The Broken Window

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. Hisexpression, 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