Owen. "Done yet?"

"I'll need my desktop computer for a fuller a.n.a.lysis of the videos," Owen said.

Wendy was ready to move to a new subject. "What are you looking for?"

The baby against Owen's chest was asleep, head tilted in that way that always made her nervous. Wendy had another flash--to John carrying Charlie in a baby sling. She wondered again what John would make of his son now, nearly a man, and wanted to cry for all that he missed. That was what always got to her--at every birthday or back-to-school night or just hanging out watching TV together, whatever. Not just how much Ariana Nasbro had taken from her and Charlie, but how much she had taken from John. All she had made him miss.

"Owen worked as a tech specialist on a daytime TV show," Phil explained.

"Let me simplify this as much as I can," Owen said. "You know how your digital camera has a megapixels setting?"

"Yes."

"Okay, so let's say you take a picture and post it online. Let's say it's four by six. The more megapixels, the bigger the file. But for the most part, a, say, five-megapixel picture of the same size will be roughly the same size as another--especially if taken by the same camera."

"Okay."

"The same is true for digital videos uploaded like these. When I get home I can look for special effects and other telltale signs. Right here, I can only see file size and then I can divide up the time. Put simply, the same type of video recorder was used to make both of these videos. That in and of itself doesn't mean much. There are hundreds of thousands of video cameras sold that would fit the bill. But it's worth noting."

They were all there now, the Fathers Club--Norm, the Ten-A-Fly Rapper, Doug of the Tennis Whites, Owen of the Baby Sling, and Phil of the Power Suit.

Ten-A-Fly said, "We want to help."

"How?" Wendy asked.

"We want to prove Phil's innocent."

"Norm . . . ," Phil said.

"You're our friend, Phil."

The others mumbled their agreement.

"Let us, okay? We got nothing else to do. We hang here and feel sorry for ourselves. I say enough with wallowing in failure. Let's do something constructive again--put our expertise to use."

"I can't ask you to do that," Phil said.

"You don't have to ask," Norm continued. "You know we want to. Heck, maybe we need this more than you do."

Phil said nothing.

"We can start by looking into this viral marketing, see if we can figure out where it came from. We can help you find that last roommate, Kelvin. We all have kids, Phil. If my daughter was out there, missing, I'd want any help I could get."

Phil nodded. "Okay." Then: "Thank you."

We all have talents. That was what Ten-A-Fly said. Put our expertise to use. Something about those phrases stuck with Wendy. Expertise. We have a tendency to gravitate to what we are good at, don't we? Wendy saw the scandals through the eyes of a reporter. Ten-A-Fly saw them through the eyes of a marketing guru, Owen through a camera lens. . . .

A few minutes later, Ten-A-Fly walked Wendy to the door. "We'll stay in touch," he said.

"I wouldn't be so hard on yourself," she said.

"How's that?"

"That failure talk." Wendy nodded toward the laptop. "A failure doesn't get someone to bid six hundred dollars on a used bandana."

Ten-A-Fly smiled. "That impressed you, eh?"

"Yes."

He leaned closer and whispered, "Do you want to know a little secret?"

"Sure."

"The bidder is my wife. In fact, she has two online personas and bids against herself to make it look good. She thinks I don't know."

Wendy nodded. "Proves my point," she said.

"How's that?"

"A man whose wife loves him that much," Wendy said. "How can you call that guy a failure?"

CHAPTER 24.