The Broken Window

by Jeffery Deaver

  "You okay about it?" Sachs asked.

  "Naw, I'm not." His voice cracked again. Rhyme didn't think he'd ever heard the detective sound so upset.

  In his mind he could hear Joe Malloy's voice when he was responding to Rhyme's "forgetting" to share about the 522 case. The captain had looked beyond pettiness and backed them up, even after the criminalist and Sellitto hadn't been honest with him.

  Policing came before ego.

  And 522 had tortured and killed him simply because he needed information. Goddamn information . . .

  But then, from somewhere, Rhyme summoned the stone that resided within him. The detachment that, as some people had said, meant he had a damaged soul, but that he believed allowed him to better do his job. He said firmly, "Okay, you know what this means, don't you?"

  "What?" Sachs asked.

  "He's declaring war."

  "War?" It was Sellitto who asked this question.

  "On us. He's not going underground. He's not running. He's telling us to go fuck ourselves. He's fighting back. And he thinks he can get away with it. Killing brass? Oh, yeah. He's drawn the battle line. And he knows all about us now."

  "Maybe Joe didn't tell him," Sachs said.

  "No, he told. He did everything he could to hold out but in the end he told." Rhyme didn't even want to picture what the captain had been through as he'd tried to keep silent. "It wasn't his fault. . . . But we're all at risk now."

  "I've gotta go talk to the brass," Sellitto said. "They want to know what went wrong. They weren't happy about the plan in the first place."

  "I'm sure they weren't. Where did it happen?"

  "A warehouse. Chelsea."

  "Warehouse . . . perfect for a hoarder. Was he connected to it? Work there? Remember his comfortable shoes? Or did he just find out about it from going through the data? I want to know all of the above."

  "I'll have it checked out," Cooper said. "Sellitto gave him the details."

  "And we'll get the scene searched." Rhyme glanced at Sachs, who nodded.

  After the detective disconnected, Rhyme asked, "Where's Pulaski?"

  "On his way back from the Roland Bell set."

  "Let's call SSD, find out where all our suspects were at the time Malloy was killed. Some of them must have been in the office. I want to know who wasn't. And I want to know about this Runnerboy. Think Sterling'll help?"

  "Oh, definitely," Sachs said, reminding him how cooperative Sterling had been throughout the investigation. She hit the speakerphone button and placed the call.

  An assistant answered and Sachs identified herself.

  "Hello, Detective Sachs. This is Jeremy. How can I help you?"

  "I need to talk to Mr. Sterling."

  "I'm afraid he's not available."

  "It's very important. There's been another killing. A police officer."

  "Yes, I heard that on the news. I'm very sorry. Hold on a moment. Martin just walked in."

  They heard a muffled conversation and then another voice came through the speaker. "Detective Sachs. It's Martin. I'm sorry to hear, another killing. But Mr. Sterling's off-site."

  "It's really important we talk to him."

  The calm assistant said, "I'll relay the urgency."

  "What about Mark Whitcomb or Tom O'Day?"

  "Hold for a moment, please."

  After a lengthy pause the young man's voice said, "I'm afraid Mark is out of the office too. And Tom is in a meeting. I've left messages. I have another call, Detective Sachs. I should go. And I am truly sorry about your captain."

  *

  "'You that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more to my meditations, than you might suppose.'"

  Sitting on a bench, overlooking the East River, Pam Willoughby felt a thud in her chest and her palms began to sweat.

  She looked behind her at Stuart Everett, lit brilliantly by the sun over New Jersey. A blue shirt, jeans, a sports coat, the leather bag over his shoulder. His boyish face, a flop of brown hair, narrow lips about to break into a grin that often never arrived.

  "Hi," she said, sounding cheerful. She was angry with herself, wanted to sound harsh.

  "Hey." He glanced north, toward the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. "Fulton Street."

  "The poem? I know. It's 'Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.' "

  From Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman's masterpiece. After Stuart Everett had mentioned in class that it was his favorite anthology of poems, she'd bought an expensive edition. Thinking that somehow it made them more connected.

  "I didn't assign that for class. You knew it anyway?"

  Pam said nothing.

  "Can I sit down?"

  She nodded.

  They sat in silence. She smelled his cologne. Wondered if his wife had bought it for him.

  "Your friend talked to you, I'm sure."

  "Yeah."

  "I liked her. When she first called, okay, I thought she was going to arrest me."

  Pam's frown softened into a smile.

  Stuart continued, "She wasn't happy about the situation. But that was good. She was looking out for you."

  "Amelia's the best."

  "I couldn't believe she was a cop."

  And a cop who ran a check on my boyfriend. Being in the dark wasn't so bad, Pam reflected; having too much information sucked big-time.

  He took her hand. Her impulse to pull it away vanished. "Look, let's get this whole thing out in the open."

  She kept her eyes focused on the distance; looking into his brown eyes, under droopy lids, would be a way bad idea. She watched the river and the harbor beyond. Ferries still ran but most of the traffic was either private boats or cargo ships. She often sat near the river here and watched them. Forced to live underground, deep in the Midwest woods, with her crazy mother and a bunch of right-wing fanatics, Pam had developed a fascination with rivers and oceans. They were open and free and constantly in motion. That thought soothed her.

  "I wasn't honest, I know. But my relationship with my wife isn't what it seems. I don't sleep with her anymore. Haven't for a long time."

  Was that the first thing a man said at a time like this? Pam wondered. She hadn't even considered the sex, just the married.

  He continued, "I didn't want to fall in love with you. I thought we'd be friends. But you turned out to be different from everybody else. You lit up something in me. You're beautiful, obviously. But you're, well, you're like Whitman. Unconventional. Lyrical. A poet in your own way."

  "You've got kids," Pam couldn't stop herself from saying.

  A hesitation. "I do. But you'd like them. John's eight. Chiara's in middle school. She's eleven. They're wonderful kids. That's why Mary and I are together, the only reason."

  Her name's Mary. Was wondering.

  He squeezed her hand. "Pam, I can't let you go."

  She was leaning into him, feeling the comfort of his arm against hers, smelling the dry, pleasing scent, not caring who'd bought the aftershave. She thought: He was probably going to tell me sooner or later.

  "I was going to tell you in a week or so. I swear. I was working up my courage." She felt his hand trembling. "I see my children's faces. I think, I can't break up the family. And then you come along. The most incredible person I've ever met. . . . I've been lonely for a long, long time."

  "But what about holidays?" she asked. "I wanted to do something on Thanksgiving or Christmas with you."

  "I can probably get away for one of them. At least part of the day. We just need to plan ahead of time." Stuart lowered his head. "Here's the thing. I can't live without you. If you can be patient, we'll make it work."

  She thought back to the one night they'd spent together. A secret night that nobody knew about. At Amelia Sachs's town house, when she was staying at Lincoln Rhyme's and Pam, and Stuart, had the place to themselves. It was magical. She wished every night of her life could be like that one.

  She gripped his hand harder yet.

  He whispered, "I can't lose you."


  He inched closer on the bench. She found comfort in every square inch of contact. She actually had written a poem about him, describing their attraction as gravitational: one of the fundamental forces in the universe.

  Pam rested her head against his shoulder.

  "I promise I'll never hide anything from you again. But please . . . I have to keep seeing you."

  She thought of the wonderful times they'd had, times that would seem insignificant to anyone else, silly.

  Nothing like it.

  The comfort was like warm water on a wound, washing away the pain.

  When they'd been on the run, Pam and her mother had lived with and around petty men who would strike them "for their own good," who didn't share a word with their wives or children except when correcting or silencing them.

  Stuart wasn't even in the same universe with those monsters.

  He whispered, "Just give me a little while. It'll work out. I promise. We'll see each other like we have been. . . . Hey, here's an idea. I know you want to travel. There's a poetry conference in Montreal next month. I could fly you there, get you a room. You could attend the sessions. And we'd have the evenings free."

  "Oh, I love you." She leaned toward his face. "I understand why you didn't tell me, really."

  He gripped her hard, kissed her neck. "Pam, I'm so--"

  Which is when she eased back and clutched her book bag to her chest like a shield. "But no, Stuart."

  "What?"

  Pam believed her heart was beating faster than it ever had. "When you get divorced call me up and let's see. But until then, no. I can't see you anymore."

  She'd said what she thought Amelia Sachs would say at a time like this. But could she behave the same and not cry? Amelia wouldn't. No way.

  She slapped a smile onto her face, struggling to control the pain as the loneliness and panic killed the comfort instantly. The warmth froze to icy shards.

  "But, Pam, you're everything to me."

  "But what are you to me, Stuart? You can't be everything. And I'm not willing to take less than that." Keep your voice steady, she told herself. "If you get a divorce I'll be with you. . . . Will you?"

  Now the seductive eyes lowered. "Yes." A whisper.

  "Now?"

  "I can't just now. It's complicated."

  "No, Stuart. It's really, really simple." She rose. "If I don't see you again, have a nice life." She began walking away quickly, heading for Amelia's town house, which was nearby.

  Okay, maybe Amelia wouldn't cry. But Pam could no longer hold the tears back. She walked straight down the sidewalk, eyes streaming, and--afraid she'd weaken--not daring to look back, not daring to think about what she'd done.

  Though she did have one thought about the encounter, which she supposed someday she'd consider pretty funny: What a sucky parting line that was. Wish I'd come up with something better.

  Chapter Thirty-eight Mel Cooper was frowning.

  "The warehouse? Where Joe was killed? Some publisher rents it to store paper there for recycling, though it hasn't been used actively for months. But what's strange is that the ownership's not clear."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I've run all the corporate documents. It's leased to a chain of three companies and owned by a Delaware corporation--and that's owned by a couple of New York corporations. The ultimate ownership seems to be in Malaysia."

  But 522 had known about it and that it was safe to torture a victim there. How? Because he's the man who knows everything.

  The phone in the lab trilled and Rhyme glanced at caller ID. We've had such bad news in the 522 case, please let this be good. "Inspector Longhurst."

  "Detective Rhyme, just to update you. It's looking rather productive here." Her voice betrayed a rare excitement. She explained that d'Estourne, the team's French security service agent, had sped to Birmingham and contacted some Algerians in a Muslim community in West Bromwich, outside the city. He'd learned that an American had commissioned a passport and transit papers to North Africa, traveling on to Singapore. He'd given them a large down payment and they promised the documents would be ready tomorrow evening. As soon as he picked them up he was heading for London to finish the job.

  "Good," Rhyme said, chuckling. "That means Logan's already there, don't you think? In London."

  "Quite certain of it," Longhurst agreed. "Trying the shot tomorrow when our double meets the MI5 people at the shooting zone."

  "Exactly."

  So Richard Logan had ordered the papers, and paid a large price for them, to keep the team focused on Birmingham, while he hurried to London to complete his mission to kill the Reverend Goodlight.

  "What do Danny Krueger's people say?"

  "That a boat will be waiting on the south coast to spirit him away to France."

  Spirit him away. Rhyme loved it. Cops don't talk that way over here.

  He thought again about the safe house near Manchester. And the break-in at Goodlight's NGO in London. Was there anything Rhyme might've seen if he had walked the grid at either of those locales via the high-definition video? Some tiny clue that they'd missed that might give them a clearer idea of exactly where and when the killer was going to strike? If so, the evidence was gone now. He'd just have to hope they'd made the right deductions.

  "What do you have in place?"

  "Ten officers around the shooting zone. All plainclothed or in camouflage." She added that Danny Krueger, along with the French security man and another tactical team, were making themselves "subtly visible" in Birmingham. Longhurst had also added an extra protection detail where the reverend was actually hiding; they had no evidence that the killer had learned the location but she didn't want to take any chances.

  "We'll know something soon, Detective."

  Just as they disconnected, his computer dinged.

  "mr Rhyme?"

  The words appeared on the screen in front of him. A small window had opened. It was a webcam view of Amelia Sachs's living room. He could see Pam at the keyboard, instant messaging him.

  He spoke to her through his voice-recognition system. "Hello Pam owe are you dew in?"

  Goddamn computer. Maybe he should have their digital guru, Rodney Szarnek, install a new system.

  But she deduced the message just fine.

  "Good," she typed. "How R U?"

  "I am good."

  "Amelia there?"

  "No. She is how on a case."

  ":-( Bummer. Want 2 talk 2 her. Called but not picking up."

  "Any thing eye can dew--"

  Damn. He sighed and tried again. "Anything we can do here?"

  "No thx." A pause and he saw her glance at her cell phone. She looked back at the computer. Typed, "Rachel calling. Back in minute."

  She left the webcam on but turned away, speaking into her mobile. She lugged a massive book bag onto her lap and dug through it, opened a text and found some notes inside. She read them aloud, it seemed.

  Rhyme was about to turn to the whiteboards when he glanced at the webcam window.

  Something had changed.

  He frowned and maneuvered his chair closer, alarmed.

  Someone else seemed to be in Sachs's town house. Could it be? It was hard to tell for certain but as he squinted he saw that, yes, a man was there, hiding in a dark hallway, only twenty feet or so from Pam.

  Rhyme squinted, moving his head as far forward as he could. An intruder, his face hidden by a hat. And he was holding something. Was it a gun? A knife?

  "Thom!"

  The aide wasn't within earshot. Of course, he was taking the trash out.

  "Command, dial Sachs, home."

  Thank God the ECU did exactly as instructed.

  He could see Pam glance at the phone beside the computer. But she ignored the ringing; the house wasn't hers--she'd let voice mail take a message. She continued speaking into her mobile.

  The man leaned out of the hallway, his face, obscured by the brim of his hat, aimed directly at her.

  "Comma
nd, instant message!"

  The box popped up on the screen.

  "Command, type: 'Pam exclamation point.' Command, send."

  "Pamex lamentation point."

  Fuck!

  "Command, type, 'Pam danger leave now.' Command, send."

  This message went through pretty much unchanged.

  Pam, read it, please! Rhyme begged silently. Look at the screen!

  But the girl was lost in her conversation. Her face was no longer so carefree. The discussion had turned serious.

  Rhyme called 911, and the operator assured him that a police car would be at the town house in five minutes. But the intruder was only seconds away from Pam, who was completely unaware of him.

  Rhyme knew it was 522, of course. He'd tortured Malloy to get information about all of them. Amelia Sachs was the first on the list to die. Only it wouldn't be Sachs. It would be this innocent girl.

  His heart was pounding, a sensation registering as a fierce, throbbing headache. He tried the phone again. Four rings. "Hi, this is Amelia. Please leave your message at the tone."

  He tried again. "Command, type, 'Pam call me period. Lincoln period.' "

  And what would he tell her to do if he got through? Sachs had weapons in the place but he didn't know where she kept them. Pam was an athletic girl, and the intruder didn't seem much larger than she was. But he'd have a weapon. And, given where he was, he could get a garrote around her neck or a knife into her back before she was even aware of his presence.

  And it would happen before his eyes.

  Then at last she was swiveling toward the computer. She'd see the message.

  Good, keep turning.

  Rhyme saw a shadow on the floor across the room. Was the killer moving in closer?

  Still talking on her phone, Pam moved toward the computer but she was looking at the keyboard, not the screen.

  Look up! Rhyme urged silently.

  Please! Read the goddamn message!

  But like all kids today, Pam didn't need to look at the screen to make sure she'd typed correctly. With her cell held tight between cheek and shoulder, she glanced fast at the keyboard as she stabbed the letters with quick strokes.

  "gotta go. bye mr Rhyme. C U :-)"

  The screen went black.

  *

  Amelia Sachs was uncomfortable in the crime-scene Tyvek jumpsuit, with surgeon's hat and booties. Claustrophobic, nauseous from inhaling the bitter scent of damp paper and blood and sweat in the warehouse.

  She hadn't known Captain Joseph Malloy well. But he was, as Lon Sellitto had announced, "one of ours." And she was appalled at what 522 had done to him, to extract the information he wanted. She was nearly finished running the scene and carried the evidence-collection bags outside, infinitely grateful for the air here, even though it reeked of diesel fumes.