Gillespie said, “You’ve got your work cut out for you. Over three hundred clients in the area. And none of them got less than two hundred mailing lists.”

“That’s what I was telling you,” Cassel said. “You’re gonna be burning the midnight oil. So do we get junior G-man badges?”

Sergeant Friday was often mocked by the people he interviewed…

Pulaski was grinning, though he didn’t want to.

“Come on, guys.”

“Chill, Whitcomb,” Cassel said. “We’re joking around. Jesus. Don’t be so uptight.”

“What’re you doing down here, Mark?” Gillespie asked. “Shouldn’t you be looking for more laws we’re breaking?”

Whitcomb rolled his eyes and gave a sour grin, though Pulaski saw he too was embarrassed-and hurt.

The officer said, “You mind if I look it over here? In case I have some questions?”

“You go right ahead.” Cassel walked him to the computer in the corner and logged on. He put the CD in the tray, loaded it and stepped back, as Pulaski sat. The message on the screen asked what he wanted to do. Flustered, he found himself with a number of choices; he didn’t recognize any of them.

Cassel stood over his shoulder. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Sure. Just wondering what program’s best?”

“You don’t have many options,” Cassel said, laughing, as if this were obvious. “Excel.”

“X-L?” Pulaski asked. He knew his ears were red. Hated it. Just hated it.

“The spreadsheet,” Whitcomb offered helpfully, though to Pulaski that was no help whatsoever.

“You don’t know Excel?” Gillespie leaned forward and typed so fast his fingers were a blur.

The program loaded and a grid popped up, containing names, addresses, dates and times.

“You’ve read spreadsheets before, right?”

“Sure.”

“But not Excel?” Gillespie’s eyebrows were lifted in surprise.

“No. Some others.” Pulaski hated himself for playing right into their hands. Just shut up and get to work.

“Some others? Really?” Cassel asked. “Interesting.”

“It’s all yours, Sergeant Friday. Good luck.”

“Oh, that’s E-X-C-E-L,” Gillespie spelled. “Well, you can see it on the screen. You might want to check it out. It’s easy to learn. I mean, a high school kid could do it.”

“I’ll look into that.”

The two men left the room.

Whitcomb said, “Like I said earlier-nobody around here likes them very much. But the company couldn’t function without them. They’re geniuses.”

“Which I’m sure they’ll let you know.”

“You’ve got that right. Okay, I’ll let you get to work. You all right here?”

“I’ll figure things out.”

Whitcomb said, “If you get back here to the snake pit, come by and say hi.”

“Will do.”

“Or let’s meet in Astoria. Get some coffee. You like Greek food?”

“Love it.”

Pulaski flashed on an enjoyable time out. After his head injury the officer had let some friendships slide, uncertain if people would enjoy his company. He’d like hanging out with another guy, a beer, maybe catching an action flick, most of which Jenny didn’t care for.

Well, he’d think about it later-after the investigation was over, of course.

When Whitcomb was gone, Pulaski looked around. No one was nearby. Still, he recalled Mameda glancing up uneasily behind and above Pulaski’s shoulder. He thought of the special he and Jenny had recently seen about a Las Vegas casino-the “eyes in the sky” security cameras everywhere. He recalled too the security guard up the hall and the reporter whose life had been ruined because he’d spied on SSD.

Well, Ron Pulaski sure hoped there was no surveillance here. Because his mission today entailed something much more than just collecting the CD and interviewing suspects; Lincoln Rhyme had sent him here to break into what was probably the most secure computer facility in New York City.

Chapter Twenty-six

Sipping strong, sweet coffee in the café across the street from the Gray Rock, thirty-nine-year-old Miguel Abrera was flipping through a brochure he’d received in the mail recently. It was yet another in a recent series of unusual occurrences in his life. Most were merely odd or irritating; this one was troubling.

He looked through it yet again. Then closed it and sat back, glancing at his watch. He still had ten minutes before he had to return to the job.

Miguel was a maintenance specialist, as SSD called it, but he told everybody he was a janitor. Whatever the title, the tasks he performed were a janitor’s tasks. He did a good job and he liked the work. Why should he be ashamed of what he was called?

He could have taken his break in the building but the free coffee that SSD provided was lousy and they didn’t even give you real milk or cream. Besides, he wasn’t one for chitchat and preferred enjoying a newspaper and coffee in solitude. (He missed smoking, though. He’d bargained away cigarettes in the emergency room and even though God hadn’t kept his side of the deal, Miguel had given up the habit anyway.)