“I’ve seen it.”
“That’s your RSS feeds. Chilton is trying hard to get picked up by other bloggers and websites. That’s important to him. And it’s important to you too. Because it tells us something about him.”
“He’s got an ego I can stroke?”
“Yep. That’s one thing to remember. I’m also thinking of something else you can try with him, something more nefarious.”
“I like nefarious.”
“You’ll want to somehow hint that his helping you will be good publicity for the blog. It’ll get the name of The Report around in the mainstream media. Also, you could hint that you or somebody at CBI could be a source for information in the future.” Boling nodded at the screen, where the blog glowed. “I mean, first and foremost, he’s an investigative reporter. He appreciates sources.”
“Okay. Good idea. I’ll try it.”
A smile. “Of course, the other thing he might do is consider your request an invasion of journalistic ethics. In which case he’ll slam the door in your face.”
Dance looked at the screen. “These blogs — they’re a whole different world.”
“Oh, that they are. And we’re just beginning to comprehend the power they have — how they’re changing the way we get information and form opinions. There are probably sixty million of them now.”
“That many?”
“Yep. And they do great things — they prefilter information so you don’t have to Google your way through millions of sites, they’re a community of like-minded people, they can be funny, creative. And, like The Chilton Report, they police society and keep us honest. But there’s a dark side too.”
“Propagating rumors,” Dance said.
“That’s one thing, yes. And another problem is what I said earlier about Tammy: They encourage people to be careless. People feel protected online and in the synth world. Life seems anonymous, posting under a nym or nic — a screen name — so you give away all sorts of information about yourself. But remember: Every single fact about you — or lie — that you post, or somebody posts about you, is there forever. It will never, ever go away.”
Boling continued, “But I feel the biggest problem is that people tend not to question the accuracy of the reporting. Blogs give an impression of authenticity — the information’s more democratic and honest because it comes from the people, not from big media. But my point — and it’s earned me plenty of black eyes in academia and in the blogosphere — is that that’s bullshit. The New York Times is a for-profit corporation but is a thousand times more objective than most blogs. There’s very little accountability online. Holocaust denials, Nine-eleven conspiracies, racism, they all thrive, thanks to blogs. They take on an authenticity some weirdo at a cocktail party doesn’t have when he spouts off that Israel and the CIA were behind the Trade Towers attack.”
Dance returned to her desk and lifted her phone. “I think I’ll put all your research to use, Jon. Let’s see what happens.”
JAMES CHILTON’S HOUSE was in an upscale area of Carmel, the yard close to an acre, and filled with trimmed but hodgepodge gardens, which suggested that husband, wife or both spent plenty of weekend hours extracting weeds and inserting plants, rather than paying pros to do it.
Dance gazed at the outside décor enviously. Gardening, though much appreciated, wasn’t one of her skills. Maggie said that if plants didn’t have roots they’d run when her mother stepped into the garden.
The house was an expansive ranch, about forty years old, and squatted at the back of the property. Dance estimated six bedrooms. Their cars were a Lexus sedan and a Nissan Quest, sitting in a large garage filled with plenty of sports equipment, which unlike similar articles in Dance’s garage, actually appeared well used.
She had to laugh at the bumper stickers on Chilton’s vehicles. They echoed headlines from his blog: one against the desalination plant and one against the sex education proposal. Left and right, Democrat and Republican.
He’s more cut-and-paste…
There was another car here too, in the drive; a visitor, probably, since the Taurus bore the subtle decal of a rental car company. Dance parked and walked to the front door, rang the bell.
Footsteps grew louder, and she was greeted by a brunette woman in her early forties, slender, wearing designer jeans and a white blouse, the collar turned up. A thick Daniel Yurman knotted necklace, in silver, was at her throat.
The shoes, Dance couldn’t help but identify, came from Italy and were knockouts.
The agent identified herself, proffering her ID. “I called earlier. To see Mr. Chilton.”
The woman’s face eased into the hint of a frown that typically forms when one meets law enforcers. Her name was Patrizia — she pronounced it Pa-treet-sia.
“Jim’s just finishing up a meeting. I’ll go tell him you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
“Come on in.”
She led Dance to a homey den, the walls covered with pictures of family, then disappeared into the house for a moment. Patrizia returned. “He’ll be just a moment.”
“Thank you. These are your boys?” Dance was pointing at a picture of Patrizia, a lanky balding man she took to be Chilton and two dark-haired boys, who reminded her of Wes. They were all smiling at the camera. The woman proudly said, “Jim and Chet.”