nything else you need, Officer?”

Sitting in the SSD conference room, Ron Pulaski looked up into the emotionless face of Sterling’s second assistant, Jeremy Mills. He was the “outside” assistant, the young officer recalled. “No, I’m fine, thanks. But I wonder if you could check with Mr. Sterling about some files he was getting together for us. A list of clients. I think Martin was handling it.”

“I’d be happy to bring it up with Andrew when he’s out of his meeting.” Then the broad-shouldered man walked around the room, pointing out the air-conditioning and light switches like the bellboy who’d escorted Jenny and Pulaski to their fancy room on their honeymoon.

Which reminded Pulaski again of how Jenny resembled Myra, the woman who’d been raped and killed yesterday. The way her hair lay, the slightly crooked smile he loved, the—

“Officer?”

Pulaski glanced up, realized his mind had been wandering. “Sorry.”

The assistant was studying him as he pointed out a small refrigerator. “Soda and water in here.”

“Thanks. I’m all set.”

Pay attention, he told himself angrily. Forget Jenny. Forget the children. People’s lives are at stake here. Amelia thinks you can handle these interviews. So handle them.!!!You with us, rookie? I need you with us.

“If you want to make a call you can use this one. Dial nine for an outside line. Or you can just push this button, then speak the number. It’s voice activated.” He pointed at Pulaski’s cell phone. “That probably won’t work too well here. Lot of shielding, you know. For security.”

“Really? Okay.” Pulaski thought back; hadn’t he seen somebody using a phone or BlackBerry here earlier? He couldn’t recall.

“I’ll have those employees come in. If you’re ready.”

“That’d be great.”

The young man headed down the hall. Pulaski took his notebook out of his briefcase. Glanced at the names of the employees he had yet to interview.!!!Steven Shraeder, Technical Service and Support Manager, day shift.!!!Faruk Mameda, Technical Service and Support Manager, night shift.

He rose and peered into the hall. Nearby a janitor was emptying trash cans. He recalled he’d seen him yesterday, doing the same; it was as if Sterling was afraid that any brimming garbage would give the company a bad name. The solid man glanced at Pulaski’s uniform without reaction and returned to his task, which he performed methodically. Looking farther down the immaculate corridor, the young cop could see a security guard standing at attention. Pulaski couldn’t even get to the restroom without passing him. He returned to his seat to await the two men on the suspect list.

Faruk Mameda was first, a young man of Middle Eastern ancestry, Pulaski judged. He was very handsome, solemn-faced and confident. He held Pulaski’s eye easily. The young man explained that he’d been with a small company SSD had acquired five or six years ago. His job was to supervise the technical-service staff. Single, with no family, he preferred working nights.

The cop was surprised that he didn’t have a trace of foreign accent. Pulaski asked if Mameda had heard about the investigation. He claimed he hadn’t heard the details—which could have been true, since he worked the night shift and had just gotten to work. All he knew was that Andrew Sterling had called and told him to speak to the police about a crime that had occurred.

He frowned as the police officer explained, “There’ve been several murders recently. We think information from SSD was used in planning the crimes.”

“Information?”

“About the victims’ whereabouts, some items they’d bought.”

Curiously Mameda’s next question was “Are you talking to all the employees?”

How much to tell, how much not to? That was one thing Pulaski never knew. Amelia always said it was important to grease the interview wheel, to keep the conversation going but never to give too much away. After the head injury, he believed his judgment had worsened and was nervous about what to say to wits and suspects. “Not all of them, no.”

“Just certain ones who’re suspicious. Or you’ve decided ahead of time are suspicious.” The employee’s voice was defensive now, his jaw tight. “I see. Sure. Happens a lot nowadays.”

“The person we’re interested in is a man, and he has full access to innerCircle and Watchtower. We’re talking to everyone who fits that description.” Pulaski had figured out Mameda’s concern. “Nothing to do with your nationality.”

The attempt at reassurance missed the mark. Mameda snapped, “Ah, well, my nationality is American. I’m a U.S. citizen. Like you. That is, I assume you’re a citizen. But maybe not. After all, very few people in this country were here originally.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mameda shrugged. “Some things in life you have to get used to. It’s unfortunate. The land of the free is also the land of the prejudiced. I…” His voice faded as he glanced past and above Pulaski, as if someone were standing behind him. The cop turned slightly. No one was there. Mameda said, “Andrew said he wants full cooperation. So I’m cooperating. Could you ask me what you need to, please? It’s a busy evening.”

“People’s dossiers—closets, you call them?”

“Yes. Closets.”

“Do you ever download them?”

“Why would I download a dossier? Andrew wouldn’t tolerate that.”

Interesting: the wrath of Andrew Sterling was the first deterrent. Not the police or the courts.

“So you haven’t?”

“Never. If there’s a bug of some sort or the data are corrupt or there’s an interface problem, I may look at a portion of the entries or the headers but that’s it. Only enough to figure out the problem and write a patch or debug the code.”

“Could somebody have found your passcodes and gotten into innerCircle? And downloaded dossiers that way?”

He paused. “Not from me they couldn’t. I don’t have them written down.”

“And you go to the data pens frequently, all of them? And Intake too?”

“Yes, of course. That’s my job. Repair the computers. Make sure the data are flowing smoothly.”

“Could you tell me where you were on Sunday afternoon between twelve and four?”

“Ah.” A nod. “So that’s what this is really about. Was I at the scene of the crime?”

Pulaski had trouble looking at the man’s dark, angry eyes.

Mameda put his hands flat on the table, as if he were going to rise in anger and storm out. But he sat back and said, “I had breakfast in the morning with some friends…” He added, “They’re from the mosque—you’ll probably want to know.”

“I—”

“After that I spent the rest of the day alone. I went to the movies.”

“By yourself?”

“Fewer distractions. I usually go alone. It was a film by Jafar Panahi—the Iranian director. Have you ever see—” His mouth tightened. “Never mind.”

“You have the ticket stub?”

“No… After that I did some shopping. I got home at six, I’d guess. Checked to see if they needed me here but the boxes were running smoothly so I had dinner with a friend.”

“In the afternoon did you buy anything with a credit card?”

He bristled. “It was window-shopping. I got some coffee, a sandwich. Paid cash for it…” He leaned forward, whispered harshly, “I don’t really think you asked everybody all these questions. I know what you think of us. You think we treat women like animals. I can’t believe you’d actually accuse me of raping someone. That’s barbaric. And you’re insulting!”

Pulaski struggled to look Mameda in the eye as he said, “Well, sir, we are asking everybody with access to innerCircle about their whereabouts yesterday. Including Mr. Sterling. We’re just doing our job.”

He calmed slightly but continued to fume when Pulaski asked his whereabouts at the times of the other killings. “I don’t have any idea.” He refused to say any more and with a grim nod, stood and walked out.

Pulaski tried to figure out what had just happened. Was Mameda acting guilty or innocent? He couldn’t tell. Mostly he felt outmaneuvered.

Think harder, he told himself.

The second employee to be interviewed, Shraeder, was the opposite of Mameda: pure geek. He was gawky, the clothes ill-fitting and wrinkled, ink stains on his hands. His glasses were owlish and the lenses smeared. Definitely not in the SSD mold. While Mameda was defensive, Shraeder seemed oblivious. He apologized for being late—which he wasn’t—and explained that he’d been in the middle of debugging a patch. He then embarked on the details, speaking as if the cop had a degree in computer science, and Pulaski had to steer him back on track.

His fingers twitching, as if he were typing on an imaginary keyboard, Shraeder listened in surprise—or feigned surprise—when Pulaski told him about the murders. He expressed sympathy and then, in answer to the young officer’s questions, said he was in the pens frequently and could download dossiers, though he never did. He too expressed confidence that nobody could get access to his passcodes.

As for Sunday he had an alibi—he’d come into the office around 1 P.M. to follow up after a big problem on Friday, which he again tried to explain to Pulaski before the cop cut him off. The young man walked to the computer in the corner of the conference room, typed and then swiveled the screen for Pulaski to see. It was his time sheets. Pulaski looked over the entries for Sunday. He had indeed clocked in at 12:58 P.M. and didn’t leave until after five.

Since Shraeder had been here at the time Myra was killed Pulaski didn’t bother to ask about the other crimes. “I think that’ll be all. Thanks.” The man left and Pulaski sat back, staring out a narrow window. His palms were sweating, his stomach in a knot. He pulled his cell phone off its holster. Jeremy, the sullen assistant, was right. No damn reception.

“Hi, there.”

Pulaski jumped. Gasping, he looked up to see Mark Whitcomb in the doorway, several yellow pads under his arm and two cups of coffee in his hands. He lifted an eyebrow. Beside him was a slightly older man, with prematurely salt-and-pepper hair. Pulaski figured this had to be an SSD employee—since he was in the uniform of white dress shirt and dark suit.

What was this about? He struggled to put a casual smile on his face and nodded them in.

“Ron, wanted you to meet my boss, Sam Brockton.”

They shook hands. Brockton looked Pulaski over carefully and said, with a wry smile, “So you were the one who had the maids checking up on me down at the Watergate hotel in D.C.?”

“Afraid so.”

“At least I’m off the hook as a suspect,” Brockton said. “If there’s anything we can do in the Compliance Department, let Mark know. He’s brought me up to speed on your case.”

“Appreciate that.”

“Good luck.” Brockton left Whitcomb, who offered Pulaski a coffee.

“For me? Thanks.”

“How’s it going?” Whitcomb asked.

“It’s going.”

The SSD executive laughed and dusted a flop of blond hair off his forehead. “You folks’re as evasive as we are.”

“I guess we are. But I can say everybody’s been cooperative.”

“Good. You finished?”

“Just waiting for something from Mr. Sterling.”

He poured sugar into the coffee. He overstirred nervously, then stopped himself.

Whitcomb lifted his cup to Pulaski’s as if toasting. He looked out at the clear day, the sky blue, the city rich green and brown. “Never liked these small windows. Middle of New York and no views.”

“I was wondering. Why is that?”

“Andrew’s worried about security. People taking pictures from outside.”

“Really?”

“It’s not entirely paranoid,” Whitcomb said. “Lot of money involved in data mining. Huge.”

“I suppose.” Pulaski wondered what kind of secrets somebody could see through a window from four or five blocks away, the closest office building this high.

“You live in the city?” he asked Pulaski.

“Yep. We’re in Queens.”

“I’m out on the Island now but I grew up in Astoria. Off Ditmars Boulevard. Near the train station.”

“Hey, I’m three blocks from there.”

“Really? You go to St. Tim’s?”

“St. Agnes. I’ve been to Tim’s a few times but Jenny didn’t like the sermons. They guilt you too much there.”

Whitcomb laughed. “Father Albright.”

“Ooooo, yeah, he’s the one.”

“My brother—he’s a cop in Philly—he decided that all you had to do if you wanted a murderer to confess is to put him in a room with Father Albright. Five minutes and he’ll confess to anything.”

“Your brother’s a cop?” Pulaski asked, laughing.

“Narcotics task force.”

“Detective?”

“Yeah.”

Pulaski said, “My brother’s in Patrol, Sixth Precinct, down in the Village.”

“That’s too funny. Both our brothers… So you went in together?”

“Yeah, we’ve kind of done everything together. We’re twins.”

“Interesting. My brother’s three years older. He’s a lot bigger than I am. I might be able to pass the physical but I wouldn’t want to have to tackle a mugger.”

“We don’t do much tackling. It’s mostly reasoning with the bad guys. Probably what you do in the Compliance Department.”

Whitcomb laughed. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“I guess that—”

“Hey, look who it is! Sergeant Friday.”

Pulaski’s gut thudded as he looked up to see slick, handsome Sean Cassel and his sidekick, the too-hip technical director, Wayne Gillespie, who joined the act by saying, “Back to get more facts, ma’am? Just the facts.” He gave a salute.

Since he’d been talking to Whitcomb about church, the moment took Pulaski right back to the Catholic high school where he and his brother had been continually at war with the boys from Forest Hills. Richer, better clothes, smarter. And fast with the cruel snipes. (“Hey, it’s the mutant brothers!”) A nightmare. Pulaski sometimes wondered if he’d gone into police work simply for the respect a uniform and gun would bring him.

Whitcomb’s lips tightened.

“Hey, Mark,” Gillespie said.

“How’s it going, Sergeant?” Cassel asked the officer.

Pulaski had been glared at on the street, been sworn at, dodged spit and bricks, and sometimes hadn’t dodged so well. None of those incidents had upset him as much as the sly words slung around like this. Smiling and playful. But playful the way a shark teases its meal before he devours it. Pulaski had looked up “Sergeant Friday” on Google on his BlackBerry and learned this was a character from an old TV show called Dragnet. Even though Friday was the hero, he was considered a “square,” which apparently meant a straight arrow, somebody extremely uncool.

Pulaski’s ears had burned as he read the information on the tiny screen, realizing only then that Cassel had been insulting him.

“Here you go.” Cassel handed Pulaski a CD in a jewel box. “Hope it helps, Sarge.”

“What’s this?”

“The list of clients who’ve downloaded information about your victims. You wanted it, remember?”

“Oh. I was expecting Mr. Sterling.”

“Well, Andrew’s a busy man. He asked me to deliver it.”

“Well, thanks.”

Gillespie said, “You’ve got your work cut out for you. Over three hundred clients in the area. And none of them got less than two hundred mailing lists.”

“That’s what I was telling you,” Cassel said. “You’re gonna be burning the midnight oil. So do we get junior G-man badges?”!!!Sergeant Friday was often mocked by the people he interviewed…

Pulaski was grinning, though he didn’t want to.

“Come on, guys.”

“Chill, Whitcomb,” Cassel said. “We’re joking around. Jesus. Don’t be so uptight.”

“What’re you doing down here, Mark?” Gillespie asked. “Shouldn’t you be looking for more laws we’re breaking?”

Whitcomb rolled his eyes and gave a sour grin, though Pulaski saw he too was embarrassed—and hurt.

The officer said, “You mind if I look it over here? In case I have some questions?”

“You go right ahead.” Cassel walked him to the computer in the corner and logged on. He put the CD in the tray, loaded it and stepped back, as Pulaski sat. The message on the screen asked what he wanted to do. Flustered, he found himself with a number of choices; he didn’t recognize any of them.

Cassel stood over his shoulder. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Sure. Just wondering what program’s best?”

“You don’t have many options,” Cassel said, laughing, as if this were obvious. “Excel.”

“X-L?” Pulaski asked. He knew his ears were red. Hated it. Just hated it.

“The spreadsheet,” Whitcomb offered helpfully, though to Pulaski that was no help whatsoever.

“You don’t know Excel?” Gillespie leaned forward and typed so fast his fingers were a blur.

The program loaded and a grid popped up, containing names, addresses, dates and times.

“You’ve read spreadsheets before, right?”

“Sure.”

“But not Excel?” Gillespie’s eyebrows were lifted in surprise.

“No. Some others.” Pulaski hated himself for playing right into their hands. Just shut up and get to work.

“Some others? Really?” Cassel asked. “Interesting.”

“It’s all yours, Sergeant Friday. Good luck.”

“Oh, that’s E-X-C-E-L,” Gillespie spelled. “Well, you can see it on the screen. You might want to check it out. It’s easy to learn. I mean, a high school kid could do it.”

“I’ll look into that.”

The two men left the room.

Whitcomb said, “Like I said earlier—nobody around here likes them very much. But the company couldn’t function without them. They’re geniuses.”

“Which I’m sure they’ll let you know.”

“You’ve got that right. Okay, I’ll let you get to work. You all right here?”

“I’ll figure things out.”

Whitcomb said, “If you get back here to the snake pit, come by and say hi.”

“Will do.”

“Or let’s meet in Astoria. Get some coffee. You like Greek food?”

“Love it.”

Pulaski flashed on an enjoyable time out. After his head injury the officer had let some friendships slide, uncertain if people would enjoy his company. He’d like hanging out with another guy, a beer, maybe catching an action flick, most of which Jenny didn’t care for.

Well, he’d think about it later—after the investigation was over, of course.

When Whitcomb was gone, Pulaski looked around. No one was nearby. Still, he recalled Mameda glancing up uneasily behind and above Pulaski’s shoulder. He thought of the special he and Jenny had recently seen about a Las Vegas casino—the “eyes in the sky” security cameras everywhere. He recalled too the security guard up the hall and the reporter whose life had been ruined because he’d spied on SSD.

Well, Ron Pulaski sure hoped there was no surveillance here. Because his mission today entailed something much more than just collecting the CD and interviewing suspects; Lincoln Rhyme had sent him here to break into what was probably the most secure computer facility in New York City.