The doorbell rang. Once, twice. Then loud knocking.
"Oh, brother. Goddamn Grand Central Station . . . What now?"
Thom went to the door. He returned a moment later with a short, confident-looking man in a black suit and white shirt. "Captain Rhyme."
The criminalist turned his wheelchair to face Andrew Sterling, whose calm green eyes registered no surprise whatsoever at the criminalist's condition. Rhyme suspected that his own Compliance dossier documented the accident and his life afterward in considerable detail, and that Sterling would have boned up on the particulars before he arrived here.
"Detective Sachs, Officer Pulaski." He nodded to them, then returned to Rhyme.
Behind him were Sam Brockton, the SSD Compliance director, and two other men, who were dressed conservatively. Neat hair. They could have been congressional aides or corporate middle managers, though Rhyme was not surprised to learn they were lawyers.
"Hello, Cal," Brockton said, looking over Geddes wearily. The Privacy Now man glared back.
Sterling said in a soft voice, "We found out what Mark Whitcomb did." Despite his diminutive stature, Sterling was imposing in person, with the vibrant eyes, the perfectly straight posture, the unflappable voice. "I'm afraid he's out of a job. For starters."
"Because he did the right thing?" Pulaski snapped.
Sterling's face continued to show no emotion. "And I'm afraid too the matter's not over with yet." A nod to Brockton.
"Serve them," the Compliance director snapped to one of the attorneys. The man handed out his own batch of blue-backed documents.
"More?" Rhyme commented, nodding at the second set of paperwork. "All this reading. Who's got the time?" He was in a good mood, still elated that they'd stopped 522 and that Amelia Sachs was safe.
The sequel turned out to be a court order forbidding them to give Geddes any computers, disks, documents or any material of any kind relating to the Compliance operation. And to turn over to the government any such material in their possession.
One hired gun said, "Failure to do so will subject you to civil and criminal penalties."
Sam Brockton offered, "And believe me, we will pursue all remedies available to us."
"You can't do this," Geddes said, angry. His eyes shone and sweat dotted his dark face.
Sterling counted the computers in Rhyme's lab. There were twelve. "Which one has the Compliance dossier that Mark sent you, Captain?"
"I forget."
"Did you make any copies?"
Rhyme smiled. "Always back up your data. And store it in a separate, secure location. Off site. Isn't that the message of the new millennium?"
Brockton said, "We'll just get another order to confiscate everything and search all the servers you've uploaded data to."
"But that'll take time and money. And who knows what could happen in the meantime? E-mails or envelopes might get sent to the press, say. Accidentally, of course. But it could happen."
"This has been a very trying time for everyone, Mr. Rhyme," Sterling said. "No one's in the mood for games."
"We're not playing games," Rhyme said evenly. "We're negotiating."
The CEO gave what appeared to be his first genuine smile. He was on his home turf now and he pulled up a chair next to Rhyme. "What do you want?"
"I'll give you everything. No court battles, no press."
"No!" Geddes was enraged. "How can you cave in?"
Rhyme ignored the activist as efficiently as Sterling did and continued, "Provided you get my associates' records cleared up." He explained about Sellitto's drug test and Pulaski's wife.
"I can do that," Sterling said as if it were no more trouble than turning up the volume on a TV.
Sachs said, "And you have to fix Robert Jorgensen's life too." She told him about how 522 had virtually destroyed the man.