She said in response, “But if a client bought a number of mailing lists, say, they could come up with enough data about one of our victims to commit the crimes, couldn’t they?” She nodded at the evidence list she’d shown Sterling earlier. “For instance, our perp could get lists of everyone who bought that kind of shave cream and condoms and duct tape and running shoes and so on.”

Sterling lifted an eyebrow. “Hm. It would be a huge amount of work but it’s theoretically possible… All right. I’ll get a list of all our customers who’ve bought any data that included your victims’ names-in the past, say, three months? No, maybe six.”

“That should do it.” She dug through her briefcase-considerably less organized than Sterling’s desktop-and handed him a list of the victims and fall guys.

“Our client agreement gives us the right to share information about them. There won’t be a problem legally but it will take a few hours to put together.”

“Thanks. Now, one final question about employees… Even if they’re not allowed in the pens, could they download a dossier in their office?”

He was nodding, impressed by her question, it seemed, even though it suggested an SSD worker might be the killer. “Most employees can’t-again, we have to protect our data. But a few of us have what’s called ‘all-access permission.’”

Whitcomb gave a smile. “Well, but look who that is, Andrew.”

“If there’s a problem here, we need to explore all possible solutions.”

Whitcomb said to Sachs and Pulaski, “The thing is, the all-access employees are senior people here. They’ve been with the company for years. We’re like a family. We have parties together, we have our inspirational retreats-”

Sterling held up a hand, cutting him off, and said, “We have to follow up on it, Mark. I want this rooted out, whatever it takes. I want answers.”

“Who has all-access rights?” Sachs asked.

Sterling shrugged. “I’m authorized. Our head of Sales, the head of Technical Operations. Our Human Resources director could put together a dossier, I suppose, though I’m sure he never has. And Mark’s boss, our Compliance Department director.” He gave her the names.

Sachs glanced at Whitcomb, who shook his head. “I don’t have access.”

O’Day didn’t either.

“Your assistants?” Sachs asked Sterling, referring to Jeremy and Martin.

“No…Now, as for the repair folks-the techies-the line people couldn’t assemble a dossier but we have two service managers who could. One on the day shift, one at night.” He gave her their names too.

Sachs looked over the list. “There’s one easy way to tell whether or not they’re innocent.”

“How?”

“We know where the killer was on Sunday afternoon. If they have alibis, they’ll be off the hook. Let me interview them. Right now, if we can.”

“Good,” Sterling said and gave an approving look at her suggestion: a simple “solution” to one of his “problems.” Then she realized something: Every time he’d looked at her this morning his gaze had met her eyes. Unlike many, if not most, men Sachs met, Sterling hadn’t once glanced over her body, hadn’t offered a bit of flirt. She wondered what the bedroom story was. She asked, “Could I see the security in the data pens for myself?”

“Sure. Just leave your pager, phone and PDA outside. And any thumb-drives. If you don’t, all the data will be erased. And you’ll be searched when you leave.”

“Okay.”

Sterling nodded to O’Day, who stepped into the hall and returned with the stern security guard who’d walked Sachs and Pulaski here from the massive lobby downstairs.

Sterling printed out a pass for her, signed it and handed it to the guard, who led her out into the halls.

Sachs was pleased that Sterling hadn’t resisted her request. She had an ulterior motive for seeing the pens for herself. Not only could she make yet more people aware of the investigation-in the hope they’d go for the bait-but she could question the guard about the security measures, to verify what O’Day, Sterling and Whitcomb had told her.

But the man remained virtually silent, like a child told by his parents not to speak to strangers.

Through doorways, up corridors, down a staircase, up another one. She was soon completely disoriented. Her muscles shivered. The spaces were increasingly confined, narrow and dim. Her claustrophobia began to kick in; while the windows were small throughout the Gray Rock, here-approaching the data pens-they were nonexistent. She took a deep breath. It didn’t help.

She glanced at his name badge. “Say, John?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“What’s the story with the windows? They’re either small-or there aren’t any.”

“Andrew’s concerned that people might try to photograph information from outside, like passcodes. Or business plans.”

“Really? Could somebody do that?”

“I don’t know. We’re told to check sometimes-scan nearby observation decks, windows of buildings facing the company. Nobody’s ever seen something suspicious. But Andrew wants us to keep doing it.”

The data pens were eerie places, all color-coded. Personal lifestyle was blue, financial red, governmental green. They were huge spaces but that did nothing to allay her claustrophobia. The ceilings were very low, the rooms dim and aisles narrow between the rows of computers. A constant churning filled the air, a low tone like a growl. The air-conditioning was working like mad, given the number of computers and the electricity they’d require, but the atmosphere was close and stifling.

As for the computers, she’d never seen so many in her life. They were massive white boxes and were identified, curiously, not by numbers or letters but by decals depicting cartoon characters like Spider-Man, Batman, Barney, the Road Runner and Mickey Mouse.

“SpongeBob?” she asked, nodding at one.

John offered his first smile. “It’s another layer of security Andrew thought of. We have people looking online for anybody talking about SSD and innerCircle. If there’s a reference to the company and a cartoon name, like Wile E. Coyote or Superman, it might mean somebody’s a little too interested in the computers themselves. The names jump out more than if we just numbered the computers.”

“Smart,” she said, reflecting on the irony that Sterling preferred people to be numbered and his computers named.

They entered the Intake Center, painted a grim gray. It was smaller than the data pens and boosted her claustrophobia even further. As in the pens, the only decorations here were the logo of the watchtower and illuminated window, and a large picture of Andrew Sterling, a posed smile on his face. Below it was the caption “You’re Number One!”

Maybe it referred to market share or to an award the company had won. Or maybe it was a slogan about the importance of employees. Still, to Sachs it seemed ominous, as if you were at the top of a list you didn’t want to be on.

Her breathing was coming quickly as the sense of confinement grew.

“Gets to you, doesn’t it?” the guard asked.

She gave a smile. “A little.”

“We make our rounds but nobody spends more time in the pens than we have to.”

Now that she’d broken the ice and gotten John to answer in more than monosyllables, she asked him about the security, to verify if Sterling and the others were being straight.

They were, it seemed. John reiterated what the CEO had said: None of the computers or workstations in the rooms had a slot or port to download data, merely keyboards and monitors. And the rooms were shielded, the guard said; no wireless signals could get out. And he explained too what Sterling and Whitcomb had told her earlier about data from each pen being useless without the data from the others and from Intake. There wasn’t much security on the computer monitors but to get into the pens you needed your ID card, a passcode and a biometric scan-or, apparently, a big security guard watching your every move (which was just what John had been doing, and not so subtly).