Deadly Cool (15 page)

I made my way down to the basement, where the one-hour computers were located. Chase was already typing away at one near the end of the row, and I pulled up a plastic chair and sat down beside him.

“So, what’s your plan for tracking down our Deep Blogger?” I asked.

“We’re going to trace her IP address,” he said, not looking up from the screen. “I should have done this yesterday when the email first came in,” he chided himself, “but I was kind of preoccupied with finding out what she had to say.”

“Well, let’s hope she’s still feeling chatty. How do we find the IP address?” I asked.

“Here’s the original email she sent,” he said, pointing to the screen. “We need to trace where it came from to get to the
Homepage
’s in-box.” He clicked a couple buttons on the side of the open email in-box window, and another window popped up, creating an email header three times the normal size, filled with tons of numbers and periods in seemingly random patterns.

“What is that?” I asked, squinting at the screen.

“It’s a list of the IP addresses of all the servers the email traveled through.” He stabbed his finger at a line farthest down. “See that one? That’s where it originated. That’s Deep Blogger’s computer.”

“Cool!” I paused. “Okay, so what do we do with the IP address? It doesn’t tell us where she is, does it?”

“Not yet,” he answered. Then he pulled up another window. “How we doing on time?” he asked.

I looked down at my cell screen. “We’ve been on twenty minutes.”

“Perfect. Okay, now we look up where the IP is on a search site.” He pulled a page called ARIN Whois and typed the line of letters into the search box. A couple seconds later the registration info for that address popped up on the screen.

Chase stared at it. “That can’t be right.”

“Why? What does it say?” I asked, looking over his shoulder.

The name on the screen was a Jackson Building Supply. There was an address in downtown San José listed beside it.

“So some builder is Deep Blogger?” I asked. He was right. That didn’t make much sense.

But Chase shook his head. “The IP address is owned by this company, but I think I know who sent the actual email.”

“Who?”

“Shiloh Jackson. Her dad owns Jackson Building Supply.”

Now
that
made sense.

Shiloh and I had both been in a school production of
The Jungle Book
when we were in fifth grade—me as an ape and her as a snake—but since hitting middle school, we’d gone in completely different social directions. Shiloh was a Goth girl all the way, looking more vampiric than human these days. Black on black with black on top of that. Kind of like Chase to the nth degree. The only thing about her that wasn’t midnight black was her pale skin, powdered to look almost deathly white.

As you can imagine, Shiloh and her cohorts were the polar opposites of the Color Guard girls. The Goths thought the Color Guard girls were Barbie clones. The Color Guard girls thought the Goths were vampire freaks. Even so, the two factions kept to their separate corners of HHH. Which made me wonder why Shiloh had been anywhere in the vicinity of the chastity queen on the day she died.

“So, let’s go talk to Shiloh,” I said.

But Chase was still shaking his head, staring at the screen. “You know what, I’m gonna let you take this one solo.”

I froze, raising an eyebrow his way. “And why is that?”

He shrugged. “I just think you can handle this one on your own. Go, young grasshopper, show me what you’ve got.”

Hmm. Chase saying he didn’t want to be present when we interviewed the person who could potentially break this case wide open was like Andi Brackenridge saying she didn’t believe in eyeliner. Something was up.

But, if it meant not having him look over my shoulder, I wasn’t going to protest talking to Shiloh alone.

“Suit yourself,” I said. I slipped my book bag on my shoulder. “I’ll call you later and let you know what I find out.”

“Yeah. You do that,” he said, his voice distracted, his eyes still on the screen.

I tried to shrug off the feeling that I was missing something as I headed back to school.

It was lunch period before I had a chance to track Shiloh down. She and her posse hung out at the 7-Eleven across the street from the high school, smoking unfiltered cigarettes in a show of defiant rebellion. The school had a strict no smoking policy—it was against the rules to light a cigarette anywhere within twenty feet of school grounds. The Goths sat twenty feet and two inches away, puffing like chimneys. Take that, establishment!

I hiked my bag a little higher on my shoulders and made my way toward their little group. I got within four feet before all eyes turned my way.

Two guys in black leather jackets sat next to Shiloh and another girl that I didn’t recognize. Though, I’ll admit, I hardly recognized Shiloh. In fifth grade she’d been on the chubby side, with big fat chipmunk cheeks and dimples. Her light brown hair had been forever in a ponytail, and she’d had a thing for Pokemon-themed T-shirts.

Her T-shirt today had a horse’s head dismembered from its bloody body, advertising some band I’d (thankfully) never heard of. Her hair was harsh black with one big, blue streak painted across the front. Sort of like a smurfy skunk. She wore a black miniskirt over a pair of black-and-white striped stockings and Doc Martens on her feet. A black sweater held together with big silver safety pins capped off the outfit.

And while a thin film of baby fat still clung to her cheeks, the rest of her was rail thin. Like, super rail. I had a feeling the cigarette in her right hand qualified as lunch.

“Um, hi,” I said, walking up to her.

She gave me a blank stare back.

I cleared my throat, hoping the gesture didn’t seem as nervous as I felt. While I knew that behind the scary makeup and horse-head T-shirts the Goths were just regular sixteen-year-olds like me, the vampire-inspired personas they were rocking were just a tad intimidating.

“Uh, it’s Hartley. From Mrs. Edgemon’s class? Fifth grade?”

She blinked at me. “I know.”

“Oh.”

“You’re that chick that keeps finding dead people.”

Mental face palm.

“Um, sorta.”

“I heard you found Kaylee’s body last night,” the guy to her right piped up. His skin was painted white, his eyes rimmed in black like a character from
The
Nightmare Before Christmas
.

I nodded reluctantly. “Yeah.”

“What was it like?”

“Finding her? Scary, I guess.”

He shook his head. “No, the dead body. Was she, like, gutted or something?”

I shook my head.

“Oh.”

I was more than a little creeped out by how disappointed he sounded.

“Um, anyway, I need to talk to you, Shiloh,” I said.

Again she gave me the blank stare. “’Kay. Talk.”

“Uh, maybe we could go somewhere more private?”

“Why?”

“I have a few questions. About
blogging
,” I said, adding a little hint-hint, nudge-nudge to my voice. “
Deep blogging.
”

I felt myself gain a distinct upper hand as she went a shade paler.

With a quick glance at her friends, she did a deceptively casual shrug. “Fine. Let’s walk.”

I could feel the eyes of her companions on my back as we moved a few paces away. Shiloh led the way to the side of the building, waiting until we moved behind a big green Dumpster before lighting up another cigarette. Her hand shook as she took the first drag.

“What do you want to know?” she asked, exhaling smoke through her nose.

“You are Deep Blogger, aren’t you?”

Shiloh glanced over one shoulder. Then the other. Reassured that only the stale donuts and breakfast-burrito remains in the Dumpster could hear us, she nodded. “Yeah.”

Score one for Chase.

“How did you find out?” she asked.

“We traced your IP address.”

“Sucks. I didn’t think of that.” She took another drag.

“Why did you run last night?” I asked.

“Are you serious?” she asked, her heavily lined eyes going wide. “I stumbled on a freakin’ dead body. Did you see the blood?”

I nodded, ignoring the way my stomach suddenly seized up as I remembered my tainted Nikes.

“Anyway, when I saw that, I just panicked. I ran, you know? I mean what if the killer was still there?”

“Was he?” I asked. “Did you see him?”

She shook her head. “The only person I saw was you.”

Which brought me to the point of this interrogation. “You were about to tell me who killed Courtney when you ran.”

She did another over-the-shoulder look. She took a deep breath, then a deep drag from her cigarette. (Which totally negated the deep breath, if you asked me.)

“God, where do I start?” she said.

“Anywhere you want as long as you don’t run away again before you get to the good part.”

She nodded. “I have a blog. It’s called The Mainstream Sucks.”

Not the most original name, but I nodded, motioning for her to go on.

“Anyway, last year the Color Guard girls tried to get me to sign an abstinence pledge. I told them it was a little late to put the virgin back in the barn, ya know?”

No, I didn’t, being still in the barn myself. But I nodded again anyway.

“Well, when I told Courtney and her clones where they could shove their pledge, they TPed my house.”

“That sucks,” I commented.

“Big-time. My dad had to hire a tree service to come remove the TP from the top branches of the tree out front. Cost him a thousand bucks. Which meant that instead of getting a car this year, I’m stuck riding my brother’s old ten-speed. Bitch.”

I was pretty sure she was referring to Courtney and not the bike.

“So, the blog?” I prompted.

“Right. Yeah, so I followed Courtney after school that next day, meaning to kick the crap out of her perky little butt. But instead I saw her at a donut shop. Stuffing her face with bear claws. Of course she went into the bathroom and ralphed it all up afterward, but the video I took on my phone of her gorging was priceless. I decided there was better payback in the world than a butt kicking. So, I went home and posted it to my blog instead. Guess how many hits I got?”

I shrugged. “How many?”

“Eight hundred. That’s like half the school!”

“Dude.” I was impressed.

“No kidding. Anyway, that’s when I started following Courtney and her Color Guard clones on a regular basis. I got some priceless stuff, let me tell you.”

I couldn’t help asking. “Like what?”

“Here, lemme show you,” she said, pulling out her phone. A few clicks later she connected and logged into her blogger page. A black background and bloodred words gave it a TMZ-like feel. Only instead of celebs sporting cellulite she featured Color Guard girls with their skirts accidentally tucked into their panties, fingers up their noses when they thought no one was looking, and chowing on cheeseburgers.

I scrolled down to today’s featured article. It was titled “The pick of the day,” beneath a picture of Caitlyn Calvin digging a wedgie out of her butt.

I couldn’t help a snort of laughter. “Nice,” I said, truly meaning it.

“Thanks.” She grinned, showing off those dimples I remembered.

“So, I take it you were following Courtney on the day she died?”

She nodded. “Yeah. After school I heard her telling one of her clones that she got a text from Josh and needed a ride to his house. I thought maybe I’d get some good footage because, well, everyone knew she was boning Josh.”

Everyone except me.

“What happened?”

“By the time I got there on my bike, I knew she’d already be inside. So I pulled around to the back of Josh’s place to get a good view of his bedroom window.”

“What did you see?”

“It was hard to make much out. All I could see of the room was a sliver between the curtains. But I could tell that someone else was in the room with her.”

“This someone else—did you see his face?” I asked, leaning forward.

She shook her head. “No. But I know who it was.”

“How?”

“I recognized his clothes. There was no mistaking him.”

“And?” I asked, the suspense killing me. “Who was it?”

Shiloh bit her lip. “Look, you can’t tell anyone that I told you this. I mean it. If this guy knows I saw him, that’s a target on my head. I don’t want to be stuck in some witness protection thing.”

I crossed my heart with my index finger. “I swear. Totally confidential.”

She looked over both shoulders again. “The guy I saw?” She leaned in close. “It was Chase Erikson.”

FIFTEEN

SUDDENLY EVERY CONVERSATION CHASE AND I HAD
had over the last few days played through my head, taking on new meaning. Sinister meaning, I realized, as those warring puzzle pieces fell into place. Everything fit perfectly. Chase had been outside Josh’s house the day of the murder. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to slip in, off Courtney, then slip back outside, creating a perfect alibi for himself with his photos. And he had been vehemently against me meeting Deep Blogger the first time. Had it been out of concern for my safety, as he claimed, or because he was worried that someone really had seen him go into Josh’s house? And what about Kaylee? He’d admitted to being at the football field. Had it been to protect me or to kill Kaylee?

Everywhere a dead body had been lately, so had Chase.

I felt sick.

And the fact that Shiloh was blowing another nervous mouthful of smoke in my face didn’t help.

“Are you sure?” I asked, really,
really
hoping she wasn’t. “You’re sure it was Chase?”

Shiloh nodded so vigorously her black bangs bounced against her forehead. “Positive.”

“But you said you didn’t see his face.”

“He had his back turned to me,” she conceded.

“Then how can you be sure it was Chase? I mean, lots of guys could look like him from the back.” Which wasn’t entirely true—Chase had a style all his own. Not to mention that there were precious few guys at our school who were over six feet, broad shouldered, built like gym rats, but dressed like James Dean. “Did you see his hair?” I asked, grasping. “Check his height, see a telltale mole or something?”