Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,32
had a black and white cat who was also poisoned at the scene.”
“And …?” I ask.
“I verified it already. My guy at the precinct confirmed the cat’s death. But it wasn’t in any of the reporting.”
“What does The Plumber want, anyway?” I ask Max. “Murderers don’t brag about it on the internet. Not the smart ones. This guy is clever enough to pull off a string of unsolved murders. But too dumb not to leave a trail around New York?”
“Two possibilities.” Max strokes his chin. “Maybe it’s a distraction. One of his goons might be dropping these clues in New York, while he hides somewhere else. But I still think it’s an associate of his. Someone who doesn’t want to be involved anymore, and is trying to expose him.”
“Awfully risky,” I grunt.
“Yeah, but so is palling around with a ruthless criminal. I think the bossman is here in New York, and he’s ordering these hits to send a disturbing message. And it’s working, right? Hackers are pissing themselves all over the place, wondering if they’re next.”
“Sure. Fine.”
“… So there’s someone on his team who wants out. Maybe the team is large enough that he can post these tidbits without the boss guessing the mole.”
“Still risky.”
“True,” Max admits. “But there’s nobody braver than a man who’s got nothing to lose. He sees a way out. He takes it. You and I have some more work to do in that pie shop.”
I guess he’s right. Max’s scenario is pretty loopy. But he and I have seen a lot of crime in the last decade. And some of it was even stranger than this. “Can I have the first shower?”
“Go for it,” he says.
An hour later, we’re sitting around Max’s dining table, eating Indian food and trying to figure out what to try next.
“The Plumber is using a Windows-based laptop,” Max says. “The pie shop modem logs were very clear on this.”
“A Windows machine. Got it,” I say. “There’s only like a million of those in New York. No problemo.”
“We need more cameras,” Pieter says. “Gunnar’s body cam can’t be everywhere at once. I get a lot of coffee porn. Nice technique with the milk, by the way. That unicorn you did for the old lady was your best yet.”
“Thank you,” I grumble.
“That other camera you planted allows me a nice view of the computer screens at that front table. But the worst crime I’ve seen so far over there was the purchase of a really ugly pair of shoes from Zappos.”
“What about that older guy?” I ask, tearing a piece of naan bread. “He holds meetings at the table in the afternoon. What’s he got on his computer screen?”
“He’s not our man.” Pieter shakes his head. “He’s interviewing candidates for Doctors Without Borders.”
“Really?” I snort. Unbelievable. We’re both in the business of saving lives, then. I hope he’s having better luck than I am. “Anything good from the facial recognition database?”
“Nope.” Pieter frowns. “One ex-con bought coffee from you yesterday. Grand theft auto. He’s a preacher now, and he lives in Westchester. He wasn’t carrying a computer bag, either.”
“Yeah, that’s not our guy. Let me ask you guys this,” I say. “How come you haven’t been able to ID the Plumber in the cell phone matrix?”
Max puts down his fork and sits back in his chair. “I honestly don't know, and it's pissing me off. We've spent a lot of man hours trying to find the informant’s phone, and we don’t have it yet.”
“Huh.” I shove another piece of chicken into my mouth, trying to think. It should be fairly simple to identify which cell phone has visited each of the coffee shops where The Plumber made his posts. Everyone's cell phone has commercial apps that anonymously track the location of the phone. Any company—including ours—can purchase buckets of this anonymous data to analyze it.
No doubt Max has a couple of quants downstairs right now sifting through cell phone location data for lower Manhattan. All they have to do is find a phone that's been to every location within the right time period. Then they can peer more closely at all the matches, analyzing where else those coffee drinkers go. It’s baby stuff.
“Anonymized” cell phone data is a stalker's dream. “Do you have too many leads?” I guess. “Is it a problem to sort them all?”
“Nope.” Max shakes his head. “Not a single phone passed by all three cafes on the right days. Unless my guys are just fucking this up. They’re