Jeffery Deaver - The Broken Window

Sellitto finished chewing the last of his sandwich. “You haven’t lived till a bullet breaks the sound barrier right next to your ear.”

“Wait, wait, wait…The only time I do any shooting is role-playing games and-”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be the one at risk,” Rhyme said to the computer man, as his amused gaze slipped to Ron Pulaski, who was closing his phone.

“What?” the rookie asked with a frown.

“Anything else you need, Officer?”

Sitting in the SSD conference room, Ron Pulaski looked up into the emotionless face of Sterling’s second assistant, Jeremy Mills. He was the “outside” assistant, the young officer recalled. “No, I’m fine, thanks. But I wonder if you could check with Mr. Sterling about some files he was getting together for us. A list of clients. I think Martin was handling it.”

“I’d be happy to bring it up with Andrew when he’s out of his meeting.” Then the broad-shouldered man walked around the room, pointing out the air-conditioning and light switches like the bellboy who’d escorted Jenny and Pulaski to their fancy room on their honeymoon.

Which reminded Pulaski again of how Jenny resembled Myra, the woman who’d been raped and killed yesterday. The way her hair lay, the slightly crooked smile he loved, the-

“Officer?”

Pulaski glanced up, realized his mind had been wandering. “Sorry.”

The assistant was studying him as he pointed out a small refrigerator. “Soda and water in here.”

“Thanks. I’m all set.”

Pay attention, he told himself angrily. Forget Jenny. Forget the children. People’s lives are at stake here. Amelia thinks you can handle these interviews. So handle them.

You with us, rookie? I need you with us.

“If you want to make a call you can use this one. Dial nine for an outside line. Or you can just push this button, then speak the number. It’s voice activated.” He pointed at Pulaski’s cell phone. “That probably won’t work too well here. Lot of shielding, you know. For security.”

“Really? Okay.” Pulaski thought back; hadn’t he seen somebody using a phone or BlackBerry here earlier? He couldn’t recall.

“I’ll have those employees come in. If you’re ready.”

“That’d be great.”

The young man headed down the hall. Pulaski took his notebook out of his briefcase. Glanced at the names of the employees he had yet to interview.

Steven Shraeder, Technical Service and Support Manager, day shift.

Faruk Mameda, Technical Service and Support Manager, night shift.

He rose and peered into the hall. Nearby a janitor was emptying trash cans. He recalled he’d seen him yesterday, doing the same; it was as if Sterling was afraid that any brimming garbage would give the company a bad name. The solid man glanced at Pulaski’s uniform without reaction and returned to his task, which he performed methodically. Looking farther down the immaculate corridor, the young cop could see a security guard standing at attention. Pulaski couldn’t even get to the restroom without passing him. He returned to his seat to await the two men on the suspect list.

Faruk Mameda was first, a young man of Middle Eastern ancestry, Pulaski judged. He was very handsome, solemn-faced and confident. He held Pulaski’s eye easily. The young man explained that he’d been with a small company SSD had acquired five or six years ago. His job was to supervise the technical-service staff. Single, with no family, he preferred working nights.

The cop was surprised that he didn’t have a trace of foreign accent. Pulaski asked if Mameda had heard about the investigation. He claimed he hadn’t heard the details-which could have been true, since he worked the night shift and had just gotten to work. All he knew was that Andrew Sterling had called and told him to speak to the police about a crime that had occurred.

He frowned as the police officer explained, “There’ve been several murders recently. We think information from SSD was used in planning the crimes.”

“Information?”

“About the victims’ whereabouts, some items they’d bought.”

Curiously Mameda’s next question was “Are you talking to all the employees?”

How much to tell, how much not to? That was one thing Pulaski never knew. Amelia always said it was important to grease the interview wheel, to keep the conversation going but never to give too much away. After the head injury, he believed his judgment had worsened and was nervous about what to say to wits and suspects. “Not all of them, no.”

“Just certain ones who’re suspicious. Or you’ve decided ahead of time are suspicious.” The employee’s voice was defensive now, his jaw tight. “I see. Sure. Happens a lot nowadays.”

“The person we’re interested in is a man, and he has full access to innerCircle and Watchtower. We’re talking to everyone who fits that description.” Pulaski had figured out Mameda’s concern. “Nothing to do with your nationality.”

The attempt at reassurance missed the mark. Mameda snapped, “Ah, well, my nationality is American. I’m a U.S. citizen. Like you. That is, I assume you’re a citizen. But maybe not. After all, very few people in this country were here originally.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mameda shrugged. “Some things in life you have to get used to. It’s unfortunate. The land of the free is also the land of the prejudiced. I…” His voice faded as he glanced past and above Pulaski, as if someone were standing behind him. The cop turned slightly. No one was there. Mameda said, “Andrew said he wants full cooperation. So I’m cooperating. Could you ask me what you need to, please? It’s a busy evening.”

“People’s dossiers-closets, you call them?”

“Yes. Closets.”

“Do you ever download them?”

“Why would I download a dossier? Andrew wouldn’t tolerate that.”

Interesting: the wrath of Andrew Sterling was the first deterrent. Not the police or the courts.

“So you haven’t?”

“Never. If there’s a bug of some sort or the data are corrupt or there’s an interface problem, I may look at a portion of the entries or the headers but that’s it. Only enough to figure out the problem and write a patch or debug the code.”

“Could somebody have found your passcodes and gotten into innerCircle? And downloaded dossiers that way?”

He paused. “Not from me they couldn’t. I don’t have them written down.”

“And you go to the data pens frequently, all of them? And Intake too?”

“Yes, of course. That’s my job. Repair the computers. Make sure the data are flowing smoothly.”

“Could you tell me where you were on Sunday afternoon between twelve and four?”

“Ah.” A nod. “So that’s what this is really about. Was I at the scene of the crime?”

Pulaski had trouble looking at the man’s dark, angry eyes.

Mameda put his hands flat on the table, as if he were going to rise in anger and storm out. But he sat back and said, “I had breakfast in the morning with some friends…” He added, “They’re from the mosque-you’ll probably want to know.”

“I-”

“After that I spent the rest of the day alone. I went to the movies.”

“By yourself?”

“Fewer distractions. I usually go alone. It was a film by Jafar Panahi-the Iranian director. Have you ever see-” His mouth tightened. “Never mind.”

“You have the ticket stub?”

“No…After that I did some shopping. I got home at six, I’d guess. Checked to see if they needed me here but the boxes were running smoothly so I had dinner with a friend.”

“In the afternoon did you buy anything with a credit card?”