Death Before Facebook

talked about them. He never talked about anything except things; events; stuff you could get out of books. Not life. He hardly ever got any personal calls. He could always work late or take someone else’s shift. I think he even lived with his parents.”
    “Did anyone here know him any better than you?”
    “Well, Jody might have. She worked with him a lot .Hey, Jo!”
    A plump young woman ambled over, black, wearing clothes a couple of sizes too small, and, from her saunter, well pleased with her appearance. “Jody, this is Officer Langdon. She’s looking into Geoff’s death.”
    “He was a good guy. Everybody liked Geoff.”
    “You did?’
    “Sure I did. Talkin’ to Geoff was like goin’ to college.”
    “Did he ever talk about his personal life?’
    “
Claimed
he had a girlfriend.”
    “Did he mention her name?’
    “Lenore. Oh,
sure
he had a girlfriend. Like everybody’s named Lenore. He probably picked the name from some book. You know, I’d talk about this place or that place, right around here, and he wouldn’t know what I meant. Tell you the truth, I don’t think he got out much. Stayed home with that computer of his. On the town every single night; always on the town. It was like that was his world. You know the town?’
    Skip gulped. Knowles looked as confused as she felt.
    “The town. It’s like a computer thing. Wait a minute, now, he told me once… let’s just see if I can get it.” She put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “I got it The Original Worldwide Network.”
    “Oh. The TOWN. Is it a bulletin board or something?’
    She shrugged. “More like a religion. Or maybe a real town.”

CHAPTER TWO
     
    MAYBE, SKIP THOUGHT, the girlfriend could shed some light. Marguerite Terry had given her a phone number, which produced the following message: “If it’s daytime, I’m at Stringalong. If it’s night, don’t ask—especially at the full moon.” This was followed by one of the more fiendish cackles ever heard outside a production of Macbeth. Just as well it was daytime, but what was Stringalong?
    According to the phone book, it could be found on Magazine Street. A store, maybe.
    Once inside, Skip still wasn’t sure. It was a store, but was it a business? It was if selling beads wasn’t a front or a money laundry—because beads were all Stringalong had to offer. Tiny beads, large beads, glass beads, crystal beads, amber beads, jet beads, carved beads, beads in every color and beads of pristine clarity, about enough beads to fill up a shoe box if you dumped the entire inventory into one small space. But of course that would be no way to sell beads. They were displayed in hundreds of small plastic cases, and cost ten cents apiece and upwards. But still. How could you make a living selling beads? Who bought beads?
    There was only one person in the store, a small woman, thirty, maybe, with darkish hair that more or less just hung, a slash of red lipstick, and a short black dress that showed off half a dozen doubtless handmade necklaces. She had a tiny face, heart-shaped; a gamine face with a pointy chin that reminded Skip of Geoff’s. If this was Lenore, it was a Mick-and-Bianca kind of match. She was a fawnlike creature, in her slimness, her elusiveness, but she wasn’t pretty, and she probably wasn’t innocent—she simply looked as if she’d spook easily.
    Stepping closer, Skip saw that she had a mole near the corner of her mouth, a tiny flaw that lent personality to her face. She had a feeling talking to her was going to be like trying to catch water in your hand.
    “Lenore Marquer?”
    “Yes.” The woman’s mouth quivered. “Is Caitlin all right?”
    “Caitlin?”
    “My daughter. You didn’t come about her?”
    “No.”
    She breathed in. “Thank God. She’s in day care—I live in fear.”
    Skip smiled, happy to reassure her. “It’s not about that at all. I’m Skip Langdon from the police department—”
    “Omigod, it’s about Geoff! Shit! I knew it. I knew it. I told them. Shit! He was murdered, right? We all knew it. It was only a matter of time…”
    “Hold on a minute. You seem to know more about this than I do.”
    “It’s not about Geoff?”
    “No, it is.”
    “You decided to move on the autopsy report, right? Finally. We thought maybe you wouldn’t. God, we were worried sick, but now that it’s staring me in the face, the cold reality of it…” She put her hands to her mouth, apparently to stop the sobs that were