It was only when he examined Emma’s husband’s account that he felt Mills might have been right-this was personal. He felt prurient, like a burglar going through drawers. There was nothing odd about the account-erratic deposits, but marginal amounts-yet he stared at the paper as if he were staring into the marriage itself. Did Emma handle the money? Or did he dole out allowances? Why no deposit one month-a celebration dinner? A weekend in Albuquerque? Did they fight? Did she use up her clothes coupons or wait until she had enough for a splurge? But the paper, typed numbers on army buff, in the end told him nothing. He touched it as if he could coax it to reveal something, but the numbers were simply numbers and the lives were somewhere else. The audit suddenly seemed foolish. What did he expect any of these accounts to reveal? He was looking at the financial life of the Hill, but the people were as unknown as ever. The numbers kept their secrets. Why expect a connection to Bruner anywhere? Here was a file to which he could attach a face, and it told him nothing that mattered. How often did they sleep together? What was it like? Why, for that matter, should he care?
“Got something?” Mills said, looking up.
“No,” Connolly said. “My mind was just drifting.” He put the file on the stack of discards before Mills could see the name and lit a cigarette. “You know, maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way.”
“I told you that two days ago.”
“No, I mean, it’s not what’s in here that’s interesting, it’s what isn’t here.”
Mills looked at him oddly.
Connolly smiled. “I guess I’m not making much sense.”
“No, I was just thinking. Bruner used to say that. ‘It’s what isn’t here.’ Just like that. I remember him saying it.”
Connolly stared at him, disconcerted. They couldn’t possibly have been talking about the same thing. What had Bruner meant?
“When?” he asked.
Mills thought for a minute. “Well, that’s the funny thing. It was just like this, when he was going through the files.”
“These?”
“No, security clearance. Karl liked to go through the files. Of course, it was part of his job, but he said it was a great way to get to know people. So he’d go over them. And when I’d say, ‘You must know everything in there,’ he’d say, ‘It’s what isn’t here.’ Just the way you did.”
Connolly was silent. “Where do you keep them?” he said finally.
“In a safe over in T-1. Oh, no.”
“But he removed them. So there must be a log?”
Mills nodded.
“Let’s see who he checked out over the past six months-no, nine months.”
“Why not a year, just to play it safe?”
“Okay.”
“I was being funny.”
“Be convenient if we found something that matched up with one of our exception files here, wouldn’t it?” Connolly said, patting them.
“A miracle.”
“Anyway, it’s something.”
“Mike, it’s a phrase. It was just something to say. This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Maybe. But he was interested in them. The least we can do is look at what interested him. Maybe it’ll tell us something about him.”
“Want me to get a forklift or bring them over one by one?”
“How about just the log for now? Let’s see if he wanted to get to know anybody real well.”
But Bruner had often been assigned to do vetting-he was one of several security officers who interviewed new employees and did updates on the others-so his initials were all over the log. Even using the same process of elimination they’d fixed on for the bank accounts, they were facing a long list.
“Let’s focus on the repeats,” Connolly said. “Anyone he was particularly interested in. There has to be something.” He looked up to find Mills staring at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Mills said, looking away. “What if he didn’t log them out?”
“Could he do that?”
“He was security. He was supposed to take files. Nobody’s going to check on him.”
Connolly considered for a minute. “No, that’s not like him.”
“How do you know? You never knew him.”
“I live in his room. He’d log out.”
“In other words, he’d commit a criminal act, but he’d never break the rules.”
“You’d be surprised. I’ve known guys run somebody through with a knife and then wipe it clean because they’re naturally neat.”
“He wasn’t like that,” Mills said quietly, scraping his chair as he stood up.
“Something bothering you?”
“Let’s get some air. I can’t think straight, and I know you’re not.”
Surprised, Connolly followed him out, waiting until they were on the dusty street before he said anything. Mills leaned against a rough utility pole, the bald spot on his head shining in the afternoon light.
“So?”
“Look, I’m just a lawyer, not some hot-shot reporter. Maybe this is just going too fast for me. First I’m thinking you don’t know what you’re looking for. Now you already know what you want to find. Is there something I’m missing here?”
“Relax. You’re ahead of me.”
