The Broken Window

by Jeffery Deaver

  Unlike Cassel, Gillespie was nervous, hands constantly in motion, fiddling with three electronic devices on his belt--a BlackBerry, a PDA and an elaborate cell phone. He avoided eye contact--flirt was the last thing on his mind, though, like the sales director, his wedding ring finger was bare. Maybe Sterling preferred single men in positions of power at his company. Loyal princes rather than ambitious dukes.

  Sachs's impression was that Gillespie had heard less than Cassel about their presence here and she snagged his attention when she described the crimes. "Interesting. Okay, interesting. That's sleek, he's pianoing data to commit crimes."

  "He's what?"

  Gillespie flicked his fingers together with nervous energy. "I mean, he's finding data. Collecting it."

  No comment about the fact that people had been murdered. Was this an act? The real killer might have feigned horror and sympathy.

  Sachs asked his whereabouts on Sunday and he too had no alibi, though he launched into a long story of code he was debugging at home and some role-playing computer game he was competing in.

  "So there'd be a record of when you were online yesterday?"

  A hesitation now. "Oh, I was just practicing, you know. I wasn't online. I looked up and suddenly it was late. You're so nod, everything else kind of disappears."

  "Nod?"

  He realized he was speaking a foreign language. "Oh, I mean, like, you're in a zone. You get caught up in the game. Like the rest of your life dozes off."

  He claimed not to know Myra Weinburg either. And no one could have gotten access to his passcodes, he assured her. "As for cracking my words, good luck--they're all sixteen-digit random characters. I've never written them down. I'm lucky I've got a good memory."

  Gillespie was on his computer "in the system" all the time. He added defensively, "I mean, it's my job." Though he frowned in confusion when asked about downloading individual dossiers. "There's, like, no point. Reading about everything John Doe bought last week at his local grocery store. Hello . . . I've got better things to do."

  He also admitted that he spent a lot of time in the data pens, "tuning the boxes." Her impression was that he liked it there, found it comfortable--the same place that she couldn't escape from fast enough.

  Gillespie too was unable to recall where he'd been at the times of the other killings. She thanked him and he left, pulling his PDA off his belt before he was through the doorway and typing a message with his thumbs faster than Sachs could use all her fingers.

  As they waited for the next all-access suspect to arrive, Sachs asked Pulaski, "Impressions?"

  "Okay, I don't like Cassel."

  "I'm with you there."

  "But he seems too obnoxious to be Five Twenty-Two. Too yuppie, you know? If he could kill somebody with his ego, then, yeah. In a minute . . . As for Gillespie? I'm not so sure. He tried to seem surprised about Myra's death but I'm not sure he was. And that attitude of his--'pianoing' and 'nod'? You know what those are? Expressions from the street. 'Pianoing' means looking for crack, like your fingers are all over the place. You know, frantic. And 'nod' means being drugged out on smack or a tranquilizer. It's how kids from the burbs talk trying to sound cool when they're scoring from dealers in Harlem or the Bronx."

  "You think he's into drugs?"

  "Well, he seemed pretty twitchy. But my impression?"

  "I asked."

  "It's not drugs he's addicted to, it's this--" The young officer gestured around him. "The data."

  She thought about this and agreed. The atmosphere in SSD was intoxicating, though not in a pleasant way. Eerie and disorienting. It was like being on painkillers.

  Another man appeared in the doorway. He was the Human Resources director, a young, trim, light-skinned African American. Peter Arlonzo-Kemper explained that he rarely went into the data pens but had permission to, so that he could meet with employees at their job stations. He did go online into innerCircle from time to time on personnel-related issues--but only to review data on employees of SSD, never the public.

  So he had accessed "closets," despite what Sterling had said about him.

  The intense man pasted a smile on his face and answered in monotones, frequently changing the subject, the gist of his message being that Sterling--always "Andrew," Sachs had noticed--was the "kindest, most considerate boss anybody could ask for." Nobody would ever think about betraying him or the "ideals" of SSD, whatever those might be. He couldn't imagine a criminal within the hallowed halls of the company.

  His admiration was tedious.

  Once she got him off the worship, he explained that he had been with his wife all day on Sunday (making him the only married employee she'd talked to). And he'd been cleaning out his recently deceased mother's house in the Bronx on the date Alice Sanderson had been killed. He'd been alone but imagined he could find someone 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 the evidence 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 Sterling.

  Then the CEO touched her arm gently. "There's something I want to say, Detective."

  She turned to the man, who stood with his arms at his side, feet spread, looking up at her with his intense green eyes. It was impossible to look away from his focused, mesmerizing gaze.

  "I'm not going to deny that I'm in the knowledge service provider field to make money. But I'm also in it to improve our society. Think about what we do. Think about the kids who're going to get decent clothes and nice Christmas presents for the first time because of the money their parents save, thanks to SSD. Or about the young marrieds who can now find a bank that'll give them a mortgage for their first house because SSD can predict that in fact they'll be acceptable credit risks. Or the identity thieves that're caught because our algorithms see a glitch in your credit card spending patterns. Or the RFID tags in a child's bracelet or wristwatch that tell the parents where they are every minute of the day. The intelligent toilets that diagnose diabetes when you don't even know you're at risk.

  "And take your line of work, Detective. Say you're investigating a murder. There're traces of cocaine on a knife, the murder weapon. Our PublicSure program can tell you who with a cocaine arrest in his background used a knife in the commission of a felony any time in the past twenty years, in any geographic area you like, and whether they were right-or left-handed and what their shoe sizes are. Before you even ask, their fingerprints pop up on the screen, along with their pictures, and details of their M.O.'s, distinguishing characteristics, disguises they've used in the past, distinctive voice patterns and a dozen more attributes.

  "We can also tell you who bought that particular brand of knife--or maybe even that very knife. And possibly we know where the purchaser was at the time of the crime and where he is now. If the system can't find him, it can tell you the percentage likelihood of his being at a known accomplice's house and display their fingerprints and distinguishing characteristics. And this whole bundle of data comes to you in a grand total of about twenty seconds.

  "Our society needs help, Detective. Remember the broken windows? Well, SSD is here to help. . . ." He smiled. "That's the wind-up. Here's the pitch. I'm asking that you be discreet in the investigation. I'll do whatever I can--especially if it seems this is somebody from SSD. But if rumors get started about breaches here, careless security, our competitors and critics would jump on that. And jump hard. It could badly interfere with SSD's job to fix as many windows as we can and make this world better. Are we in agreement?"

  Amelia Sachs suddenly felt bad about this duplicitous mission, planting the seeds to encourage their perp to go after the trap without telling Sterling. She struggled to maintain eye contact as she said, "I think we're in complete agreement."

  "Wonderful. Now, Martin, please show our guests out."

  Chapter Twenty-two "Broken windows?"

  Sachs was telling Rhyme about the SSD logo.

  "I like that."

  "You do?"

  "Yeah. Think about it. It's a metaphor for what we do here. We find the small bits of evidence and that leads us to the big answer."

  Sellitto nodded toward Rodney Szarnek, sitting in the corner, oblivious to everything but his computer and still whistling. "Kid in the T-shirt's got the trap in place. And he's trying to hack in now." He called, "Any luck, Officer?"

  "Heh--those folk know what they're doing. But I've got a dozen tricks up my sleeve."

  Sachs told them that the head of security didn't believe that anyone could hack into innerCircle.

  "Only makes the game sweeter," Szarnek said. He finished another coffee and resumed the faint whistling.

  Sachs then told them about Sterling, the company and how the data-mining process worked. Despite what Thom had explained yesterday and despite their preliminary research, Rhyme hadn't realized how extensive the industry was.

  "He acting fishy?" Sellitto said. "This Sterling?"

  Rhyme grunted at the, to him, pointless question.

  "No. He's cooperative. And, good for us, he's a true believer. Data's his god. Anything that jeopardizes his company he wants to root out."

  Sachs then described the tight security at SSD, how very few people had access to all three data pens, and how it was impossible to steal data even if you got inside. "They've had one intruder--a reporter--who was just after a story, not even stealing trade secrets. He did time and his career is over with."

  "Vindictive, hm?"

  Sachs considered this. "No. I'd say protective. . . . Now, as for employees: I interviewed most of them who had access to people's dossiers. There are a few that weren't accounted for yesterday afternoon. Oh, and I asked if they log downloads; they don't. And we'll be getting a list of clients who've bought data about the vics and fall guys."

  "But the important thing is you let them know about an investigation and gave them all the name Myra Weinburg."

  "Right."

  Then Sachs took a document from her briefcase. Arthur's dossier, she explained. "Thought it might be helpful. If nothing else, you might be interested in it. Seeing what your cousin's been up to." Sachs removed the staple and mounted it on the reading frame near Rhyme--a device that turned pages for him.

  He glanced at the document. Then back to the charts.

  "Don't you want to look through it?" she asked.

  "Maybe later."

  She returned to her briefcase. "Here's the list of SSD employees who have access to the dossiers--they're called 'closets.' "

  "As in secrets?"

  "Right. Pulaski's out checking their alibis. We have to go back to talk to the two technical managers but here's what we have so far." On a whiteboard she wrote their names and some comments.

  Andrew Sterling, President, Chief Executive Officer Alibi--on Long Island, to be verified Sean Cassel, Director of Sales and Marketing No alibi

  Wayne Gillespie, Director of Technical Operations No alibi

  Samuel Brockton, Director, Compliance Department Alibi--hotel records confirm presence in Washington Peter Arlonzo-Kemper, Director of Human Resources Alibi--with wife, to be verified

  Steven Shraeder, Technical Service and Support Manager, day shift To be interviewed

  Faruk Mameda, Technical Service and Support Manager, night shift To be interviewed

  Client of SSD (?)

  Awaiting list from Sterling

  "Mel?" Rhyme called. "Check NCIC and the department."

  Cooper ran the names through the National Crime Information Center and the NYPD equivalent, as well as the Justice Department's Violent Criminal Apprehension Program.

  "Wait . . . may have a hit here."

  "What is it?" Sachs asked, moving forward.

  "Arlonzo Kemper. Juvie in Pennsylvania. Assault twenty-five years ago. The record's still sealed."

  "The
age would be right. He's about thirty-five. And he's light-skinned." Sachs nodded at the 522 profile chart.

  "Well, get the record unsealed. Or at least find out if it's the same guy."

  "I'll see what I can do." Cooper typed some more.

  "Any references to the others?" Rhyme nodded toward the suspect list.

  "Nope. Just him."

  Cooper ran various state and federal database searches and checked some professional organizations. The tech shrugged. "Went to UC-Hastings. No connection with Pennsylvania that I can find. Seems like a loner: Aside from college credentials, his only organization is the National Association of Human Resource Professionals. He was on the technology task force two years ago but hasn't done much since.

  "Okay, here's what they have on the juvie. He attacked another kid in a detention home. . . . Oh."

  "Oh what?"

  "It's not him. No hyphen. The name's different. The juvenile was first name Arlonzo, last name Kemper." He glanced at the chart. "He's 'Peter,' last name 'Arlonzo-Kemper.' I typed it in wrong. If I'd included the hyphen, it wouldn't have shown up at all. Sorry."

  "Not the worst of sins." Rhyme shrugged. This was a sobering lesson about the nature of data, he reflected. They seemingly had found a suspect and even Cooper's characterization of him suggested he might be the one--He seems to be a loner--yet the lead was completely wrong, due to the minuscule error of missing a single keystroke. They might have come down hard on the man--and misdirected resources--if Cooper hadn't realized his mistake.

  Sachs sat down beside Rhyme, who, seeing her eyes, asked, "What is it?"

  "Funny, but now that I'm back, I feel like some kind of spell's been broken. I think I want an outside opinion. About SSD. I lost perspective when I was there. . . . It's a disorienting place."

  "How so?" Sellitto asked.

  "You ever been to Vegas?"

  Sellitto and his ex had. Rhyme gave a brief laugh. "Las Vegas, where the only question is how much disadvantage you have. And why would I want to give money away?"