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"Brockton's court order only bars giving Privacy Now information about the Compliance Division. But Geddes asked for everything we have about SSD. Therefore--ergo--anything else we have on SSD is fair to release. The files Cassel sold to Dienko were part of PublicSure, not Compliance."
Pulaski laughed. But Sachs was frowning. "They'll just get another court order."
"I'm not so sure. What're the NYPD and the FBI going to say when they find out that somebody who works for their own data contractor has been selling out high-profile cases? Oh, I've got a feeling the brass'll back us on this one." This thought led to another. And the conclusion was alarming. "Wait, wait, wait . . . In detention--that man who moved on my cousin. Antwon Johnson?"
"What about him?" Sachs asked.
"It never made any sense that he'd try to kill Arthur. Even Judy Rhyme mentioned that. Lon said he was a federal prisoner temporarily in state detention. I wonder if somebody from Compliance cut a deal with him. Maybe he was there to see if Arthur thought somebody was getting consumer information about him to use in the crimes. If so, Johnson was supposed to clip him. Maybe for a reduction in his sentence."
"The government, Rhyme? Trying to take out a witness? That's a bit paranoid, don't you think?"
"We're talking about five-hundred-page dossiers, chips in books and CCTVs on every street corner in the city, Sachs. . . . But, okay, I'll give them the benefit of the doubt: Maybe somebody from SSD contacted Johnson. In any case we'll call Calvin Geddes and give him all that information too. Let the pit bull run with it if he wants. Only wait until everybody's files are cleaned up. Give it a week."
Ron Pulaski said good-bye and left to see his wife and baby daughter.
Sachs walked up to Rhyme and bent down to kiss him on the mouth. She winced, probing her belly.
"You okay?"
"I'll show you tonight, Rhyme," she whispered flirtatiously. "Nine-millimeter slugs leave some interesting bruises."
"Sexy?" he asked.
"Only if you think purple Rorschachs are erotic."
"As a matter of fact, I do."
Sachs gave a subtle smile to him, then walked into the hallway and called to Pam, who'd been in the front parlor, reading. "Come on. We're going shopping."
"Excellent. What for?"
"A car. Can't be without wheels."
"Neat, what kind? Oh, a Prius'd be way cool."
Both Rhyme and Sachs laughed hard. Pam smiled uncertainly and Sachs explained that though her life was green in many ways, gasoline mileage didn't figure into her love of the environment. "We're going to get a muscle car."
"What's that?"
"You'll find out." She brandished a list of potential vehicles she'd downloaded from the Internet.
"You going to get a new one?" the girl asked.
"Never, ever buy a new car," Sachs lectured.
"Why?"
"Because cars today are just computers with wheels. We don't want electronics. We want mechanics. You can't get grease on your hands with computers."
"Grease?"
"You'll love grease. You're a grease kind of girl."
"You think so?" Pam seemed pleased.
"You bet. Let's go. Later, Rhyme."
Chapter Fifty-three The phone trilled.
