Page 34 of Loverboy
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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 looking for a flaw in the algorithm, but I’m getting frustrated.”
“Must be intentional,” I muse. “The Plumber could really be more than one person. If three different people posted those messages, you could never find this perp.”
“Or maybe it’s one guy, and he’s smart, and leaves his phone at home. Whoever is leading me around by the nose is doing a pretty good job of it.”
“Come on, buddy,” I urge my old friend. “Figure it out. I’m getting fat from eating pie every day.”
Scout leans forward in her chair. “How’s the product, anyway?”
“It’ssogood,” I moan. “I already did the math on this—I’ll have to run an extra seven miles a week just to burn off half the calories.”
My friends all laugh.
“Every assignment has its own special risks,” Max says.
“You're telling me. She makes this gingered mango cream pie that tastes like it ought to be illegal.”
Pieter shakes his head. “I’m wearing a bulletproof vest to work this week. And your biggest fear is getting too fat for your jeans? How much of your paycheck are you spending on pie, anyway?”
“Plenty of it.”
“And you call yourself a man of self-control,” Scout teases.
“Youtry walking a mile in my shoes. The pie maker is a hottie who makes me drool, too. But she’s immune to my charms. And I still have to call her boss and do everything she says.”
My friends howl.
