The Broken Window

by Jeffery Deaver

  "No, Detective Sachs," he answered. "Sure haven't."

  "Thanks."

  She finished with the evidence, then released the scene to the medical examiner tour doctor.

  Returning to her car, she opened the trunk and began stripping off the white jumpsuit. She was chatting with the other officers from the CS main headquarters in Queens. They too had changed out of their own overalls. One frowned and was looking around for something he'd misplaced.

  "Lose something?" she asked.

  The man frowned. "Yeah. It was right here. My hat."

  Sachs froze. "What?"

  "It's missing."

  Shit. She tossed the jumpsuit into the trunk and jogged fast to the sergeant from the local precinct, who was the immediate supervisor here. "Did you have anybody secure the loading dock?" she asked breathlessly.

  "Over there? Naw. I didn't bother. We had the whole area sealed and--"

  Goddamnit.

  Turning, she sprinted to the loading dock, her Glock in hand. She shouted to the officers nearby, "He was here! By the crematorium. Move!"

  Sachs paused at the old redbrick structure, noticing the open gate leading out to the street. A fast search of the grounds revealed no sign of 522. She continued on to the street and looked out fast, left and right. Traffic, curious onlookers--dozens of them--but the suspect was gone.

  Sachs returned to the loading dock and wasn't surprised to find the police officer's hat lying nearby. It sat next to a sign, Leave Caskets Here. She collected the hat, slipped it into an evidence bag and returned to the other officers. Sachs and a local precinct sergeant sent officers around the neighborhood to see if anybody had spotted him. Then she returned to her car. Of course, he'd be far away by now but still she couldn't shake the raw uneasiness--which was due mostly to the fact that he hadn't tried to escape when he saw her walking toward the crematorium but casually stood his ground.

  Though what chilled her the most was the memory of his casual voice--referring to her by name.

  *

  "Are they going to do it?" Rhyme snapped as Lon Sellitto walked through the door from his mission downtown with Captain Malloy and the deputy mayor, Ron Scott, about what Rhyme was calling the "Expert Plan."

  "They're not happy. It's expensive and they--"

  "Bull . . . shit. Get somebody on the phone."

  "Hold on, hold on. They'll do it. They're making the arrangements. I'm just saying they're grumbling about it."

  "You should have told me up front they agreed. I don't care how much they grumble."

  "Joe Malloy'll give me a call with the details."

  At around 9:30 P.M. the door opened and Amelia Sachs entered, carrying the evidence she'd collected at the groundskeeper's murder scene.

  "He was there," she said.

  Rhyme didn't understand her.

  "Five Twenty-Two. At the cemetery. He was watching us."

  "No shit," Sellitto said.

  "He was gone by the time I realized it." She held up a patrolman's hat and explained that he'd been watching her in disguise.

  "The fuck he'd do that for?"

  "Information," Rhyme said softly. "The more he knows, the more powerful he is, the more vulnerable we become. . . ."

  "You canvass?" Sellitto asked.

  "A team from the precinct did. Nobody saw anything."

  "He knows everything. We know zilch."

  She unpacked the crate as Rhyme's eyes took in each evidence-collection bag she lifted out. "They struggled. Could be some good transfer trace."

  "Let's hope."

  "I talked to Abrera, the janitor. He said that for the past month, he's noticed some strange things. His time sheets were changed, there were deposits into his checking account he didn't make."

  Cooper suggested, "Like Jorgensen--identity theft?"

  "No, no," Rhyme said. "I'll bet Five Twenty-Two was grooming him to take the fall. Maybe a suicide. Plant a note on him . . . It was his wife and child's grave?"

  "That's right."

  "Sure. He's despondent. Going to kill himself. Confesses to all the crimes in a suicide note. We close the case. But the groundskeeper interrupts him in the act. And now Five Twenty-Two's up a creek. He can't try this again; we'll be expecting a fake suicide now. He'll have to try something else. But what?"

  Cooper had started going over the evidence. "No hairs in the hat, no trace at all . . . But you know what I've got? A bit of adhesive. Generic though. Can't source it."

  "He removed the trace with tape or a roller before he left the hat," Rhyme said, grimacing. Nothing 522 did would surprise him anymore.

  Cooper then announced, "From the other scene--by the grave--I've got a fiber. It's similar to the rope used in the earlier crime."

  "Good. What's in it?"

  Cooper prepared the sample and tested it. A short time later he announced, "Okay, got two things. The most common is naphthalene in an inert crystal medium."

  "Mothballs," Rhyme announced. The substance had figured in a poisoning case years ago. "But they'd be old ones." He explained that naphthalene had largely been abandoned in favor of safer materials. "Or," he added, "from out of the country. Fewer safety codes on consumer products in a lot of places."

  "Then something else." Cooper gestured at the computer screen. The substance it revealed was Na(C6H11NHSO2O). "And it's bound with lecithin, carnauba wax, citrus acid."

  "What the hell's that?" Rhyme blurted.

  Another database was consulted. "Sodium cyclamate."

  "Oh, artificial sweetener, right?"

  "That's it," Cooper said, reading. "Banned by the FDA thirty years ago. The ban's still under challenge but no products have been made with it since the seventies."

  Then Rhyme's mind made a few leaps, mimicking his eyes as they jumped from item to item on the evidence boards. "Old cardboard. Mold. Desiccated tobacco. The doll's hair? Old soda? And boxes of mothballs? What the hell does it add up to? Does he live near an antiques store? Over one?"

  They continued the analysis: minute traces of phosphorus sesquisulfide, the main ingredient in safety matches; more Trade Center dust; and leaves from a dieffenbachia, also called leopard lily. It was a common houseplant.

  Other evidence included paper fibers from yellow legal pads, probably two different ones because of the color variations in the dyes. But they weren't distinctive enough to trace to a source. Also, more of the spicy substance that Rhyme had found in the knife used to murder the coin collector. This time they had enough to properly examine the grains and the color. "It's cayenne pepper," Cooper announced.

  Sellitto mumbled, "Used to be you could pin somebody to a Latin neighborhood with that. Now, you can get salsa and hot sauce everywhere. Whole Foods to 7-Elevens."

  The only other clue was a shoeprint in the dirt of a recently dug grave near the site of the killing. Sachs deduced it was 522's because it appeared to have been left by someone running from that area toward the exit.

  Comparing the electrostatic print with the database of shoe treadmarks revealed that 522's shoes were well-worn size-11 Skechers, a practical, though not particularly stylish, model often worn by workers and hikers.

  While Sachs took a phone call, Rhyme told Thom to write the details on the chart as he dictated. Rhyme stared at the information--much more than when they'd started. Yet it was leading them nowhere.

  * * *

  UNSUB 522 PROFILE

  * Male

  * Possibly smokes or lives/works with someone who does, or near source of tobacco * Has children or lives/works near them or near source of toys * Interest in art, coins?

  * Probably white or light-skinned ethnic

  * Medium build

  * Strong--able to strangle victims

  * Access to voice-disguise equipment

  * Possibly computer literate; knows OurWorld. Other social-networking sites?

  * Takes trophies from victims. Sadist?

  * Portion of residence/workplace dark and moist

  * Li
ves in/near downtown Manhattan?

  * Eats snack food/hot sauce

  * Lives near antiques store?

  * Wears size-11 Skechers work shoe

  NONPLANTED EVIDENCE

  * Old cardboard

  * Hair from doll, BASF B35 nylon 6

  * Tobacco from Tareyton cigarettes

  * Old tobacco, not Tareyton, but brand unknown

  * Evidence of Stachybotrys Chartarum mold

  * Dust, from World Trade Center attack, possibly indicating residence/job downtown Manhattan * Snack food/cayenne pepper

  * Rope fiber containing:

  * Cyclamate diet soda (old or foreign)

  * Naphthalene mothballs (old or foreign)

  * Leopard lily plant leaves (interior plant)

  * Trace from two different legal pads, yellow colored * Treadmark from size-11 Skechers work shoe

  Chapter Thirty-one "Appreciate you seeing me, Mark."

  Whitcomb, the Compliance Department assistant, smiled agreeably. Pulaski figured he must really love his job to be still working so late--just after nine-thirty. But then, the cop realized, he himself was still on the job.

  "Another killing? And that same guy did it?"

  "We're pretty sure."

  The young man frowned. "I'm sorry. Jesus. When?"

  "About three hours ago."

  They were in Whitcomb's office, which was a lot homier than Sterling's. And sloppier too, which made it more comfortable. He set aside the legal pad he was jotting on and gestured at a chair. Pulaski sat, noting pictures of family on his desk, some nice paintings on the walls, along with diplomas and some professional certificates. Pulaski had glanced up and down the quiet halls, extremely glad that Cassel and Gillespie, the school bullies, weren't here.

  "Say, that your wife?"

  "My sister." Whitcomb gave a smile but Pulaski had seen that look before. It meant, this's a tough subject. Had the woman died?

  No, it was the other answer.

  "I'm divorced. Keep pretty busy here. Tough to have a family." The young man waved his arm, indicating SSD, Pulaski supposed. "But it's important work. Real important."

  "I'm sure it is."

  After trying to reach Andrew Sterling, Pulaski called Whitcomb, who had agreed to meet the cop and hand over the time sheets for that day--to see which of their suspects had been out of the office at the time the groundskeeper was killed.

  "I've got some coffee."

  Pulaski noted that the man had a silver tray on his desk, with two china cups.

  "I remembered how you liked it."

  "Thanks."

  The slim man poured.

  Sipping the coffee. It was good. Pulaski was looking forward to the day when finances improved and he could afford a cappuccino maker. He loved his coffee. "You work late every night?"

  "Pretty often. Government regulations're tough in any industry but in the information business the problem is that nobody's quite sure what they want. For instance, states can make a lot of money selling driver's license information. Some places the citizens go ballistic and the practice's banned. But in other states it's perfectly okay.

  "Some places, if your company gets hacked you have to notify the customers whose information gets stolen, whatever kind of data it is. In other states you only have to tell them if it's financial information. Some, you don't have to tell them anything. It's a mess. But we've got to stay on top of it."

  Thinking of security breaches, Pulaski was stabbed by guilt that he'd stolen the empty-space data from SSD. Whitcomb had been with him around the time he'd downloaded the files. Would the Compliance officer get into trouble if Sterling found out about it?

  "So here we go." Whitcomb handed him about twenty pages of time sheets for that day.

  Pulaski flipped through them, comparing the names with their suspects. First, he noted the time Miguel Abrera had left--a little after 5:00 P.M. Then Pulaski's heart jolted when he happened to glance down at the name Sterling. The man had left just seconds after Miguel, as if he were following the janitor. . . . But then Pulaski realized that he'd made a mistake. It was Andy Sterling, the son, who'd left then. The CEO had left earlier--at about four--and had returned only about a half hour ago, presumably after business drinks and dinner.

  Again, he was angry with himself that he hadn't read the sheet properly. And he'd nearly called Lincoln Rhyme when he'd seen the two departure times so close together. How embarrassing would that have been? Think better, he told himself angrily.

  Of the other suspects, Faruk Mameda--the night-shift technician with the attitude--had been in SSD at the time of the killing. Technical Operations Director Wayne Gillespie's entries revealed that he'd left a half hour before Abrera but he'd returned to the office at six and stayed for several hours. Pulaski felt a petty disappointment that this seemed to take the bully off the list. All the others had left with enough time to follow Miguel to the cemetery or to precede him there and lie in wait. In fact, most employees were out of the office. Sean Cassel, he noticed, had been out for much of the afternoon but had returned--a half hour ago.

  "Helpful?" Whitcomb asked.

  "A little. You mind if I keep this?"

  "No, go right ahead."

  "Thanks." Pulaski folded the sheets and put them into his pocket.

  "Oh, I talked to my brother. He's going to be in town next month. Don't know if you'd be interested but I was thinking you might like to meet him. Maybe you and your brother. You could swap cop stories." Then Whitcomb smiled, embarrassed, as if that was the last thing police officers wanted to do. Which it wasn't, Pulaski could have told him; cops loved cop stories.

  "If the case, you know, is solved by then. Or what do you say?"

  "Closed."

  "Like that TV show. The Closer, sure . . . If it's closed. Probably can't have a beer with a suspect."

  "You're hardly a suspect, Mark," Pulaski said, laughing himself. "But, yeah, it's probably better to wait. I'll see if my brother can make it too."

  "Mark." A soft voice spoke from behind them.

  Pulaski turned to see Andrew Sterling, black slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. A pleasant smile. "Officer Pulaski. You're here so often I should put you on payroll."

  A bashful grin.

  "I called. The phone went to your voice mail."

  "Really?" The CEO frowned. Then the green eyes focused. "That's right. Martin left early today. Anything we can help you with?"

  Pulaski was about to mention the time sheets but Whitcomb jumped in fast. "Ron was saying there's been another murder."

  "No, really? By the same person?"

  Pulaski realized he'd made a mistake. Going around Andrew Sterling was stupid. It wasn't as if he thought Sterling was guilty or would try to hide anything; the cop just wanted the information quickly--and frankly, he also wanted to avoid running into Cassel or Gillespie, which might've happened if he'd gone to executive row for the time sheets.

  But now he realized he'd gotten information about SSD from a source that wasn't Andrew Sterling--a sin, if not an outright crime.

  He wondered if the businessman could sense his discomfort. He said, "We think so. Seems like the killer had originally targeted an SSD employee but ended up killing a bystander."

  "Which employee?"

  "Miguel Abrera."

  Sterling immediately recognized the name. "In maintenance, yes. Is he all right?"

  "He's fine. A little shaken up. But okay."

  "Why was he targeted? Do you think he knows something?"

  "I can't say," Pulaski told him.

  "When did this happen?"

  "About six, six-thirty tonight."

  Sterling squinted faint wrinkles into the skin around his eyes. "I've got a solution. What you should do is get your suspects' time sheets, Officer. That'd narrow down the ones with alibis."

  "I--"

  "I'll take care of it, Andrew," Whitcomb said quickly, sitting down at his computer. "I'll get them from Human Resources." To Pulaski
he said, "It shouldn't take long."

  "Good," Sterling said. "And let me know what you find."

  "Yes, Andrew."

  The CEO stepped closer, looking up into Pulaski's eyes. He shook his hand firmly. "Good night, Officer."

  When he was gone, Pulaski said, "Thanks. I should've asked him first."

  "Yeah, you should have. I assumed you did. The one thing that Andrew doesn't like is to be kept in the dark. If he has the information, even if it's bad news, he's happy. You've seen the reasonable side of Andrew Sterling. The unreasonable side doesn't seem much different. But it is, believe me."

  "You won't get in trouble, will you?"

  A laugh. "As long as he doesn't find out I got the time sheets an hour before he suggested it."

  As Pulaski walked toward the elevator with Whitcomb, he glanced back. There at the end of the corridor was Andrew Sterling, talking to Sean Cassel, their heads down. The sales director was nodding. Pulaski's heart bumped hard. Then Sterling strode off. Cassel turned and, polishing his glasses with the black cloth, looked directly at Pulaski. He smiled a greeting. His expression, the officer read, said the businessman wasn't the least surprised to see him there.

  The elevator arrival bell dinged and Whitcomb gestured Pulaski inside.

  *

  The phone rang in Rhyme's lab. Ron Pulaski reported what he'd learned at SSD about the whereabouts of the suspects. Sachs transcribed the information on the suspects chart.

  Only two were in the office at the time of the killing--Mameda and Gillespie.

  "So it could be any one of the other half dozen," Rhyme muttered.

  "The place was virtually empty," the young officer said. "Not many people were in late."

  "They don't need to be," Sachs pointed out. "The computers do all the work."

  Rhyme told Pulaski to go on home to his family. He pressed back into his headrest and stared at the board.

  Andrew Sterling, President, Chief Executive Officer Alibi--on Long Island, verified. Confirmed by son Sean Cassel, Director of Sales and Marketing No alibi

  Wayne Gillespie, Director of Technical Operations No alibi

  Alibi for groundskeeper's killing (in office, according to time sheets) Samuel Brockton, Director, Compliance Department Alibi--hotel records confirm presence in Washington Peter Arlonzo-Kemper, Director of Human Resources Alibi--with wife, verified by her (biased?) Steven Shraeder, Technical Service and Support Manager, day shift Alibi--in office, according to time sheets Faruk Mameda, Technical Service and Support Manager, night shift No alibi