The man who knows everything…

“Information?” His concern seemed genuine. He was perplexed too, though. “I’m not sure how that could happen but tell me more.”

“Well, the killer knew exactly what personal products the victims used and he planted traces of them as evidence at an innocent person’s residence to connect them to the killing.” From time to time the eyebrows above Sterling’s emerald irises narrowed. He seemed genuinely troubled as she gave him the details about the theft of the painting and coins and the two sexual assaults.

“That’s terrible…” Troubled by the news, he glanced away from her. “Rapes?”

Sachs nodded grimly and then explained how SSD seemed to be the only company in the area that had access to all the information the killer had used.

He rubbed his face, nodding slowly.

“I can see why you’re concerned… But wouldn’t it be easier for this killer just to follow the people he victimized and find out what they bought? Or even hack into their computers, break into their mailboxes, their homes, jot down their license plate numbers from the street?”

“But see, that’s the problem: He could. But he’d have to do all of those things to get the information he needed. There’ve been four crimes at a minimum-we think there could probably be more-and that means up-to-date information on the four victims and four men he’s setting up. The most efficient way to get that information would be to go through a data miner.”

Sterling gave a smile, a delicate wince.

Sachs frowned and cocked her head.

He said, “Nothing wrong with that term, ‘data miner.’ The press has latched on to it and you see it everywhere.”

Twenty million search-engine hits…

“But I prefer to call SSD a knowledge service provider-a KSP. Like an Internet service provider.”

Sachs had a strange sensation; he seemed almost hurt by what she’d said. She wanted to tell him she wouldn’t do it again.

Sterling smoothed a stack of papers on his organized desktop. At first she thought they were blank but then she noticed they were all turned facedown. “Well, believe me, if anyone at SSD is involved, I want to find out as much as you do. This could look very bad for us-knowledge service providers haven’t been doing very well in the press or in Congress lately.”

“First of all,” Sachs said, “the killer would have bought most of the items with cash, we’re pretty sure.”

Sterling nodded. “He wouldn’t want to leave any trace of himself.”

“Right. But the shoes he bought mail order or online. Would you have a list of people who bought these shoes in these sizes in the New York area?” She handed him a list of the Altons, the Bass and the Sure-Tracks. “The same man would have bought all of them.”

“What time period?”

“Three months.”

Sterling made a phone call. He had a brief conversation and no more than sixty seconds later he was looking at his computer screen. He swiveled it so Sachs could see, though she wasn’t sure what she was looking at-strings of product information and codes.

The CEO shook his head. “Roughly eight hundred Altons sold, twelve hundred Bass, two hundred Sure-Tracks. But no one person bought all three. Or even two pairs.”

Rhyme had suspected that the killer, if he used information from SSD, would cover his tracks but they’d hoped this lead would pay off. Staring at the numbers, she wondered if the killer had used the identity-theft techniques he’d perfected on Robert Jorgensen to order the shoes.

“Sorry.”

She nodded.

Sterling uncapped a battered silver pen and pulled a notepad toward him. In precise script he wrote several notes Sachs couldn’t read, stared at it, nodded to himself. “You’re thinking, I’d imagine, that the problem is an intruder, an employee, one of our customers or a hacker, right?”

Ron Pulaski glanced at Sachs and said, “Exactly.”

“All right. Let’s get to the bottom of it.” He checked his Seiko watch. “I want some other people in here. It may take a few minutes. We have our Spirit Circles every Monday around this time.”

“Spirit Circles?” Pulaski asked.

“Inspirational team meetings by the group leaders. They should be finished soon. We start at eight on the dot. But some go a little longer than others. Depending on the leader.” He said, “Command, intercom, Martin.”

Sachs laughed to herself. He was using the same sort of voice-recognition system that Lincoln Rhyme had.

“Yes, Andrew?” The voice came from a tiny box on the desk.

“I want Tom-security Tom-and Sam. Are they in Spirit Circles?”

“No, Andrew, but Sam’s probably going to be in Washington all week. He won’t be back till Friday. Mark, his assistant’s in.”

“Him, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Command, intercom, disconnect.” To Sachs he said, “Should just be a moment.”

She imagined that when Andrew Sterling summoned you, you materialized pretty quickly. He jotted a few more notes. As he did, she glanced at the company logo on the wall. When he was through writing she said, “I’m curious about that. The tower and the window. What’s the significance of it?”

“On one level it just means observing data. But there’s a second meaning.” He smiled, pleased to be explaining this. “Do you know the concept of the broken window in social philosophy?”

“No.”

“I learned about it years ago and never forgot it. The thrust is that in order to improve society you should concentrate on the small things. If you control those-or fix them-then the bigger changes will follow. Take housing projects with a high-crime problem. You can sink millions into increased police patrols and security cameras but if the projects still look dilapidated and dangerous, they’ll stay dilapidated and dangerous. Instead of millions of dollars, put thousands into fixing the windows, painting, cleaning the halls. It may seem cosmetic but people will notice. They’ll take pride in where they live. They’ll start to report people who are threats and who don’t look after their property.

“As I’m sure you know, that was the thrust of crime prevention in New York in the nineties. And it worked.”

“Andrew?” came Martin’s voice from the intercom. “Tom and Mark are here.”

Sterling ordered, “Send them in.” He set the paper he’d been jotting notes on directly in front of him. He gave Sachs a grim smile. “Let’s see if anybody’s been peeking through our window.”

The doorbell rang and Thom ushered in a man in his early thirties, disheveled brown hair, jeans, a Weird Al Yankovic T-shirt under a shabby brown sports coat.

You couldn’t be in the forensics game nowadays without being computer literate but both Rhyme and Cooper recognized their limitations. When it was clear that there were digital implications of the 522 case, Sellitto had requested some help from the NYPD Computer Crimes Unit, an elite group of thirty-two detectives and support staff.

Rodney Szarnek strode into the room, glanced at the nearest monitor and said, “Hey,” as if he were speaking to the hardware. Similarly when he glanced toward Rhyme he expressed no interest in his physical condition whatsoever, only in the wireless environmental control unit attached to the armrest. He seemed impressed.

“Your day off?” Sellitto asked, glancing at the slim young man’s outfit, his voice making it clear he didn’t approve. Rhyme knew the detective was old school; police officers should dress appropriately.

“Day off?” Szarnek replied, missing the dig. “No. Why would I have a day off?”

“Just wondering.”

“Heh. So, now, what’s the story?”

“We need a trap.”

Lincoln Rhyme’s theory about strolling into SSD and just plain asking about a killer wasn’t as naive as it seemed. When he’d seen on the company Web site that SSD’s PublicSure division supported police departments, his hunch was that NYPD was a customer. If that was the case, then the killer might have access to the department files. A fast call revealed that, yes, the department was a client. PublicSure software and SSD consultants provided data management services for the city, including consolidation of case information, reports and records. If a patrolman on the street needed a warrant check, or a detective new to a homicide needed the case’s history, PublicSure helped get the information to his desk or squad-car computer or even his PDA or cell phone, in minutes.