The Broken Window (36 page)

· Takes trophies from victims. Sadist?

· Portion of residence/workplace dark and moist

· Lives in/near downtown Manhattan?

· Eats snack food/hot sauce

· Lives near antiques store?

· Wears size-11 Skechers work shoe

NONPLANTED EVIDENCE

· Old cardboard

· Hair from doll, BASF B35 nylon 6

· Tobacco from Tareyton cigarettes

· Old tobacco, not Tareyton, but brand unknown

· Evidence of Stachybotrys Chartarum mold

· Dust, from World Trade Center attack, possibly indicating residence/job downtown Manhattan

· Snack food/cayenne pepper

· Rope fiber containing:

· Cyclamate diet soda (old or foreign)

· Naphthalene mothballs (old or foreign)

· Leopard lily plant leaves (interior plant)

· Trace from two different legal pads, yellow colored

· Treadmark from size-11 Skechers work shoe

Appreciate you seeing me, Mark.”

Whitcomb, the Compliance Department assistant, smiled agreeably. Pulaski figured he must really love his job to be still working so late—just after nine-thirty. But then, the cop realized, he himself was still on the job.

“Another killing? And that same guy did it?”

“We’re pretty sure.”

The young man frowned. “I’m sorry. Jesus. When?”

“About three hours ago.”

They were in Whitcomb’s office, which was a lot homier than Sterling’s. And sloppier too, which made it more comfortable. He set aside the legal pad he was jotting on and gestured at a chair. Pulaski sat, noting pictures of family on his desk, some nice paintings on the walls, along with diplomas and some professional certificates. Pulaski had glanced up and down the quiet halls, extremely glad that Cassel and Gillespie, the school bullies, weren’t here.

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“Say, that your wife?”

“My sister.” Whitcomb gave a smile but Pulaski had seen that look before. It meant, this’s a tough subject. Had the woman died?

No, it was the
other
answer.

“I’m divorced. Keep pretty busy here. Tough to have a family.” The young man waved his arm, indicating SSD, Pulaski supposed. “But it’s important work. Real important.”

“I’m sure it is.”

After trying to reach Andrew Sterling, Pulaski called Whitcomb, who had agreed to meet the cop and hand over the time sheets for that day—to see which of their suspects had been out of the office at the time the groundskeeper was killed.

“I’ve got some coffee.”

Pulaski noted that the man had a silver tray on his desk, with two china cups.

“I remembered how you liked it.”

“Thanks.”

The slim man poured.

Sipping the coffee. It was good. Pulaski was looking forward to the day when finances improved and he could afford a cappuccino maker. He loved his coffee. “You work late every night?”

“Pretty often. Government regulations’re tough in any industry but in the information business the problem is that nobody’s quite sure what they want. For instance, states can make a lot of money selling driver’s license information. Some places the citizens go ballistic and the practice’s banned. But in other states it’s perfectly okay.

“Some places, if your company gets hacked you have to notify the customers whose information gets stolen, whatever kind of data it is. In other states you only have to tell them if it’s financial information.

Some, you don’t have to tell them anything. It’s a mess. But we’ve got to stay on top of it.”

Thinking of security breaches, Pulaski was stabbed by guilt that he’d stolen the empty-space data from SSD. Whitcomb had been with him around the time he’d downloaded the files. Would the Compliance officer get into trouble if Sterling found out about it?

“So here we go.” Whitcomb handed him about twenty pages of time sheets for that day.

Pulaski flipped through them, comparing the names with their suspects. First, he noted the time Miguel Abrera had left—a little after 5:00 P.M. Then Pulaski’s heart jolted when he happened to glance down at the name Sterling. The man had left just seconds after Miguel, as if he were following the janitor… But then Pulaski realized that he’d made a mistake. It was
Andy
Sterling, the son, who’d left then. The CEO

had left earlier—at about four—and had returned only about a half hour ago, presumably after business drinks and dinner.

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Again, he was angry with himself that he hadn’t read the sheet properly. And he’d nearly called Lincoln Rhyme when he’d seen the two departure times so close together. How embarrassing would
that
have been? Think better, he told himself angrily.

Of the other suspects, Faruk Mameda—the night-shift technician with the attitude—had been in SSD at the time of the killing. Technical Operations Director Wayne Gillespie’s entries revealed that he’d left a half hour before Abrera but he’d returned to the office at six and stayed for several hours. Pulaski felt a petty disappointment that this seemed to take the bully off the list. All the others had left with enough time to follow Miguel to the cemetery or to precede him there and lie in wait. In fact, most employees were out of the office. Sean Cassel, he noticed, had been out for much of the afternoon but had returned—a half hour ago.

“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?”

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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?”

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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
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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.”

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“A what?”

“He hoards things. He never throws anything away. That’s why there’s so much ‘old.’”

“Yeah, I think I’ve heard of that,” Sellitto said. “It’s weird. Creepy.”

Rhyme had once searched a scene where a compulsive hoarder had died, crushed to death under a pile of books—well, he was immobilized and took two days to die of internal injuries. Rhyme described the cause of death as “unpleasant.” He hadn’t studied the condition much but he’d learned that New York had a task force to help hoarders get therapeutic assistance and protect them and their neighbors from their compulsive behavior.

“Let’s give our resident shrink a call.”

“Terry Dobyns?”

“Maybe he knows somebody at the hoarding task force. Have him check. And get him over here in person.”

“At this hour?” Cooper asked. “It’s after ten.”

Rhyme didn’t even bother to offer the punch line of the day: We’re not sleeping; why should anyone else? A look conveyed the message just fine.