The Broken Window

by Jeffery Deaver

  She kept hearing the voice of her father. As a young girl she'd glanced into her parents' bedroom and found him in his dress patrolman's uniform, wiping tears. This had shaken her; she'd never seen him cry. He'd gestured her inside. Hermann Sachs always played straight with his daughter and he'd sat her down on a bedside chair and explained that a friend of his, a fellow officer, had been shot and killed while stopping a robbery.

  "Amie, in this business, everybody's family. You probably spend more time with the guys you work with than you do with your own wife and kids. Every time somebody in blue dies, you die a little bit too. Doesn't matter, patrol or brass, they're all family and it's the same pain when you lose somebody."

  And she now felt the pain he'd been speaking of. Felt it very deeply.

  "I'm finished," she said to the crime-scene crew, who were standing beside their rapid response van. She'd searched the scene alone but the officers from Queens had videotaped and photographed it and walked the grid at the secondary scenes--the likely entrance and exit routes.

  Nodding to the tour doctor and her associates from the M.E.'s office, Sachs said, "Okay, you can get him to the morgue."

  The men, in their thick green gloves and jumpsuits, walked inside. Assembling the evidence in the milk crates for transport to Rhyme's lab, Sachs paused.

  Someone was watching her.

  She'd heard a tink of metal on metal or concrete or glass from up a deserted alleyway. A fast look, and she believed she saw a figure hiding near a deserted factory's loading dock, which had collapsed years ago.

  Search carefully, but watch your back. . . .

  She remembered the scene at the cemetery, the killer, wearing the swiped police hat, watching her. Felt the same uneasiness she had there. She left the evidence bags and walked down the alley, hand on her pistol. She saw no one.

  Paranoia.

  "Detective?" one of the techs called.

  She kept going. Was there a face behind that filthy window?

  "Detective," he persisted.

  "I'll be right there." A little irritation in her voice.

  The crime-scene tech said, "Sorry, it's a call. From Detective Rhyme."

  She always shut her phone off when she got to a scene to avoid distractions.

  "Tell him I'll call him right back."

  "Detective, he says it's about somebody named Pam. There's been an incident at your town house. You're needed right away."

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Amelia Sachs ran inside fast, oblivious to the pain in her knees.

  Past the police at the door, not even nodding to them. "Where?"

  One officer pointed toward the living room.

  Sachs hurried into the room . . . and found Pam on the couch. The girl looked up, her face pale.

  The policewoman sat beside her. "You're all right?"

  "I'm fine. A little freaked out is all."

  "Nothing hurt? I can hug you?"

  Pam laughed and Sachs flung her arms around the girl. "What happened?"

  "Somebody broke in. He was here while I was. Mr. Rhyme could see him behind me on the webcam. He kept calling and on the, like, fifth ring or something, I picked up and he told me to start screaming and get out."

  "And you did?"

  "Not really. I kind of ran into the kitchen and got a knife. I was pretty pissed. He took off."

  Sachs glanced at a detective from the local Brooklyn precinct, a squat African-American man, who said in a deep baritone, "He was gone when we got here. Neighbors didn't see anything."

  So it had been her imagination at the warehouse crime scene where Joe Malloy was killed. Or maybe some kid or wino curious about what the cops were doing. After killing Malloy, 522 had come to her place--to look for files or evidence or to finish the job he'd started: kill her.

  Sachs walked through the town house with the detective and Pam. The desk had been ransacked but nothing seemed to be missing.

  "I thought maybe it was Stuart." Pam took a breath. "I kind of broke up with him."

  "You did?"

  A nod.

  "Good for you. . . . But it wasn't him?"

  "No. The guy here was wearing different clothes and wasn't built like Stuart. And, yeah, he's a son of a bitch but he's not going to break into somebody else's town house."

  "You get a look at him?"

  "Naw. He turned and ran before I could see him real clearly." She'd noticed only his outfit.

  The detective explained that Pam had described the burglar as a male, white or light-skinned black or Latino, medium build, wearing blue jeans and a dark blue plaid sports jacket. He'd called Rhyme too, after he'd learned of the webcam, but the criminalist hadn't seen anything more than a vague form in the hallway.

  They found the window through which he'd broken in. Sachs had an alarm system but Pam had shut it off when she'd arrived.

  She looked around the place. The anger and dismay she'd felt at Malloy's horrible death faded, replaced by the same uneasiness, and vulnerability, that she'd been aware of at the cemetery, at the warehouse where Malloy had died, at SSD . . . in fact, everywhere since they'd started the pursuit of 522. Like at the scene near DeLeon's house: Was he watching her now?

  She saw motion outside the window, a flash of light. . . . Was it from the blowing leaves in front of nearby windows reflecting the pale sunlight?

  Or was it 522?

  "Amelia?" Pam asked in a soft voice, looking around uneasily herself. "Everything okay?"

  This brought Sachs back to reality. Get to work. And fast. The killer had been here--and not that long ago. Goddamnit, find out something useful. "Sure, honey. It's fine."

  A patrol officer from the precinct asked, "Detective, you want somebody from Crime Scene to look it over?"

  "That's okay," she said with a glance to Pam and a tight smile. "I'll handle it."

  *

  Sachs got her portable crime-scene kit from the trunk of her car, and she and Pam searched together.

  Well, Sachs did the searching but Pam, standing clear of the perimeter, described exactly where the killer had been. Though her voice was unsteady, the girl was coolly efficient.

  I kind of ran into the kitchen and got a knife.

  Since Pam was here, Sachs asked a patrol officer to stand guard in the garden--where the killer had escaped. This didn't allay her concern completely, though, not with 522's uncanny ability to spy on his victims, to learn all about them, to get close. She wanted to search the scene and get Pam away as soon as she could.

  With the teenager directing her, Sachs searched the places he'd stepped. But she found no evidence in the town house. The killer had either used gloves when he'd broken in or hadn't touched any receptive surfaces, and the adhesive rollers revealed no signs of foreign trace.

  "Where did he go outside?" Sachs asked.

  "I'll show you." Pam glanced at Sachs's face, which was apparently revealing her reluctance to expose the girl to more danger. "It'd be better than me just telling you."

  Sachs nodded and they walked into the garden. She looked around carefully. She asked the patrol officer, "See anything?"

  "Nope. But I've gotta say, when you think somebody's watching you, you see somebody watching you."

  "I hear that."

  He jerked a thumb toward a row of dark windows across the alley, then toward some thick azaleas and boxwood bushes. "I checked them out. Nothing. But I'll keep on it."

  "Thanks."

  Pam directed Sachs to the path 522 had taken to escape and Sachs began walking the grid.

  "Amelia?"

  "What?"

  "I was kind of a shit, you know. What I said to you yesterday. I felt, like, all desperate or something. Panicked . . . I guess what I'm saying is, I'm sorry."

  "You were the picture of restraint."

  "I didn't feel very restrained."

  "Love makes us weird, honey."

  Pam laughed.

  "We'll talk about it later. Maybe tonight, depending on how the case goes. We'
ll get dinner."

  "Okay, sure."

  Sachs continued her examination, struggling to put aside her uneasiness, the sense that 522 was still here. But despite her effort the search wasn't very fruitful. The ground was mostly gravel and she found no footprints, except one near the gate through which he'd escaped from her yard into the alley. The only mark was the toe of a shoe--he'd been sprinting--and useless forensically. She found no fresh tire treadmarks.

  But, returning to her yard, she saw a flash of white in the ivy and periwinkle covering the ground--exactly in the position where it would have landed after falling from 522's pocket as he'd vaulted the locked gate.

  "You found something?"

  "Maybe." With tweezers, Sachs picked up a small piece of paper. Returning to the town house, she set up a portable examining table and processed the rectangle. She sprayed ninhydrin on it, then, after donning goggles, hit it with an alternative light source. She was disappointed that no prints were revealed.

  "Is it helpful?" Pam asked.

  "Could be. It's not going to point to his front door. But then evidence usually doesn't. If it did," she added, smiling, "they wouldn't need people like Lincoln and me, right? I'm going to go check it out."

  Sachs got her toolbox, took out the drill and screwed shut the broken window. She locked up, setting the alarm.

  She had called Rhyme briefly earlier to tell him Pam was all right but she now wanted to let him know about the possible lead. She pulled out her cell phone but, before she called, she paused on the curb and looked around.

  "What's the matter, Amelia?"

  She put the phone back in its holster. "My car." The Camaro was gone. Sachs felt a surge of alarm. Her gaze swiveled up and down the street, her hand strayed to the Glock. Was 522 here? Had he stolen the car?

  The patrol officer was just leaving the backyard and she asked if he'd seen anybody.

  "That car, that old one? It was yours?"

  "Yeah, I think the perp might've boosted it."

  "Sorry, Detective, I think it got towed. I woulda said something if I'd known it was yours."

  Towed? Maybe she'd forgotten to put the NYPD placard on the dash.

  She and Pam walked up the street to the girl's beat-up Honda Civic and drove to the local precinct. The desk sergeant there, whom she knew, had heard about the break-in. "Hi, Amelia. The boys canvassed the hood real careful. Nobody saw the perp."

  "Listen, Vinnie, my wheels're gone. They were by the hydrant across the street from my place."

  "Pool car?"

  "No."

  "Not your old Chevy?"

  "Yep."

  "Aw, no. That's lousy."

  "Somebody said it got towed. I don't know if I had the official-business sign on the dash."

  "Still, they ought to've run the plate, seen who it was registered to. Shit, that sucks. Sorry, miss."

  Pam smiled to show her immunity to words that she'd just uttered herself occasionally.

  Sachs gave the sergeant the plate number and he made some calls, checked the computer. "Naw, it wasn't Parking Violations. Hold on a second." He made some other calls.

  Son of a bitch. She couldn't afford to be without her wheels. She wanted desperately to check out the lead she'd found at her town house.

  But her frustration became concern when she noticed the frown on Vinnie's face. "You sure? . . . Okay. Where'd it go to? . . . Yeah? Well, gimme a call back as soon as you know." He hung up.

  "What?"

  "The Camaro, you have it financed?"

  "Financed? No."

  "This is weird. A repo team got it."

  "Somebody repossessed it?"

  "According to them, you missed six months' payments."

  "Vinnie, it's a 'sixty-nine. My dad bought it for cash in the seventies. It's never had a lien on it. Who was the lender supposed to be?"

  "My guy didn't know. He's going to check it out and call back. He'll find out where they took it."

  "Goddamn last thing I need. You have wheels here?"

  "Sorry, nope."

  She thanked him and walked outside, Pam beside her. "If there's one scratch on her, heads're going to roll," she muttered. Could 522 have been behind the towing? It wouldn't have surprised her, though how he'd arrange it she couldn't imagine.

  Another stab of uneasiness at how close he'd gotten to her, how much information about her he could access.

  The man who knows everything . . .

  She asked Pam, "Can I borrow your Civic?"

  "Sure. Only, can you drop me at Rachel's? We're going to do our homework together."

  "Tell you what, honey, how 'bout if I have one of the guys from the precinct run you into the city?"

  "Sure. How come?"

  "This guy knows way too much about me already. Think it's best just to keep a little distance." She and the girl walked back into the precinct house to arrange for the ride. Outside once again, Sachs looked up and down the sidewalk. No sign of anyone watching her.

  She glanced up fast at motion in a window across the street. She thought immediately of the SSD logo--the window in the watchtower. The person who'd glanced out was an elderly woman but that didn't stop the chill from trickling down Sachs's spine yet again. She walked quickly to Pam's car and fired it up.

  Chapter Forty With a snap of systems shutting down, deprived of their lifeblood, the town house went dark.

  "What the hell is going on?" Rhyme shouted.

  "The electricity's out," Thom announced.

  "That part I figured," the criminalist snapped. "What I'd like to know is why."

  "We weren't running the GC," Mel Cooper said defensively. He looked out the window, as if checking to see if the rest of the neighborhood grid had gone down too, but since it was not yet dusk there were no ConEd references to tell the story.

  "We can't afford to be offline now. Goddamnit. Get it taken care of!"

  Rhyme, Sellitto, Pulaski and Cooper remained in the silent, dim room, while Thom walked into the hall and, on his cell phone, made a call. He was soon talking with somebody at the electric company. "Impossible. I pay the bills online. Every month. Never missed one. I have receipts. . . . Well, they're in the computer and I can't go online because there's no electricity, now can I? . . . Canceled checks, yes, but once again, how can I fax them to you if there's no electricity? . . . I don't know where there's a Kinko's, no."

  "It's him, you know," Rhyme said to the others.

  "Five Twenty-Two? He got your power shut off?"

  "Yep. He found out about me and where I live. Malloy must've told him this is our command post."

  The silence was eerie. The first thing Rhyme thought of was how completely vulnerable he was. The devices that he relied on were useless now and he had no way to communicate, no way to lock or unlock the doors or use the ESU. If the blackout continued and Thom couldn't recharge his wheelchair's battery he'd be immobilized completely.

  He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so vulnerable. Even having others around didn't allay the concern; 522 was a threat to anybody, anywhere.

  He was also wondering: Is the blackout a diversion, or the prelude to an attack?

  "Keep an eye out, everybody," he announced. "He could be moving in on us."

  Pulaski glanced out the window. Cooper too.

  Sellitto pulled out his cell phone and called someone downtown. He explained the situation. He rolled his eyes--Sellitto was never one for stoic faces--then ended the conversation with: "Well, I don't care. Whatever it takes. This asshole's a killer. And we can't do a thing to find him without any fucking electricity. . . . Thanks."

  "Thom, any luck?"

  "No," came the aide's abrupt reply.

  "Shit." Rhyme then reflected on something. "Lon, call Roland Bell. I think we need protection. Five Twenty-Two went after Pam, he went after Amelia." The criminalist nodded at a dark monitor. "He knows about us. I want officers on Amelia's mother's place. Pam's foster home. Pulaski's house, Mel's mother's place. Your house too
, Lon."

  "You think it's that much of a risk?" the big detective asked. Then shook his head. "What the hell am I saying? Sure, it is." He got the information--addresses and phone numbers--then called Bell and had him arrange for officers. After hanging up he said, "It'll take a few hours but he'll get it done."

  A loud knock on the door shattered the silence. Still clutching the phone, Thom started for it.

  "Wait!" Rhyme shouted.

  The aide paused.

  "Pulaski, go with him." Rhyme nodded at the pistol on his hip.

  "Sure."

  They walked into the hallway. Then Rhyme heard a muted conversation and a moment later two men in suits, with trim hair and unsmiling faces, walked into the town house, looking around curiously--first at Rhyme's body, then at the rest of the lab, surprised either at the amount of scientific equipment or the absence of lights, or both, most likely.

  "We're looking for a Lieutenant Sellitto. We were told he'd be here."

  "That's me. Who're you?"

  Shields were displayed and ranks and names given--they were two NYPD detective sergeants. And they were with Internal Affairs.

  "Lieutenant," the older of the two said, "we're here to take possession of your shield and weapon. I have to tell you that the results were confirmed."

  "I'm sorry. What're you talking about?"

  "You're officially suspended. You're not being arrested at this time. But we recommend you talk to an attorney--either your own or one from the PBA."

  "The hell is going on?"

  The younger officer frowned. "The drug test."

  "What?"

  "You don't have to deny anything to us. We just do the fieldwork, pick up shields and weapons and inform suspects of their suspension."

  "What fucking test?"

  The older looked at the younger. This apparently had never happened before.

  Naturally it hadn't, since whatever was going on had been ginned up by 522, Rhyme understood.

  "Detective, really, you don't have to act--"

  "Do I fucking look like I'm acting?"

  "Well, according to the suspension order, you took a drug test last week. The results just came in, showing significant levels of narcotics in your system. Heroin, cocaine and psychedelics."

  "I took the drug test, like everybody in my department. It can't show up positive because I don't do any fucking drugs. I have never done any fucking drugs. And . . . Oh, shit," the big man spat out, grimacing. He jabbed a finger at the SSD brochure. "They've got drug-screening and background-check companies. He got into the system somehow and screwed up my file. The results were faked."