“Why? He’s a CEO of a big company. What’s in it for him?”

“The more crime, the more society needs SSD to protect them. Geddes says he wants power. Described him as the Napoléon of data.”

“So he’s got a hired gun breaking windows so he can step in and fix them.” Rhyme nodded, somewhat impressed with the idea. “Only it backfired. He never thought we’d tip to the fact the SSD database was behind the crimes. Okay. Put it on the list of suspects. An UNSUB working for Sterling.”

“Now, Geddes also told me that a few years ago SSD acquired a Colorado data company. Their main scrounger-that’s a data collector-was killed.”

“Any link between Sterling and the death?”

“No idea. But it’s worth checking out. I’ll make some calls.”

The doorbell rang and Thom answered. Ron Pulaski entered. He was grim-faced and sweaty. Rhyme sometimes had an urge to tell him to take it easier but since the criminalist himself didn’t, he figured the suggestion would be hypocritical.

The rookie explained that most of the alibis for Sunday checked out. “I checked with the E-ZPass people and they confirmed Sterling went through the Midtown Tunnel when he said. I tried his son to see if his dad called from Long Island just to double-check. But he was out.”

Pulaski continued, “Something else-the Human Resources director? His only alibi was his wife. She backed him up but she was acting like a scared mouse. And she was like her husband: ‘SSD is the greatest place in the world. Blah, blah, blah…’”

Rhyme, distrustful of witnesses in any event, didn’t make much of this; one thing he’d learned from Kathryn Dance, the body language and kinesics expert with the California Bureau of Investigation, was that even when people are telling the God’s truth to police they often look guilty.

Sachs went to their suspect list and updated it.

Andrew Sterling, President, Chief Executive Officer Alibi-on Long Island, verified. Awaiting son’s confirmation

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, verified by her (biased?)

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

UNSUB recruited by Andrew Sterling (?)

Sachs looked at her watch. “Ron, Mameda should be in by now. Could you go back and talk to him and Shraeder? See where they were yesterday at the time of the Weinburg murder. And Sterling’s assistant should have the client list ready. If not, perch in his office until he gets it. Look important. Better yet, look impatient.”

“Go back to SSD?”

“Right.”

For some reason, he didn’t want to, Rhyme could see.

“Sure. Just let me call Jenny and check up on things at home.” He pulled out his phone and hit speed dial.

Rhyme deduced from part of the conversation that he was talking to his young son, and then, sounding even more childish, presumably the baby girl. The criminalist tuned it out.

It was then that his own phone rang; 44 was the first number on caller ID.

Ah, good.

“Command, answer phone.”

“Detective Rhyme?”

“Inspector Longhurst.”

“I know you’re working on that other case of yours but I thought you might like an update.”

“Of course. Please, go ahead. How’s the Reverend Goodlight?”

“He’s fine, if a bit scared. He’s insisting that no new security people or officers come into the safe house. He only trusts the ones who’ve been with him for weeks.”

“Hardly blame him.”

“I have a man screening everyone who gets close. Former SAS chap. They’re the best in the business… Now, we went through the Oldham safe house from top to bottom. Wanted to share with you what we found. Traces of copper and lead, consistent with bullets that had been milled or shaved. A few grains of gunpowder. And a few very small traces of mercury. My ballistics expert says he might be making a dum-dum bullet.”

“Yes, that’s right. Liquid mercury’s poured into the core. Causes hideous damage.”

“They also found some grease used in lubricating the receivers of rifles. And there were traces of hair bleach in the sink. And several dark gray fibers-cotton, quite thick with laundry starch. Our databases suggest they match the fabric in uniforms.”

“Do you think that the evidence was planted?”

“Our forensics people say not. The traces were quite minuscule.”

Blond, sniper, uniform…

“Now, one other incident set off alarms here: an attempted break-in at an NGO near Piccadilly-that’s a nongovernmental organization. A nonprofit. The office was the East African Relief Agency, Reverend Goodlight’s outfit. Guards came by and the culprit fled. He threw away his lock pick down the sewer. But we had a stroke of luck. Fellow on the street saw where. Well, to summarize, our people found it and discovered some soil on the tool. It contained a type of hop that’s grown exclusively in Warwickshire. This hop had been processed for use in making bitter.”

“Bitter? Like beer?”

“Ale, yes. Now it so happens that we have a database of alcoholic drinks here at the Met. And their ingredients.”

Just like mine, he reflected. “You do?”

“Put that together myself,” she said.

“Excellent. And?”

“The only brewery that uses this hop is near Birmingham. Now, we got an image of the NGO intruder on CCTV and, because of the hop, I thought I’d check the Birmingham CCTV tapes. Indeed, the same man arrived at New Street station several hours later, getting off the train with a large rucksack. We lost him in the crowds, I’m afraid.”

Rhyme considered this. The big question was: Were the hops planted on the tool to lead them off? That was the sort of thing that he could only get a feel for if he had examined the scene himself or had possession of the evidence. But now it was just down to what Sachs called a gut feel.

Planted or not?

Rhyme decided. “Inspector, I don’t believe it. I think Logan’s pulling a double reversal. He’s done this before. He wants us focused on Birmingham while he goes ahead with the hit in London.”

“I’m glad you say that, Detective. I was leaning that way myself.”

“We should play along. Where is everyone on the team?”

“Danny Krueger’s in London with his people. So’s your FBI man. The French agent and the Interpol chap were checking out leads in Oxford and Surrey. They didn’t play out, though.”

“I’d get them all to Birmingham. Immediately. In a subtle but obvious way.”

The inspector laughed. “Making sure Logan thinks we’ve swallowed the bait.”

“Exactly. I want him to think we believe we have a chance to catch him there. And send some tactical people too. Make a noise about it, make it look as if you’re pulling them back from the shooting zone in London.”

“But in fact beef up the surveillance there.”

“Right. And tell them he’s going for the long shot. He’ll be blond and dressed in a gray uniform.”

“Brilliant, Detective. I’ll get right to it.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Cheers.”

Rhyme ordered the phone to disconnect, just as a voice from across the room intruded. “Heh, the long and the short of it is your friends at SSD are good. I can’t get to first base, hacking in.” It was Rodney Szarnek. Rhyme had forgotten about him.

He rose and joined the officers. “innerCircle’s tighter than Fort Knox. And so is their database management system, Watchtower. I really doubt somebody could break in without a massive array of supercomputers, which you just aren’t going to find at Best Buy or RadioShack.”