“Well, you can’t enhance pixels the way I can. I’m going to work off this picture. She took it standing in front of her mirror, so I’ve got a lot of the room to work with visible in the reflection. Keep logging. This may take another hour.”
What Stern could do in an hour, Rainy knew, would take normal programmers five times as long to complete. When he announced success, Rainy understood that he’d basically churned out two days’ worth of product in less than half a day’s effort. Rainy positioned her chair closer to Stern so she could get a better look at his screen.
Stern manipulated the image on his monitor to show Rainy an enhanced view of the girl’s bedroom.
“First thing I’m going to do is crop out everything but what’s visible in the mirror,” Stern said. “Then I’m going to flip the image around so that it doesn’t look like a reflection.”
He did both in less than two seconds.
Next, he used his computer mouse to highlight a corner of the room, and the picture zoomed in closer. All Rainy could see were the fuzzy, pixelated outlines of a dresser, mirror, and chair. On the chair she could make out a blue Windbreaker, but it, too, was barely recognizable at the current magnification level.
“I’m not seeing anything,” Rainy said.
“Watch. I’m going to run my script.”
Stern hit a button, and the entire image went black, save for the chair with the Windbreaker on it. Then image magnified tenfold, until Rainy saw what she took to be a design of some sort.
“Is that a logo on the Windbreaker?” she asked with growing excitement.
“Watch,” Stern said.
Stern’s program began to twist, wrap, and stretch the image, while adding new pixels to the design. The transformation took what had been a blurry, shapeless form and rendered it anew. It was now clear and easy to interpret.
“This is how we’ll figure out who this girl is,” Stern said. “You see, the jacket was folded over the chair. What my program just did was to take the pixels that were invisible to us and hypothesize what the lettering would be if the jacket were to be unfolded. It’s a lot of vector analysis, but this is the best match I got. The proportions aren’t right, because the Windbreaker was folded, but at least the lettering is legible.”
Rainy read the words Stern’s program had generated.
“Shilo Wildcats Soccer.”
“Now to Google,” Stern said. He did a few Web searches before finding a picture he thought might be useful.
“What’s that?” Rainy asked.
“A team picture of last year’s girls’ varsity soccer team. Assuming, of course, that ‘Shilo’ is Shilo, New Hampshire. But they are the Wildcats, so…”
Rainy studied the team photo. She didn’t need to look at the girl’s picture again. Her face was burned into Rainy’s memory. And there she was. Back row. Second to last on the left. Rainy scanned the names of the girls listed in the photograph.
“Her,” Rainy said, tapping a finger on Stern’s spotless monitor. “That’s her! You’re a miracle worker, Clarence, you know that?”
“Nah. I just can’t stand logging video.” Stern leaned in close to read the name for himself. “Yup, that’s her, all right. Lindsey Wells, of Shilo, New Hampshire.”
Chapter 17
The Woonsocket Country Club boasted a membership so wealthy, it was the target of every community fund-raiser from Shilo to North Coventry. The reception room at the exclusive Harold Ross Grill, perched proudly on the nineteenth hole, advertised an ambience both elegant and casual. Surfaces were made of stone or oak, and the dining room blended family-style dining with a more upscale interior design.
Tom felt woefully underdressed. His thrown-together outfit (ancient tweed jacket, chino slacks, somewhat wrinkled collared shirt, no tie) might as well have been procured from a Goodwill reject bin.
Tom took out his cell phone and sent a text message to Jill.
How are you doing? he typed.
Jill’s reply came seconds after his message was sent.
Green.
He’d dropped Jill off at Lindsey’s with a promise that she’d stay there until he came to pick her up.
Most of the dinner guests were standing, milling about, when Tom entered the main dining hall. He recognized many of Roland Boyd’s clients. Several were parents of players on this year’s team or teams from the past. The host of the Harold Ross Grill escorted Tom past men who chatted in close clusters. Their attractive wives, many in low-cut black dresses, talked in tight circles of their own.
Every few steps somebody would reach out and grab Tom by the arm. They’d express their condolences, ask about Jill, and wish him luck on the upcoming season. But he also heard whisperings about the blog-post scandal. From what little Tom picked up, the opinions on the matter varied widely.
At least the superintendent of Shilo schools, Angie Didomenico, was on his side. She had given Powers a formal reprimand for not informing her of his plans to question his team about the Tumblr blog and had filed a complaint with the Shilo Police Department to protest their handling of the investigation.
Tom was glad Jill was at Lindsey’s house and not on display here. The funeral had been a hard enough stage, though he had marveled at his daughter’s courage in eulogizing her mother.
Tom spied Adriana seated at one of oval tables, with Mitchell beside her. Adriana’s face lit up, and she stood as Tom neared. She clutched Tom’s arm in her tight grip.
“Well, hello there,” she said in a husky voice that resembled Demi Moore’s. “I’m so glad you decided to come. I know this can’t be easy for you.”
Adriana looked breathtakingly beautiful, shimmering inside a sequined blouse and slim-fitting black slacks. She kept hold of Tom’s arm and wouldn’t let go even when he shifted his weight to slip his hands inside his pants pockets.
“Well, Jill wanted to go over to Lindsey’s, and I didn’t really feel like hanging out alone in my old house. I’m glad I had a place to go, which I guess is a roundabout way of saying thanks for inviting me.”
“How are things going with Jill?”
“Persistence and patience,” Tom said, with a slight smile. Adriana smiled, too, and gave Tom’s arm another squeeze.
“I know you two will do great together,” Adriana said, and added, “Come sit with me and Mitchell a moment.”
But before Tom could oblige, Roland appeared and took hold of Tom’s other arm. A mini tug-of-war ensued before Adriana finally let go.
“Sorry, darling,” Roland said with a wry grin, “but no sitting until Tom here has had something to drink. We’ll be right back.”
Roland led Tom to the bar, dodging caterers, who roamed the floor like heat-seeking missiles. Roland was dressed in a pin-striped linen suit, with a pocket square, straight as a ruler’s edge, tucked into his jacket pocket. His shirt was a light blue oxford; the tie a pattern of pink and blue hues, like those of a sunset. But even in a fancy suit, Tom still saw echoes of Roland’s younger self. The kid who sometimes brought a flask of whiskey to school, which he was always willing to share. The guy who favored buzz cuts and gray hooded sweatshirts in any weather. A townie kid from Shilo, New Hampshire, with big plans for big living, but no real road map to get there.
Roland patted Tom’s hand as the two reached the bar, his skin cool to the touch, despite the room’s warmth.
“Glad you could make it out,” Roland said.
“Nice club,” Tom said. “You’ve been a member long?”
“Long enough.” Roland’s trademark grin hadn’t changed any over the years. It held a hint of playful
