The Broken Window

“Then you should be thankful he’s honest with you. That’s a good sign. And then you convince him to dump the bimbo.” They laughed. “What you do is say that you just want to date one person.” The start-up mother in Sachs added quickly, “We’re not talking about getting married, not moving in. Just dating.”

Pam nodded quickly. “Oh, absolutely.”

Relieved, Sachs continued, “And he’s the one you want to see. But you expect the same thing from him. You have something important, you relate to each other, you can talk, you’ve got a connection and you don’t see that very much.”

“Like you and Mr. Rhyme.”

“Yeah, like that. But if he doesn’t want it, then okay.”

“No, it’s not.” Pam frowned.

“No, I’m just telling you what you say. But then tell him you’re going to be dating other people too. He can’t have it both ways.”

“I guess. But what if he says fine?” Her face was dark at the thought.

A laugh. Sachs shook her head. “Yep, it’s a bummer when they call your bluff. But I don’t think he will.”

“All right. I’m going to see him tomorrow after class. I’ll talk to him.”

“Call me. Let me know.” Sachs rose, lifted away the polish and capped it. “Get some sleep. It’s late.”

“But my nails. I’m not finished.”

“Don’t wear open-toed.”

“Amelia?”

She paused at the doorway.

“Are you and Mr. Rhyme going to get married?”

Sachs smiled and closed the door.

III. THE FORTUNE TELLER

MONDAY, MAY 23

With uncanny accuracy, computers predict behavior by sifting through mountains of data about customers collected by businesses. Called predictive analytics, this automated crystal ball gazing has become a $2.3 billion industry in the United States and is on track to reach $3 billion by 2008.

– CHICAGO TRIBUNE

Chapter Eighteen

They’re pretty big…

Amelia Sachs sat in Strategic Systems Datacorp’s sky-high lobby and reflected that the shoe company president’s description of SSD’s data mining operation was, well, pretty understated.

The Midtown building was thirty stories high, a gray spiky monolith, the sides smooth granite flashing with mica. The windows were narrow slits, which was surprising given the stunning views of the city from this location and elevation. She was familiar with the building, dubbed the Gray Rock, but had never known who owned it.

She and Ron Pulaski-no longer in play clothes but wearing a navy suit and navy uniform, respectively-sat facing a massive wall on which were printed the locations of the SSD offices around the world, among them London, Buenos Aires, Mumbai, Singapore, Beijing, Dubai, Sydney and Tokyo.

Pretty big…

Above the list of satellite offices was the company logo: the window in the watchtower.

Her gut twisted slightly as she recalled the windows in the abandoned building across the street from Robert Jorgensen’s residence hotel. She recalled Lincoln Rhyme’s words about the incident with the federal agent in Brooklyn.

He knew exactly where you were. Which means he was watching. Be careful, Sachs…

Looking around the lobby, she saw a half dozen businesspeople waiting here, many of them uneasy, it seemed, and she recalled the shoe company president and his concern about losing SSD’s services. She then saw, almost en masse, their heads swivel, looking past the receptionist. They were watching a short man, youthful, enter the lobby and walk directly toward Sachs and Pulaski over the black-and-white rugs. His posture was perfect and his stride long. The sandy-haired man nodded and smiled, offering a fast greeting-by name-to nearly everybody here.

A presidential candidate. That was Sachs’s first impression.

But he didn’t stop until he came to the officers. “Good morning. I’m Andrew Sterling.”

“Detective Sachs. This is Officer Pulaski.”

Sterling was shorter than Sachs by several inches but he seemed quite fit and had broad shoulders. His immaculate white shirt featured a starched collar and cuffs. His arms seemed muscular; the jacket was tight-fitting. No jewelry. Crinkles radiated from the corners of his green eyes when that easy smile crossed his face.

“Let’s go to my office.”

The head of such a big company…yet he’d come to them, rather than having an underling escort them to his throne room.

Sterling walked easily down the wide, quiet halls. He greeted every employee, sometimes asking questions about their weekends. They ate up his smiles at reports of an enjoyable weekend and his frowns at word of ill relatives or canceled games. There were dozens of them, and he made a personal comment to each.