“I-”

“I’ll take care of it, Andrew,” Whitcomb said quickly, sitting down at his computer. “I’ll get them from Human Resources.” To Pulaski he said, “It shouldn’t take long.”

“Good,” Sterling said. “And let me know what you find.”

“Yes, Andrew.”

The CEO stepped closer, looking up into Pulaski’s eyes. He shook his hand firmly. “Good night, Officer.”

When he was gone, Pulaski said, “Thanks. I should’ve asked him first.”

“Yeah, you should have. I assumed you did. The one thing that Andrew doesn’t like is to be kept in the dark. If he has the information, even if it’s bad news, he’s happy. You’ve seen the reasonable side of Andrew Sterling. The unreasonable side doesn’t seem much different. But it is, believe me.”

“You won’t get in trouble, will you?”

A laugh. “As long as he doesn’t find out I got the time sheets an hour before he suggested it.”

As Pulaski walked toward the elevator with Whitcomb, he glanced back. There at the end of the corridor was Andrew Sterling, talking to Sean Cassel, their heads down. The sales director was nodding. Pulaski’s heart bumped hard. Then Sterling strode off. Cassel turned and, polishing his glasses with the black cloth, looked directly at Pulaski. He smiled a greeting. His expression, the officer read, said the businessman wasn’t the least surprised to see him there.

The elevator arrival bell dinged and Whitcomb gestured Pulaski inside.

The phone rang in Rhyme’s lab. Ron Pulaski reported what he’d learned at SSD about the whereabouts of the suspects. Sachs transcribed the information on the suspects chart.

Only two were in the office at the time of the killing-Mameda and Gillespie.

“So it could be any one of the other half dozen,” Rhyme muttered.

“The place was virtually empty,” the young officer said. “Not many people were in late.”

“They don’t need to be,” Sachs pointed out. “The computers do all the work.”

Rhyme told Pulaski to go on home to his family. He pressed back into his headrest and stared at the board.

Andrew Sterling, President, Chief Executive Officer

Alibi-on Long Island, verified. Confirmed by son

Sean Cassel, Director of Sales and Marketing

No alibi

Wayne Gillespie, Director of Technical Operations

No alibi

Alibi for groundskeeper’s killing (in office, according to time sheets)

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

Alibi-in office, according to time sheets

Faruk Mameda, Technical Service and Support Manager, night shift

No alibi

Alibi for groundskeeper’s killing (in office, according to time sheets)

Client of SSD (?)

Awaiting list from NYPD Computer Crimes Unit

UNSUB recruited by Andrew Sterling (?)

But was 522 one of them at all? Rhyme wondered once again. He thought of what Sachs had told him about the concept of “noise” in data mining. Were these names just noise? Distractions, keeping them from the truth?

Rhyme executed a smart turn on the TDX and again faced the whiteboards. Something nagged. What was it?

“Lincoln-”

“Shh.”

Something he’d read, or heard about. No, a case-from years ago. Hovering just out of memory. Frustrating. Like trying to scratch an itch on his ear.

He was aware of Cooper looking at him. That irritated too. He closed his eyes.

Almost…

Yes!

“What is it?”

Apparently he’d spoken out loud.

“I think I’ve got it. Thom, you follow popular culture, don’t you?”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“You read magazines, newspapers. Look at ads. Are Tareyton cigarettes still made?”

“I don’t smoke. I’ve never smoked.”

“I’d rather fight than switch,” Lon Sellitto announced.

“What?”

“That was the ad in the sixties. People with a black eye?”

“Don’t recall it.”

“My dad used to smoke ’em.”

“Are they still made? That’s what I’m asking.”

“I don’t know. But you don’t see ’em much.”

“Exactly. And the other tobacco we found was old too. So whether or not he smokes, it’s a reasonable assumption he collects cigarettes.”

“Cigarettes. What kind of collector is that?”

“No, not just cigarettes. The old soda with the artificial sweetener. Maybe cans or bottles. And mothballs, matches, doll’s hair. And the mold, the Stachybotrys Chartarum, the dust from the Trade Towers. I don’t think it’s that he’s downtown. I think he just hasn’t cleaned in years…” A grim laugh. “And what other collection have we been dealing with lately? Data. Five Twenty-Two’s obsessed with collecting… I think he’s a hoarder.”

“A what?”

“He hoards things. He never throws anything away. That’s why there’s so much ‘old.’”

“Yeah, I think I’ve heard of that,” Sellitto said. “It’s weird. Creepy.”

Rhyme had once searched a scene where a compulsive hoarder had died, crushed to death under a pile of books-well, he was immobilized and took two days to die of internal injuries. Rhyme described the cause of death as “unpleasant.” He hadn’t studied the condition much but he’d learned that New York had a task force to help hoarders get therapeutic assistance and protect them and their neighbors from their compulsive behavior.

“Let’s give our resident shrink a call.”

“Terry Dobyns?”

“Maybe he knows somebody at the hoarding task force. Have him check. And get him over here in person.”

“At this hour?” Cooper asked. “It’s after ten.”

Rhyme didn’t even bother to offer the punch line of the day: We’re not sleeping; why should anyone else? A look conveyed the message just fine.

Lincoln Rhyme had his second wind.

Thom had fixed food again and, although Rhyme generally took no particular pleasure in eating, he’d enjoyed the chicken club sandwiches with the aide’s homemade bread. “It’s James Beard’s recipe,” the aide announced, though the reference to the revered chef and cookbook author was utterly lost on Rhyme. Sellitto had wolfed down one sandwich and taken another with him when he left for home. (“Even better than the tuna,” he judged.) Mel Cooper asked for the bread recipe for Gretta.

Sachs was on the computer sending some e-mails. Rhyme was going to ask what she was doing when the doorbell rang.

A moment later Thom ushered into the lab Terry Dobyns, the NYPD behaviorist whom Rhyme had known for years. He was a little balder, a little thicker in the belly than when they’d first met-when Dobyns had sat with Rhyme for hours at a time, during that terrible time after the accident that left him paralyzed. The doctor still had the same kind, perceptive eyes that Rhyme recalled, and a calming, nonjudgmental smile. The criminalist was skeptical of psychological profiling, preferring forensics, but he had to admit that Dobyns had from time to time offered brilliant and helpful insights into the perps Rhyme pursued.

He now said hello to everyone, took coffee from Thom and declined food. He sat on a stool next to Rhyme’s wheelchair.

“Good call, about the hoarding. I think you’re right. And first, let me tell you that I checked with the task force and they looked into the known hoarders in the city. There aren’t many and the odds are that it’s none of them. I eliminated the women, since you told me about the rape. Of the men, most are elderly or nonfunctioning. The only two that fit the functioning profile are in Staten Island and the Bronx and they were accounted for by social workers or family members at the time of the killing on Sunday.”