The Broken Window

let’s just go with a snack food and hot sauce. Put it on the chart.”
    As Cooper wrote, Rhyme glanced at the clock and snapped, “Where the hell is Sachs?”
    “Well, she’s at SSD.” Cooper looked confused.
    “I know that . What I mean is why the hell isn’t she back here? . . . And, Thom, I want some more yogurt!”
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    UNSUB 522 PROFILE
    • Male
    • Possibly smokes or lives/works with someone who does, or near source of tobacco
    • Has children or lives/works near them or near source of toys
    • Interest in art, coins?
    • Probably white or light-skinned ethnic
    • Medium build
    • Strong—able to strangle victims
    • Access to voice-disguise equipment
    • Possibly computer literate; knows OurWorld. Other social-networking sites?
    • Takes trophies from victims. Sadist?
    • Portion of residence/workplace dark and moist
    • Lives in/near downtown Manhattan?
    • Eats snack food/hot sauce
    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 with hot sauce

Chapter Twenty-one
    The conference room where Sachs and Pulaski had been led was as minimalist as Sterling’s office. She decided a good way to describe the entire company would be “austere deco.”
    Sterling himself escorted them to the room and gestured to two chairs, beneath the logo of the window atop the watchtower. He said, “I don’t expect to be treated any differently than anyone else. Since I have all-access rights I’m a suspect too. But I have an alibi for yesterday—I was on Long Island all day. I do that a lot—drive to some of the big discount stores and the membership shopping clubs to see what people are buying, how they buy, what times of day. I’m always looking for ways to make our business more efficient, and you can’t do that unless you know our clients’ needs.”
    “Who were you meeting with?”
    “Nobody. I never tell anyone who I am. I want to see the operation the way it actually works. Blemishes and everything. But my car’s E-ZPass records should show that I went through the Midtown Tunnel tollbooth about nine A.M. eastbound and then came back through about five-thirty. You can check with DMV.”He recited his tag number. “Oh, and yesterday? I called my son. He took the train up to Westchester to go hiking in some forest preserve. He went by himself and I wanted to check on him. I called about two in the afternoon. The phone records’ll show a call from my Hampton house. Or you can take a look at the incoming call list on his mobile. It should have the date and time. His extension is seven one eight seven.”
    Sachs wrote this down, along with the number of Sterling’s summer house’s phone. She thanked him, then Jeremy, the “outside” assistant, arrived and whispered something to his boss.
    “Have to take care of something. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, just let me know.”
    A few minutes later the first of their suspects arrived. Sean Cassel, the director of Sales and Marketing. He struck her as quite young, probably midthirties, but she’d seen very few people in SSD who were over forty. Data was perhaps the new Silicon Valley, a world of youthful entrepreneurs.
    Cassel, with a long face, classically handsome, seemed athletic; solid arms, broad shoulders. He was wearing the SSD “uniform,” in his case a navy suit. The white shirt was immaculate and the cuffs clasped with heavy gold links. The yellow tie was thick silk. He had curly hair, rosy skin and peered steadily at Sachs through glasses. She hadn’t known Dolce & Gabbana made frames.
    “Hi.”
    “Hello. I’m Detective Sachs, this is Officer Pulaski. Have a seat.” She shook his hand, noting the firm grip that lingered longer than the clasp with Pulaski.
    “So you’re a detective?” The sales director had not a shred of interest in the patrolman.
    “That’s right. Would you like to see my ID?”
    “No, that’s okay.”
    “Now, we’re just getting information about some of the employees here. Do you know a Myra Weinburg?”
    “No. Should I?”
    “She was the victim of a murder.”
    “Oh.” A flash of contrition, as the hip façade vanished momentarily. “I heard something about a crime. I didn’t know it was a murder,