The Broken Window

The man had shrugged. “Software bug maybe. As long as they don’t short you, no problemo.”
    And then there was the issue of his checking-account statement. A month ago, he’d found to his shock that his balance was ten thousand dollars higher than it should be. By the time he’d gone to the branch to have them correct it, though, the balance was accurate. And that had happened three times now. One of the mistaken deposits was for $70,000.
    And that wasn’t all. Recently he’d had a call from a company about his mortgage application. Only he hadn’t applied for a mortgage. He rented his house. He and his wife had hoped to buy something but aftershe and their young son died in the auto accident he hadn’t had the heart to consider a house.
    Concerned, he checked his credit report. But no mortgage application was listed. Nothing out of the ordinary, though he noted that his credit rating had been raised—significantly. That too was odd. Though, of course, he didn’t complain about this particular fluke.
    But none of those things troubled him as much as this flyer.
    Dear Mr. Abrera:
    As you are quite aware, at various times in our lives we go through traumatic experiences and suffer difficult losses. It’s understandable that at moments like this, people have trouble moving on in life. Sometimes they even have thoughts that the burden is too great and they consider taking impulsive and unfortunate measures.
    We, at Survivor Counseling Services, recognize the difficult challenges facing persons like you, who’ve suffered a serious loss. Our trained staff can help you get through the difficult times with a combination of medical intervention and one-on-one and group counseling to bring you contentment and remind you that life is indeed worth living.
    Now, Miguel Abrera had never considered suicide, even at his worst, just after the accident eighteen months ago; taking his own life was inconceivable.
    That he received the flyer in the first place was worrying. But two aspects of the situation really unnerved him. The first was that the brochure had been sent to him directly—not forwarded—at his new address. No one involved in his counseling or at the hospital where his wife and child died knew that he’d moved a month ago.
    The second was the final paragraph:
    Now that you’ve taken that vital first step of reaching out to us, Miguel, we’d like to set up a no-cost evaluation session at your convenience. Don’t delay. We can help!
    He had never taken any steps to contact the service.
    How had they gotten his name?
    Well, it was probably just an odd set of coincidences. He’d have to worry about it later. Time to get back to SSD. Andrew Sterling was the kindest and most considerate boss anybody could ask for. But Miguel had no doubt that the rumors were true: He reviewed every employee’s time sheets personally.
    •   •   •
    Alone in the conference room at SSD, Ron Pulaski looked at the cell phone window, as he wandered frantically—walking in a grid pattern, he realized, not unlike searching a crime scene. But he had no reception, just like Jeremy had said. He’d have to use the landline. Was it monitored?
    Suddenly he realized that although he’d agreed to help Lincoln Rhyme do this, he was at serious risk of losing the most important thing in his life after his family:his job as an NYPD cop. He was thinking now how powerful Andrew Sterling was. If he’d managed to ruin the life of a reporter with a major newspaper a young cop wouldn’t stand a chance against the CEO. If they caught him he’d be arrested. His career would be over. What would he tell his brother, what would he tell his parents?
    He was furious with Lincoln Rhyme. Why the hell hadn’t he protested the plan to steal the data? He didn’t have to do this. Oh, sure, Detective . . . anything you say.
    It was totally crazy.
    But then he pictured the body of Myra Weinburg, eyes gazing upward, hair teasing her forehead, looking like Jenny. And he found himself leaning forward, crooking the phone under his chin and hitting 9 for the outside line.
    “Rhyme here.”
    “Detective. It’s me.”
    “Pulaski,” Rhyme barked, “where the hell have you been? And where are you calling from? It’s a blocked number.”
    “First time I’ve been alone,” he snapped. “And my cell doesn’t work here.”
    “Well, let’s get moving.”
    “I’m on a computer.”
    “Okay, I’ll patch in Rodney Szarnek.”
    The object of