"That would be very difficult to accomplish."
"Well, it got accomplished."
"And you or your attorney can bring up that defense at the hearing. Again, we really just need your shield and your weapon. And here's the paperwork on that. Now, I hope there's not going to be a problem. You don't want to add to your difficulties, do you?"
"Shit." The big, rumpled man handed over his gun--an old-style revolver--and the shield. "Gimme the fucking paperwork." Sellitto snatched it out of the hand of the younger one, as the older wrote out a receipt and handed it to him, as well. He then unloaded the gun and placed it and the bullets in a thick envelope.
"Thank you, Detective. Have a good day."
After they were gone, Sellitto flipped open his phone and called the head of IA. The man was out and he left a message. Then he called his own office. The assistant he shared with several other detectives in Major Cases had apparently heard the news.
"I know it's bullshit. They what? . . . Oh, great. I'll call you when I find out what's going on." He snapped the phone closed so hard Rhyme wondered if he'd broken it. He raised an eyebrow. "They just confiscated everything in my desk."
Pulaski asked, "How the hell do you fight somebody like this?"
It was then that Rodney Szarnek called on Sellitto's mobile. He set it to speakerphone. "What's wrong with the landline there?"
"The prick got the electricity shut off. We're working on it. What's up?"
"The list of SSD customers, from the CD. We found something. One customer downloaded pages of data about all victims and fall guys the day before each killing."
"Who is it?"
"His name's Robert Carpenter."
Rhyme said, "Okay. Good. What's his story?"
"All I have is what's on the spreadsheet. He's got his own company in Midtown. Associated Warehousing."
Warehousing? Rhyme was thinking of the place where Joe Malloy was murdered. Was there a connection?
"Have an address?"
The tech specialist recited it.
After disconnecting, Rhyme noted Pulaski was frowning. The young officer said, "I think we saw him at SSD."
"Who?"
"Carpenter. When we were there yesterday. A big, bald guy. He was in a meeting with Sterling. He didn't seem happy."
"Happy? What does that mean?"
"I don't know. Just an impression."
"Not helpful." Rhyme said, "Mel, check this Carpenter out."
Cooper called downtown on his mobile. He spoke for a few minutes, moving closer to the window for the light, then jotted notes. He disconnected. "You don't seem to like the word 'interesting,' Lincoln, but it is. I've got the NCIC and department database results. Robert Carpenter. Lives on the Upper East Side. Single. And, get this, he's got a record. Some credit card fraud and bad-check busts. Did six months in Waterbury. And he was arrested in a corporate extortion scheme. Those charges were dropped but he went nuts when they came to pick him up, tried to swing at the agent. They dropped those charges when he agreed to go into ED counseling."
"Emotionally disturbed?" Rhyme nodded. "And his company's in the warehousing business. Just the line of work for a hoarder. . . . Okay, Pulaski, find out where this Carpenter was when Amelia's town house got broken into."
"Yes, sir." Pulaski was lifting his phone from its holster when the unit trilled. He glanced at caller ID. He answered. "Hi, hon--What? . . . Hey, Jenny, calm down. . . ."
Oh, no . . . Lincoln Rhyme knew that 522 had attacked on yet another front.
"What? Where are you? . . . Take it easy, it's just a mistake." The rookie's voice was shaking. "It'll all get taken care of. . . . Give me the address. . . . Okay, I'll be right there."
He snapped shut the phone, closed his eyes momentarily. "I have to go."
"What's wrong?" Rhyme asked.
"Jenny's been arrested. By the INS."
"Immigration?"
"She got put on a watch list at Homeland Security. They're saying she's illegal and a security threat."
"Isn't she--?"
"Our great-grandparents were citizens," Pulaski snapped. "Jesus." The young officer was wild-eyed. "Brad's at Jenny's mom's but she has the baby with her now. They're transporting her to detention--and they may take the baby. If they do that . . . Oh, man." Pure despair filled his face. "I have to go." His eyes told Rhyme that nothing would stop him being with his wife.
"Okay. Go. Good luck."
The young man sprinted out the door.
Rhyme closed his eyes briefly. "He's picking us off like a sniper." He grimaced. "At least Sachs'll be here any minute. She can check out Carpenter."
Just then another pounding shook the door.
Alarmed, his eyes jerked open. What now?
But this, at least, wasn't another disruption by 522.
Two crime-scene officers from the main facility in Queens walked inside, carrying a large milk crate, which Sachs had handed off to them before she'd raced to her town house. This would be the evidence from the scene of Malloy's death.
"Hi, Detective. You know your doorbell's not working." One looked around. "And your lights're off."
"We're pretty aware of that," Rhyme said coolly.
"Anyway, here you go."
After the officers had left, Mel Cooper put the box on an examination table and extracted the evidence and Sachs's digital camera, which would contain images of the scene.
"Now, that's helpful," Rhyme growled sarcastically, pointing his chin at the silent computer and its black screen. "Maybe we can hold the memory chip up to the sunlight."
He glanced at the evidence itself--a shoeprint, some leaves, duct tape and envelopes of trace. They had to examine it as soon as possible; since this wasn't planted evidence it might provide the final clue as to where 522 was. But without their equipment to analyze it and check the databases, the bags were nothing more than paperweights.
"Thom," Rhyme called, "the power?"
"I'm still on hold," the aide shouted from the dark hallway.
*
He knew this was probably a bad idea. But he was out of control.
And it took a lot for Ron Pulaski to be out of control.
Yet he was furious. This was beyond anything he'd ever felt. When he'd signed up for the blue he'd expected to be beat up and threatened from time to time. But he'd never thought that his career would put Jenny at risk, much less his children.
So despite being straitlaced and by the book--Sergeant Friday--he was taking the matter into his own hands. Going behind the backs of Lincoln Rhyme and Detective Sellitto and even his mentor, Amelia Sachs. They wouldn't be happy at what he was going to do but Ron Pulaski was desperate.
And so on the way to the INS detention center in Queens, he'd made a call to Mark Whitcomb.
"Hey, Ron," the man had said, "what's going on? . . . You sound upset. You're out of breath."
"I've got a problem, Mark. Please. I need some help. My wife's being accused of being an illegal alien. They say her passport's forged and she's a security threat. It's crazy."
"But she's a citizen, isn't she?"
"Her family's been here for generations. Mark, we think this killer we've been after got into your system. He's had one detective fail a drug test . . . and now he's had Jenny arrested. He could do that?"
"He must've swapped her file with somebody who's on a watch list and then called it in. . . . Look, I know some people at INS. I can talk to them. Where are you?"
"On my way to the detention center in Queens."
"I'll meet you outside in twenty minutes."
"Oh, thanks, man. I don't know what to do."
"Don't worry, Ron. We'll get it worked out."
Now, waiting for Whitcomb, Ron Pulaski was pacing in front of INS detention, beside a temporary sign indicating that the service was now operated by the Department of Homeland Security. Pulaski thought back to all the TV news reports he and Jenny had seen about illegal immigrants, how terrified they'd looked.
W
hat was happening to his wife at the moment? Would she be stuck for days or weeks in some kind of bureaucratic purgatory? Pulaski wanted to scream.
Calm down. Handle it smart. Amelia Sachs always told him that.
Handle it smart.
Finally, thank you, Lord, Pulaski saw Mark Whitcomb walking quickly toward him, the expression one of urgent concern. He wasn't sure exactly what the man could do to help but he hoped that the Compliance Department, with its connections to the government, could pull strings with Homeland Security and get his wife and child released, at least until the matter was officially resolved.
Whitcomb, breathless, came up to him. "Have you found out anything else?"
"I called about ten minutes ago. They're inside now. I didn't say anything. I wanted to wait for you."
"You okay?"
"No. I'm pretty frantic here, Mark. Thanks for this."
"Sure," the Compliance officer said earnestly. "It'll be okay, Ron. Don't worry. I think I can do something." Then he looked up into Pulaski's eyes; the SSD Compliance officer was just slightly taller than Andrew Sterling. "Only . . . it's pretty important for you to get Jenny out of there, right?"
"Oh, yeah, Mark. This's just a nightmare."
"Okay. Come this way." He led Pulaski around the corner of the building, then into an alley. "I've got a favor to ask, Ron," Whitcomb whispered.
"Whatever I can do."
"Really?" The man's voice was uncharacteristically soft, calm. And his eyes had a sharpness that Pulaski hadn't seen before. As if he'd dropped an act and was now being himself. "You know, sometimes, Ron, we have to do things that we don't think are right. But in the end it's for the best."
"What do you mean?"
"To help your wife out you might have to do something you might think isn't so good."
The officer said nothing, his thoughts whirling. Where was this going?
"Ron, I need you to make this case go away."
"Case?"
"The murder investigation."
"Go away? I don't get it."
"Stop the case." Whitcomb looked around and whispered, "Sabotage it. Destroy the evidence. Give them some false leads. Point them anywhere but at SSD."
"I don't understand, Mark. Are you joking?"
"No, Ron. I'm real serious. This case's got to stop and you can do it."
"I can't."
"Oh, yes, you can. If you want Jenny out of there." A nod toward the detention center.
No, no . . . this was 522. Whitcomb was the killer! He'd used the passcodes of his boss, Sam Brockton, to get access to innerCircle.
Instinctively Pulaski started for his gun.
But Whitcomb drew first, a black pistol appearing in his hand. "No, Ron. That's not going to get us anywhere." Whitcomb reached into the holster and pulled Pulaski's Glock out by the grip, slipped it into his waistband.
How could he have misjudged this so badly? Was it the head injury? Or was he just stupid? Whitcomb's friendship had been feigned, which hurt as much as it shocked. Bringing him the coffee, defending him to Cassel and Gillespie, suggesting they get together socially, helping with the time sheets . . . it was all a tactic to get close to the cop and use him.
"It's all a goddamn lie, isn't it, Mark? You didn't grow up in Queens at all, did you? And you don't have a brother who's a cop?"
"No to both." Whitcomb's face was dark. "I tried to reason with you, Ron. But you wouldn't work with me. Goddamnit! You could have. Now look what you've made me do."
The killer pushed Pulaski farther into the alley.
Chapter Forty-one Amelia Sachs was in the city, cruising through traffic, frustrated at the noisy, tepid response of the Japanese engine.
It sounded like an ice maker. And had just about as much horsepower.
She'd called Rhyme twice but both times the line went right to voice mail. This rarely happened; Lincoln Rhyme obviously wasn't away from home very much. And something odd was going on at the Big Building: Lon Sellitto's phone was out of order. And neither he nor Ron Pulaski was answering his mobile.
Was 522 behind this too?
All the more reason to move fast in following up on the lead she'd discovered at her town house. It was a solid one, she believed. Maybe it was the final clue, the one missing piece of the puzzle they needed to bring this case to its conclusion.
Now she saw her destination, not far away. Mindful of what had happened to the Camaro, and not wanting to jeopardize Pam's car too--if 522 had been behind the repossession, as she suspected--Sachs cruised around the block until she found the rarest of all phenomena in Manhattan: a legal, unoccupied parking space.
How 'bout that?
Maybe it was a good sign.
*
"Why are you doing this?" Ron Pulaski whispered to Mark Whitcomb as they stood in a deserted Queens alleyway.
But the killer ignored him. "Listen to me."
"We were friends, I thought."
"Well, everybody thinks a lot of things that turn out not to be true. That's life." Whitcomb cleared his throat. He seemed edgy, uncomfortable. Pulaski remembered Sachs saying that the killer was feeling the pressure of their pursuit, which made him careless. It also made him more dangerous.
Pulaski was breathing hard.
Whitcomb looked around again, fast, then back at the young officer. He kept the gun steady and it was clear he knew how to use it. "Are you fucking listening to me?"
"Goddamnit. I'm listening."
"I don't want this investigation to go any further. It's time for it to stop."
"Stop? I'm in Patrol. How can I stop anything?"
"I was telling you: Sabotage it. Lose some evidence. Send people in the wrong direction."
"I won't do that," the young officer muttered defiantly.
Whitcomb shook his head, looking almost disgusted. "Yes, you will. You can make this easy or hard, Ron."
"What about my wife? Can you get her out of there?"
"I can do anything I want."
The man who knows everything . . .
The young officer closed his eyes, grinding his teeth together the way he'd done as a kid. He looked at the building where Jenny was being held.
Jenny, the woman who looked just like Myra Weinburg.
Ron Pulaski now resigned himself to what he had to do. It was terrible, it was foolish, but he had no choice. He was cornered.
His head down, he muttered, "Okay."
"You'll do it?"
"I said I would," he snapped.
"That's smart, Ron. Very smart."
"But I want you to promise"--Pulaski hesitated for a fraction of a second, glancing behind Whitcomb and then back--"that she and the baby'll be out today."
Whitcomb caught the glance and quickly looked behind him. As he did, the muzzle of his gun moved slightly off target.
Pulaski decided he'd played it just right, and he struck fast. With his left hand the young officer shoved the gun farther away and lifted his leg, pulling a small revolver from an ankle holster. Amelia Sachs had instructed him always to have one with him.
The killer cursed and tried to back up but Pulaski kept a death grip on his shooting hand and he swung the pistol into Whitcomb's face hard, snapping cartilage.
The man gave a muffled scream, blood streaming. The Compliance officer went down and Pulaski managed to rip his pistol out of his fingers but he couldn't keep a grip on it himself. Whitcomb's black weapon went cartwheeling to the ground as the men locked together in a clumsy wrestling match. The gun clunked to the asphalt without discharging and Whitcomb, wide-eyed with panic and fury, shoved Pulaski into the wall and grabbed for his hand.
"No, no!"
Whitcomb snapped forward with a head butt and Pulaski, recalling the terror of the club hitting him in the forehead years ago, recoiled instinctively. Which gave Whitcomb just the chance he needed to shove Pulaski's backup toward the sky, and with his other hand draw the Glock, aiming it at the young officer's head.
Leaving him with only en
ough time to issue a sound bite of prayer and to fix on an image of his wife and children, a vivid portrait to carry with him to heaven.
*
Finally the electricity came back on, and Cooper and Rhyme quickly got back to work on the evidence from the Joe Malloy killing. They were alone in the lab; Lon Sellitto was downtown, trying to get his suspension overturned.
The pictures of the scene were unrevealing and the physical evidence wasn't extremely helpful. The shoeprint was clearly 522's, the same as they'd found earlier. The fragments of leaves were from houseplants: ficus and Aglaonema, or Chinese evergreen. The trace was unsourceable soil, more of the Trade Towers dust, and a white powder that turned out to be Coffee-mate. The duct tape was generic; no source could be located.
Rhyme was surprised at the amount of blood on the evidence. He thought back to Sellitto's description of the captain.
He's a crusader. . . .
Despite his protests of detachment, he found himself very troubled by Malloy's death--and how vicious it had been. And Rhyme's anger burned hotter. His uneasiness too. Several times he glanced out the window, as if 522 were sneaking up at that moment, though he'd had Thom lock all the doors and windows and turn on the security cameras.
JOSEPH MALLOY HOMICIDE SCENE
* * *
* Size-11 Skechers work shoe
* Houseplant leaves: ficus and Aglaonema--Chinese evergreen
* Dirt, untraceable
* Dust, from Trade Center attack
* Coffee-mate
* Duct tape, generic, untraceable
"Add the plants and Coffee-mate to the nonplanted evidence chart, Mel."
The technician walked to the whiteboard and penned in the additions.
"Not much. Damn, not much at all."
Then Rhyme blinked. Another pounding on the door. Thom went to answer it. Mel Cooper moved away from the whiteboard and his hand slipped to the thin pistol on his hip.
But the visitor wasn't 522. It was an inspector with the NYPD, Herbert Glenn. A middle-aged man, with impressive posture, Rhyme observed. His suit was cheap but the shoes were polished to perfection. Several other voices sounded in the hallway, behind.
After introductions, Glenn said, "I'm afraid I have to talk to you about an officer you work with."
Sellitto? Or Sachs? What had happened?
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