The Broken Window (Lincoln Rhyme 8)

"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.

Chapter Twenty-six Sipping strong, sweet coffee in the cafe across the street from the Gray Rock, thirty-nine-year-old Miguel Abrera was flipping through a brochure he'd received in the mail recently. It was yet another in a recent

series of unusual occurrences in his life. Most were merely odd or irritating; this one was troubling.

He looked through it yet again. Then closed it and sat back, glancing at his watch. He still had ten minutes before he had to return to the job.

Miguel was a maintenance specialist, as SSD called it, but he told everybody he was a janitor. Whatever the title, the tasks he performed were a janitor's tasks. He did a good job and he liked the work. Why should he be ashamed of what he was called?

He could have taken his break in the building but the free coffee that SSD provided was lousy and they didn't even give you real milk or cream. Besides, he wasn't one for chitchat and preferred enjoying a newspaper and coffee in solitude. (He missed smoking, though. He'd bargained away cigarettes in the emergency room and even though God hadn't kept his side of the deal, Miguel had given up the habit anyway.) He glanced up to see a fellow employee enter the cafe, Tony Petron, a senior janitor who worked executive row. The men exchanged nods and Miguel was worried that the man would join him. But Petron went to sit in the corner by himself to read e-mail or messages on his cell phone and once again Miguel looked over the flyer, which was addressed to him personally. Then, as he sipped the sweet coffee, he considered the other unusual things that had happened recently.

Like his time sheets. At SSD you simply walked through the turnstile and your ID card told the computer when you entered and when you left. But a couple of times in the past few months his sheets had been off. He always worked a forty-hour week and was always paid for forty hours. But occasionally he'd happened to look at his records and saw that they were wrong. They said he came in earlier than he had, then left earlier. Or he missed a weekday and worked a Saturday. But he never had. He'd talked to his supervisor about it. 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 after she 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.