The Broken Window

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.
    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 thelist. 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?”
    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