“You in a wind tunnel, or what?” he said.

“The camera you saw Morales install up here on this roof, where I’m right now sitting? He wasn’t installing it when you surprised him up here. He was probably removing it.”

“What are you talking about? I saw him … Well. Yeah, you’re right. I didn’t actually see him do anything. I just got off the phone with your aunt, let me tell you real quick, because she’s trying to get hold of you. Something about our person of interest being tracked by a GPS or something? And he might work as a vet tech at Dr. Stuart’s office? Long and short of it, Terri might have known the killer through the dermatologist’s office, some Hispanic guy …”

“Listen to me, Marino! This fucking camera’s been up here for fucking three weeks! And it’s motion-sensitive, so every time it records something it’s emailing it to someone who’s about to get hacked into. I’ve got Morales’s damn IP. I’ve got his fucking machine access code, and it’s the same fucking one as Scarpetta six-twelve. Do you understand what that means?”

“I’m not fucking retarded.”

Just like the old days. How many times had he said that to her over the years?

“It means whoever set up this camera and is getting images emailed from it is the same person sending e-mails to Terri, pretending to be my aunt. Probably some type of PDA, and the asshole stands out in front of John Jay, hijacks their wireless network, so that’s what the IP comes back to. The machine access code is also the same one for the device used to e-mail the photograph to Terri—the photograph emailed from the Internet cafe near Dr. Elizabeth Stuart’s office. Morales is the one who instructed Terri to delete that photograph on December third… .”

“Why?”

“He plays fucking games, that’s why. He was probably in the morgue when the damn photo was taken, probably is behind it. Just like the photo of Jaime at Tavern on the Green. He probably orchestrated that and sent it to Gotham Gotcha.”

“Then he’s probably connected to Gotham Gotcha.”

“Got no idea, but I do know Eva Peebles worked for whoever Gotham Gotcha is. And I doubt she could tell you who Gotham Gotcha is, if she were still alive to tell us anything, poor lady. Nothing in her computer identifies who it is. I’m setting up sniff packets even as we speak, looking at info at junction points. Fuckhead Morales. He’s probably your fucking Hispanic vet tech, too. Fucking piece of shit. I’m about to pay him a home visit.”

She was typing on her MacBook as she talked, doing a port scan. Marino had gotten deadly quiet.

“You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”