The Broken Window

caught Rhyme’s complete attention when she said, “Jorgensen claims the man behind it’s been keeping track of him ever since he bought this book two years ago. He seems to know everything he’s doing.”
    “Knows everything,” Rhyme repeated, looking at the evidence charts. “Just what we were talking about a few minutes ago. Getting all the information he needs on the victims and the fall guys.” He filled her in on what they’d learned.
    She handed the book to Mel Cooper and told him Jorgensen believed it held a tracking device.
    “Tracking device?” Rhyme scoffed. “He’s been watching too many Oliver Stone movies. . . . All right, search it if you want. But let’s not neglect the real leads.”
    Sachs’s calls to the police in the various jurisdictions where Jorgensen had been victimized weren’t productive. Yes, there’d been identity theft, no question. “But,” one cop in Florida asked, “you know how much of this goes on? We find a fake residence and raid it but by the time we get there it’s empty. They’ve taken all the merch they’d charged to the vic’s account and headed off to Texas or Montana.”
    Most of them had heard of Jorgensen (“He sure writes a lot of letters”) and were sympathetic. But none had any specific leads to an individual or gang who might have been behind the crimes and they couldn’t devote nearly enough time to the cases as they would have liked. “We could have another hundred people on staff and still not be able to make any headway.”
    After she’d hung up, Sachs explained that since 522 knew Jorgensen’s address, she’d told the residence hotel clerk to let her know immediately if anyone called or came around asking about him. If the clerk agreed, Sachs would neglect to bring up the residence hotel with the city’s building inspection office.
    “Nicely done,” Rhyme said. “You knew there were violations?”
    “Not until he agreed at, oh, about the speed of light.” Sachs walked to the evidence that Pulaski had gotten from the loft near SoHo, looking it over.
    “Any thoughts, Amelia?” Sellitto asked.
    She stood, staring at the boards, one fingernail taking on another as she tried to make sense out of the disparate collection of clues.
    “Where’d he get this?” She picked up the bag containing the printout of Myra Weinburg’s face—looking sweet and amused, her eyes on the camera that had snapped her picture. “We should find out.”
    Good point. Rhyme hadn’t considered the source of the picture, merely that 522 had downloaded it from a Web site somewhere. He’d been more interested in the paper as a source of clues.
    In the photo Myra Weinburg was standing beside a flowering tree, gazing back at the camera, a smile on her face. She was holding a pink drink in a martini glass.
    Rhyme noticed Pulaski gazing at the picture too, his eyes troubled again.
    The thing is . . . she looked a little like Jenny.
    Rhyme noted distinctive borders and what appeared to be the strokes of some letters to the right, disappearing out of frame. “He’d’ve got it online. To make it look like DeLeon Williams was checking her out.”
    Sellitto said, “Maybe we could trace him through the site he downloaded it from. How can we tell where he got it?”
    “Google her name,” Rhyme suggested.
    Cooper tried this and found a dozen hits, several referring to a different Myra Weinburg. The ones that related to the victim were all professional organizations. But none of the photos of her was similar to the one that 522 had printed out.
    Sachs said, “Got an idea. Let me call my computer expert.”
    “Who, that guy at Computer Crimes?” Sellitto asked.
    “No, somebody even better than him.”
    She picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Pammy, hi. Where are you? . . . Good. I’ve got an assignment. Go online for a Web chat. We’ll do audio by phone.”
    Sachs turned to Cooper. “Can you boot up your webcam, Mel?”
    The tech typed and a moment later his monitor filled with an image of Pam’s room at her foster parents’ house in Brooklyn. The face of the pretty teenager appeared as she sat down. The image was slightly distorted by the wide-angle lens.
    “Hi, Pam.”
    “Hi, Mr. Cooper” came the lilting voice through the speakerphone.
    “I’ll take over,” Sachs said and replaced Cooper at the keyboard. “Honey, we’ve found a picture and we think it came from the Internet. Could you take a look and tell us if you know