The Broken Window

who’d seen him. Arlonzo-Kemper couldn’t recall where he’d been during the times of the other killings.
    When they had finished the interviews the guard escorted Sachs and Pulaski back to Sterling’s outer office. The CEO was meeting with a man about Sterling’s age, solid and with combed-over dark blond hair. He sat slouching in one of the stiff wooden chairs. He wasn’t an SSD employee: He wore a Polo shirt and a sports jacket. Sterling looked up and saw Sachs. He ended the meeting and rose, then escorted the man out.
    Sachs looked at what the visitor was holding, a stack of papers with the name “Associated Warehousing” on top, apparently the name of his company.
    “Martin, could you call a car for Mr. Carpenter?”
    “Yes, Andrew.”
    “We’re all together, are we, Bob?”
    “Yes, Andrew.” Carpenter, towering over Sterling, somberly shook the CEO’s hand, then turned and left. A security guard led him down the hall.
    The officers accompanied Sterling back into his office.
    “What did you find?” he asked.
    “Nothing conclusive. Some people have alibis, some don’t. We’ll keep pursuing the case and see if theevidence or witnesses lead us anywhere. There’s one thing I was wondering. Could I get a copy of a dossier? Arthur Rhyme’s.”
    “Who?”
    “He’s one of the men on the list—one that we think was wrongly arrested.”
    “Of course.” Sterling sat at his desk, touched his thumb to a reader beside the keyboard and typed for a few seconds. He paused, eyes on the screen. Then more keyboarding and a document began printing out. He handed the thirty or so pages to her—Arthur Rhyme’s “closet.”
    Well, that was easy, she noted. Then Sachs nodded at the computer. “Is there a record of you doing that?”
    “A record? Oh, no. We don’t log our internal downloads.” He looked over his notes again. “I’ll have Martin pull the client list together. It might take two or three hours.”
    As they walked into the outer office, Sean Cassel stepped inside. He wasn’t smiling. “What’s this about a list of clients, Andrew? You’re going to give that to them?”
    “That’s right, Sean.”
    “Why clients?”
    Pulaski said, “We were thinking that somebody who works for an SSD client got information he used in the crimes.”
    The young man scoffed. “Obviously that’s what you think . . . . But why? None of them has direct innerCircle access. They can’t download closets.”
    Pulaski explained, “They might’ve bought mailing lists that had the information in them.”
    “Mailing lists? Do you know how many times a client would have to be in the system to assemble all the information you’re talking about? It’d be a full-time job. Think about it.”
    Pulaski blushed and looked down. “Well . . .”
    Mark Whitcomb, of the Compliance Department, was standing near Martin’s desk. “Sean, he doesn’t know how the business works.”
    “Well, Mark, I’m thinking it’s more about logic, really. Doesn’t it seem? Each client would have to buy hundreds of mailing lists. And there are probably three, four hundred of them who’ve been in the closets of the sixteens they’re interested in.”
    “Sixteens?” Sachs asked.
    “It means ‘people.’ ” He waved vaguely toward the narrow windows, presumably suggesting humanity outside the Gray Rock. “It comes from the code we use.”
    More shorthand. Closets, sixteens, pianoing . . . There was something smug, if not contemptuous, about the expressions.
    Sterling said coolly, “We need to do everything we can to find the truth here.”
    Cassel shook his head. “It’s not a client, Andrew. Nobody would dare use our data for a crime. It’d be suicide.”
    “Sean, if SSD’s involved in this we have to know.”
    “All right, Andrew. Whatever you think best.” Sean Cassel ignored Pulaski, gave a cold, nonflirtatious smile to Sachs and left.
    Sachs said to Sterling, “We’ll pick up that client list when we come back to interview the tech managers.”
    As the CEO gave instructions to Martin, Sachs heard Mark Whitcomb whisper to Pulaski, “Don’t pay any attention to Cassel. He and Gillespie—they’re the golden boys of this business. Young Turks, you know. I’m a hindrance. You’re a hindrance.”
    “Not a problem,” the young officer said noncommittally, though Sachs could see he was grateful. He has everything but confidence, she thought.
    Whitcomb left, and the two officers said good-bye to