The Burning Wire

breakers at MH-Ten—the substation on Fifty-seventh Street.”
    “But we’re pretty sure he got the codes from the inside.”
    “That’s impossible. It has to be terrorists.”
    “That’s definitely a possibility and I want to ask you about that. But even if so, they were using an insider. An officer in our Computer Crimes division had a conversation with your IT people. He said there was no evidence of independent hacking.”
    Jessen fell silent and examined her desk. She didn’t seem happy—because of this news about the insider? Or because somebody in her company was talking to the police without her knowing? She jotted a note and Sachs wondered if it was to remind herself to reprimand the technology security man.
    Sachs continued, “The suspect was seen in an Algonquin uniform. Or at least blue coveralls that were very similar to what your employees wear.”
    “Suspect?”
    “A man was spotted in a coffee shop around the time of the attack, across from the substation. He was seen with a laptop.”
    “Did you get any details about him?”
    “White male, forties probably. Nothing else.”
    “Well, about the uniform, you could buy one or make one.”
    “Yes. But there’s more. The cable he used to rig the arc flash? It was Bennington brand. That’s what your company regularly uses.”
    “Yes, I know. Most power companies do too.”
    “Last week, seventy-five feet of Bennington cable, the same gauge, was stolen from one of your warehouses in Harlem, along with a dozen split bolts. They’re used for splicing—”
    “I know what they’re used for.” The wrinkles in Jessen’s face grew severe.
    “Whoever broke into the warehouse, he used a key to get in. He also got into the access tunnel under the substation through an Algonquin steam pipe manhole.”
    Jessen said quickly, “Meaning he didn’t use the electronic keypad to get into the substation?”
    “No.”
    “So, there’s some evidence that it’s not an employee.”
    “It’s a possibility, like I said. But there’s something else.” Sachs added that they’d found traces of Greek food, suggesting a nearby connection.
    Seemingly bewildered at the extent of their knowledge, the CEO repeated with exasperation, “Taramasalata?”
    “There are five Greek restaurants within walking distance of your headquarters here. And twenty-eight within a ten-minute cab ride. And since the trace was fairly recent, it makes sense that he’s a current employee or at least got the codes from a current employee. Maybe they met at a restaurant nearby.”
    “Oh, please, there are plenty of Greek restaurants around the city.”
    “Let’s just assume the computer codes came from inside. Who’d have access to them?” Sachs asked. “That’s really the threshold issue.”
    “Very limited and very tightly controlled,” she said fast, as if she were on trial for negligence. The line seemed rehearsed.
    “Who?”
    “I do. A half dozen senior staff. That’s all. But, Detective, these’re people who’ve been with the company for years. They wouldn’t possibly do this. Inconceivable.”
    “You keep the codes separate from the computers, I understand.”
    A blink at this knowledge too. “Yes. They’re set randomly by our senior control center supervisor. And kept in a safe file room next door.”
    “I’d like names, and to find out if there’s been any unauthorized access to that room.”
    Jessen was clearly resistant to the idea that the perp was an employee, but she said, “I’ll call our security director. He should have that information.”
    “And I’ll need the names of any workers in the past few months who were assigned to repair steam lines in that manhole across from the substation. It’s in an alleyway about thirty feet north of the station.”
    The CEO picked up the phone and asked her PA to summon two employees to her office. The request was polite. While some people in this position would have barked the order, Jessen remained in control and reasonable. Which, to Sachs, made her seem all the harder. It was the weak and insecure who blustered. Happened in the policing business all the time.
    Just a moment after she hung up, one of the men she’d asked to join them arrived. His office might’ve been next door to hers. He was a stocky, middle-aged businessman in gray slacks and a white shirt.
    “Andi. Anything new?”
    “A few things. Sit down.” Then she turned to Sachs.
    “This is Bob Cavanaugh, senior VP of Operations.