The Burning Wire

log-in records of Nine East.” He looked at Sachs. “The wing where the control center and the safe file room are.”
    “And?” Jessen and Sachs asked simultaneously.
    “There’s a security door between the control room and the safe files. It should close on its own, but the smart lock records show it was open for about two hours a couple of days ago. A malfunction or it got jammed somehow.”
    “Two hours? Unsupervised?” Andi Jessen was furious.
    “That’s right, ma’am,” he said, lips taut. He rubbed his glistening scalp. “But it wasn’t like anybody from the outside could get in. There was no breach in the lobby.”
    Sachs asked, “Security tapes?”
    “We don’t have them there, no.”
    “Anybody sitting near the room?”
    “No, it opens on an empty corridor. It’s not even marked, for security.”
    “How many people could’ve gotten into the room?”
    “As many as had clearance to Nine through Eleven East.”
    “Which is?”
    “A lot,” he admitted, eyes downcast.
    Discouraging news, though Sachs hadn’t expected more. “Can you get me the list of anybody who had access that day?”
    He made another call while Jessen herself picked up the phone and raised hell about the breach. A few minutes later a young woman in a lavish gold blouse and teased hair stepped shyly into the doorway. She glanced once at Andi Jessen and then offered sheetsof paper to Wahl. “Bernie, I’ve got those lists you wanted. The one from HR too.”
    She turned and was happy to flee the lioness’s den.
    Sachs looked at Wahl’s face as he reviewed the list. Apparently the task of compiling it hadn’t taken long but the results weren’t good. Forty-six people, he explained, would have had access to the room.
    “Forty-six? Oh, Christ.” Jessen slumped, staring out the window.
    “All right. What we need to find out is who among them—” gesturing at the access list—“had alibis and who had the skill to reroute the computer and rig the wire at the bus stop.”
    Jessen stared at her immaculate desktop. “I’m not a technical expert. I got my father’s talent for the business side of the power industry—generation, transportation, brokering.” She thought for a moment. “But I know somebody who could help.”
    She made another phone call, then looked up. “He should be here in a few minutes. His office is on the other side of the Burn.”
    “The . . . ?”
    “The turbine room.” A gesture outside the window at the portion of the building from which the smokestacks blossomed. “Where we produce the steam for the generators.”
    Wahl was looking over the shorter list: “Employees we’ve had to discipline or let go for various problems over the past six months—some mental problems, a few drug test failures, drinking on the job.”
    “Only eight,” Jessen said.
    Was there pride in her voice?
    Sachs compared the two lists. None of those on the shorter one—the problem employees—hadaccess to the computer codes. She was disappointed; she’d hoped it would pay off.
    Jessen thanked Wahl.
    “Anything else I can do, Detective, just call me.”
    She too thanked the security chief, who left. Then she said to Jessen, “I’d like copies of their résumés. Everybody on the list. Or if you have employee profiles, CVs. Anything.”
    “Yes, I can arrange for that.” She asked her assistant to make a copy of the list and pull together personnel information for everybody on it.
    Another man, slightly out of breath, arrived in Jessen’s office. Midforties, Sachs estimated. He was a little doughy and had unruly brown hair, mixed with gray. “Cute” seemed to fit. There was a boyish quality about him, Sachs decided. Sparkling eyes and raised eyebrows and a fidgety nature. The sleeves of his wrinkled striped shirt were rolled up. Food crumbs, it seemed, dusted his slacks.
    “Detective Sachs,” Jessen said. “This is Charlie Sommers, special projects manager.”
    He shook the detective’s hand.
    The president looked at her watch, stood and donned a suit jacket she’d selected from a large closet of clothes. Sachs wondered if she pulled all-nighters. Jessen brushed at skin flakes or dust on the shoulders. “I have to meet with our PR firm and then hold a press conference. Charles, could you take Detective Sachs back to your office? She’s got some questions for you. Help her however you can.”
    “Sure. Be happy to.”
    Jessen was looking out the window at her dynasty—the massive