Jeffery Deaver - The Broken Window

“Helpful?” Whitcomb asked.

“A little. You mind if I keep this?”

“No, go right ahead.”

“Thanks.” Pulaski folded the sheets and put them into his pocket.

“Oh, I talked to my brother. He’s going to be in town next month. Don’t know if you’d be interested but I was thinking you might like to meet him. Maybe you and your brother. You could swap cop stories.” Then Whitcomb smiled, embarrassed, as if that was the last thing police officers wanted to do. Which it wasn’t, Pulaski could have told him; cops loved cop stories.

“If the case, you know, is solved by then. Or what do you say?”

“Closed.”

“Like that TV show. The Closer, sure…If it’s closed. Probably can’t have a beer with a suspect.”

“You’re hardly a suspect, Mark,” Pulaski said, laughing himself. “But, yeah, it’s probably better to wait. I’ll see if my brother can make it too.”

“Mark.” A soft voice spoke from behind them.

Pulaski turned to see Andrew Sterling, black slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. A pleasant smile. “Officer Pulaski. You’re here so often I should put you on payroll.”

A bashful grin.

“I called. The phone went to your voice mail.”

“Really?” The CEO frowned. Then the green eyes focused. “That’s right. Martin left early today. Anything we can help you with?”

Pulaski was about to mention the time sheets but Whitcomb jumped in fast. “Ron was saying there’s been another murder.”

“No, really? By the same person?”

Pulaski realized he’d made a mistake. Going around Andrew Sterling was stupid. It wasn’t as if he thought Sterling was guilty or would try to hide anything; the cop just wanted the information quickly-and frankly, he also wanted to avoid running into Cassel or Gillespie, which might’ve happened if he’d gone to executive row for the time sheets.

But now he realized he’d gotten information about SSD from a source that wasn’t Andrew Sterling-a sin, if not an outright crime.

He wondered if the businessman could sense his discomfort. He said, “We think so. Seems like the killer had originally targeted an SSD employee but ended up killing a bystander.”

“Which employee?”

“Miguel Abrera.”

Sterling immediately recognized the name. “In maintenance, yes. Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. A little shaken up. But okay.”

“Why was he targeted? Do you think he knows something?”

“I can’t say,” Pulaski told him.

“When did this happen?”

“About six, six-thirty tonight.”

Sterling squinted faint wrinkles into the skin around his eyes. “I’ve got a solution. What you should do is get your suspects’ time sheets, Officer. That’d narrow down the ones with alibis.”

“I-”

“I’ll take care of it, Andrew,” Whitcomb said quickly, sitting down at his computer. “I’ll get them from Human Resources.” To Pulaski he said, “It shouldn’t take long.”

“Good,” Sterling said. “And let me know what you find.”

“Yes, Andrew.”

The CEO stepped closer, looking up into Pulaski’s eyes. He shook his hand firmly. “Good night, Officer.”

When he was gone, Pulaski said, “Thanks. I should’ve asked him first.”

“Yeah, you should have. I assumed you did. The one thing that Andrew doesn’t like is to be kept in the dark. If he has the information, even if it’s bad news, he’s happy. You’ve seen the reasonable side of Andrew Sterling. The unreasonable side doesn’t seem much different. But it is, believe me.”

“You won’t get in trouble, will you?”

A laugh. “As long as he doesn’t find out I got the time sheets an hour before he suggested it.”

As Pulaski walked toward the elevator with Whitcomb, he glanced back. There at the end of the corridor was Andrew Sterling, talking to Sean Cassel, their heads down. The sales director was nodding. Pulaski’s heart bumped hard. Then Sterling strode off. Cassel turned and, polishing his glasses with the black cloth, looked directly at Pulaski. He smiled a greeting. His expression, the officer read, said the businessman wasn’t the least surprised to see him there.

The elevator arrival bell dinged and Whitcomb gestured Pulaski inside.

The phone rang in Rhyme’s lab. Ron Pulaski reported what he’d learned at SSD about the whereabouts of the suspects. Sachs transcribed the information on the suspects chart.

Only two were in the office at the time of the killing-Mameda and Gillespie.

“So it could be any one of the other half dozen,” Rhyme muttered.

“The place was virtually empty,” the young officer said. “Not many people were in late.”

“They don’t need to be,” Sachs pointed out. “The computers do all the work.”

Rhyme told Pulaski to go on home to his family. He pressed back into his headrest and stared at the board.

Andrew Sterling, President, Chief Executive Officer

Alibi-on Long Island, verified. Confirmed by son

Sean Cassel, Director of Sales and Marketing

No alibi

Wayne Gillespie, Director of Technical Operations

No alibi

Alibi for groundskeeper’s killing (in office, according to time sheets)

Samuel Brockton, Director, Compliance Department

Alibi-hotel records confirm presence in Washington

Peter Arlonzo-Kemper, Director of Human Resources

Alibi-with wife, verified by her (biased?)

Steven Shraeder, Technical Service and Support Manager, day shift

Alibi-in office, according to time sheets

Faruk Mameda, Technical Service and Support Manager, night shift

No alibi

Alibi for groundskeeper’s killing (in office, according to time sheets)

Client of SSD (?)

Awaiting list from NYPD Computer Crimes Unit

UNSUB recruited by Andrew Sterling (?)

But was 522 one of them at all? Rhyme wondered once again. He thought of what Sachs had told him about the concept of “noise” in data mining. Were these names just noise? Distractions, keeping them from the truth?

Rhyme executed a smart turn on the TDX and again faced the whiteboards. Something nagged. What was it?

“Lincoln-”

“Shh.”

Something he’d read, or heard about. No, a case-from years ago. Hovering just out of memory. Frustrating. Like trying to scratch an itch on his ear.

He was aware of Cooper looking at him. That irritated too. He closed his eyes.

Almost…

Yes!

“What is it?”

Apparently he’d spoken out loud.

“I think I’ve got it. Thom, you follow popular culture, don’t you?”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“You read magazines, newspapers. Look at ads. Are Tareyton cigarettes still made?”

“I don’t smoke. I’ve never smoked.”

“I’d rather fight than switch,” Lon Sellitto announced.

“What?”

“That was the ad in the sixties. People with a black eye?”

“Don’t recall it.”

“My dad used to smoke ’em.”

“Are they still made? That’s what I’m asking.”

“I don’t know. But you don’t see ’em much.”

“Exactly. And the other tobacco we found was old too. So whether or not he smokes, it’s a reasonable assumption he collects cigarettes.”

“Cigarettes. What kind of collector is that?”

“No, not just cigarettes. The old soda with the artificial sweetener. Maybe cans or bottles. And mothballs, matches, doll’s hair. And the mold, the Stachybotrys Chartarum, the dust from the Trade Towers. I don’t think it’s that he’s downtown. I think he just hasn’t cleaned in years…” A grim laugh. “And what other collection have we been dealing with lately? Data. Five Twenty-Two’s obsessed with collecting… I think he’s a hoarder.”