The Broken Window

Pulaski jumped. Gasping, he looked up to see Mark Whitcomb in the doorway, several yellow pads under his arm and two cups of coffee in his hands. He lifted an eyebrow. Beside him was a slightly older man, with prematurely salt-and-pepper hair. Pulaski figured this had to be an SSD employee-since he was in the uniform of white dress shirt and dark suit.

What was this about? He struggled to put a casual smile on his face and nodded them in.

“Ron, wanted you to meet my boss, Sam Brockton.”

They shook hands. Brockton looked Pulaski over carefully and said, with a wry smile, “So you were the one who had the maids checking up on me down at the Watergate hotel in D.C.?”

“Afraid so.”

“At least I’m off the hook as a suspect,” Brockton said. “If there’s anything we can do in the Compliance Department, let Mark know. He’s brought me up to speed on your case.”

“Appreciate that.”

“Good luck.” Brockton left Whitcomb, who offered Pulaski a coffee.

“For me? Thanks.”

“How’s it going?” Whitcomb asked.

“It’s going.”

The SSD executive laughed and dusted a flop of blond hair off his forehead. “You folks’re as evasive as we are.”

“I guess we are. But I can say everybody’s been cooperative.”

“Good. You finished?”

“Just waiting for something from Mr. Sterling.”

He poured sugar into the coffee. He overstirred nervously, then stopped himself.

Whitcomb lifted his cup to Pulaski’s as if toasting. He looked out at the clear day, the sky blue, the city rich green and brown. “Never liked these small windows. Middle of New York and no views.”

“I was wondering. Why is that?”

“Andrew’s worried about security. People taking pictures from outside.”

“Really?”

“It’s not entirely paranoid,” Whitcomb said. “Lot of money involved in data mining. Huge.”

“I suppose.” Pulaski wondered what kind of secrets somebody could see through a window from four or five blocks away, the closest office building this high.

“You live in the city?” he asked Pulaski.

“Yep. We’re in Queens.”

“I’m out on the Island now but I grew up in Astoria. Off Ditmars Boulevard. Near the train station.”

“Hey, I’m three blocks from there.”

“Really? You go to St. Tim’s?”

“St. Agnes. I’ve been to Tim’s a few times but Jenny didn’t like the sermons. They guilt you too much there.”

Whitcomb laughed. “Father Albright.”

“Ooooo, yeah, he’s the one.”

“My brother-he’s a cop in Philly-he decided that all you had to do if you wanted a murderer to confess is to put him in a room with Father Albright. Five minutes and he’ll confess to anything.”

“Your brother’s a cop?” Pulaski asked, laughing.

“Narcotics task force.”

“Detective?”

“Yeah.”

Pulaski said, “My brother’s in Patrol, Sixth Precinct, down in the Village.”

“That’s too funny. Both our brothers…So you went in together?”

“Yeah, we’ve kind of done everything together. We’re twins.”

“Interesting. My brother’s three years older. He’s a lot bigger than I am. I might be able to pass the physical but I wouldn’t want to have to tackle a mugger.”

“We don’t do much tackling. It’s mostly reasoning with the bad guys. Probably what you do in the Compliance Department.”

Whitcomb laughed. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“I guess that-”

“Hey, look who it is! Sergeant Friday.”

Pulaski’s gut thudded as he looked up to see slick, handsome Sean Cassel and his sidekick, the too-hip technical director, Wayne Gillespie, who joined the act by saying, “Back to get more facts, ma’am? Just the facts.” He gave a salute.

Since he’d been talking to Whitcomb about church, the moment took Pulaski right back to the Catholic high school where he and his brother had been continually at war with the boys from Forest Hills. Richer, better clothes, smarter. And fast with the cruel snipes. (“Hey, it’s the mutant brothers!”) A nightmare. Pulaski sometimes wondered if he’d gone into police work simply for the respect a uniform and gun would bring him.

Whitcomb’s lips tightened.

“Hey, Mark,” Gillespie said.

“How’s it going, Sergeant?” Cassel asked the officer.

Pulaski had been glared at on the street, been sworn at, dodged spit and bricks, and sometimes hadn’t dodged so well. None of those incidents had upset him as much as the sly words slung around like this. Smiling and playful. But playful the way a shark teases its meal before he devours it. Pulaski had looked up “Sergeant Friday” on Google on his BlackBerry and learned this was a character from an old TV show called Dragnet. Even though Friday was the hero, he was considered a “square,” which apparently meant a straight arrow, somebody extremely uncool.

Pulaski’s ears had burned as he read the information on the tiny screen, realizing only then that Cassel had been insulting him.

“Here you go.” Cassel handed Pulaski a CD in a jewel box. “Hope it helps, Sarge.”

“What’s this?”

“The list of clients who’ve downloaded information about your victims. You wanted it, remember?”

“Oh. I was expecting Mr. Sterling.”

“Well, Andrew’s a busy man. He asked me to deliver it.”

“Well, thanks.”