The Broken Window (7 page)

“I got…?” Oh,
processed
. “I don’t know. I got it at Nordstrom.”

“Nordstrom. The fuck is Nordstrom?”

“A store.”

As Arthur looked back down at Earring Man’s feet the con continued, “I saying, good money? How much you make?”

“I—”

“You going to say you don’t know?”

“I—” Yes, he was.

“How much you make?”

“I don’t… I’d guess about six figures.”

“Fuck.”

Arthur didn’t know if this meant the amount was a lot or a little to them.

Page 35

Then High Voice laughed. “You got a family?”

“I’m not telling you anything about them.” This was defiant.

“You got a
family
?”

Arthur Rhyme was looking away, at the wall nearby, where a nail protruded from mortar between cinder blocks, meant to hold a sign, he assumed, that had been taken down or stolen years ago. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you.” He tried to make his voice forceful. But he sounded like a girl approached by a nerd at a dance.

“We trying to make civil conversation, man.”

He actually said that?
Civil conversation
?

Then he thought, Hell, maybe they
are
just trying to be pleasant. Maybe they could’ve been friends, watched his back for him. Christ knew he needed all the friends he could get. Could he salvage this? “I’m sorry. It’s just, this’s a really weird thing for me. I’ve never been in any trouble before. I’m just—”

“What you wife do? She a scientist too? She a smart girl?”

“I…” The intended words evaporated.

“She got big titties?”

“You fuck her in the ass?”

“Listen up, Science Fuck, here’s how it gonna work. You smart wife, she goin’ to get some money from the bank. Ten thousand. And she gonna take a drive up to my cousin in the Bronx. An’—”

The tenor voice faded.

A black prisoner, six-two, massive with muscle and fat, his jumpsuit sleeves rolled up, approached the trio. He was gazing at the two Latinos and squinting mean.

“Yo, Chihuahuas. Get the fuck outa here.”

Arthur Rhyme was frozen. He couldn’t have moved if someone had started shooting at him, which wouldn’t have surprised him, even here in the realm of the magnetometers.

“Fuck you, nigger,” Earring Man said.

“Piece of shit.” From High Voice, drawing a laugh from the black guy, who put an arm around Earring Man and led him away, whispering something to him. The Latino’s eyes glazed and he nodded to his buddy, who joined him. The two walked to the far corner of the area, feigning indignity. If Arthur weren’t so frightened he would have thought this was amusing—faced-down bullies from his children’s school.

The black man stretched and Arthur heard a joint pop. His heart was thudding even harder. A half-formed prayer crossed his mind: for the coronary to take him away now, right now.

“Thanks.”

Page 36

The black guy said, “Fuck you. Them two, they pricks. They gotta know the way it is. You unnerstand what I’m saying?”

No, no clue. But Arthur Rhyme said, “Still. My name’s Art.”

“I know the fuck yo’ name. Ever’body know ever’thing round here. ’Cept you. You don’ know shit.”

But one thing Arthur Rhyme knew, and knew it with certainty: He was dead. And so he said, “Okay, then tell me who the fuck you are, asshole.”

The huge face turned toward him. Smelling sweat and smoky breath, Arthur thought of his family, his children first and then Judy. His parents, mother first, then father. Then, surprisingly, he thought of his cousin, Lincoln. Recalling a footrace through a hot Illinois field one summer when they were teenagers.

Race you to that oak tree. See it, that one over there. On three. You ready? One… two… three…

go!

But the man just turned away and stalked across the hall to another black prisoner. They tapped fists together and Arthur Rhyme was forgotten.

He sat watching their camaraderie, feeling more and more forlorn. Then he closed his eyes and lowered his head. Arthur Rhyme was a scientist. He believed that life advanced via the process of natural selection; divine justice played no role.

But now, sunk in a depression as relentless as winter tides, he couldn’t help wondering if some system of retribution, as real and invisible as gravity, existed and was now at work, punishing him for the bad he’d done in his life. Oh, he’d done much good. Raised children, taught them open-minded values and tolerance, been a good companion to his wife, helped her through a cancer incident, contributed to the great body of science that enriched the world.

Yet there was bad too. There always is.

Sitting here in his stinking orange jumpsuit, he struggled to believe that by the right thoughts and vows—and faith in the system he dutifully supported every election day—he could work his way back to the other side of the scale of justice and be reunited with his family and life.

That with the right spirit and intention he could outrun fate through the same breathless effort with which he’d beaten Lincoln in that hot, dusty field, charging all out toward the oak tree.

That maybe he could be saved. It might—

“Move.”

He jumped at the word, though the speaker’s voice was soft. Another prisoner, white, shaggy hair, full of tats but light on teeth and twitchy as the drugs leached from his system, had come up behind him. He stared at the bench where Arthur sat, though he could have picked anywhere. His eyes were just plain mean.

And Arthur’s momentary hope—in some measurable and scientific system of moral justice—vanished.

One word from this small but damaged and dangerous man killed it.

Page 37

Move…

Struggling to hold back tears, Arthur Rhyme moved.

The phone rang and Lincoln Rhyme was irritated by the distraction. He was thinking about their Mr. X

and the mechanics of planting the evidence, if in fact that was what had happened, and wanted no distractions.

But then reality struck; he saw the 44 in the caller ID, the country code that included England.

“Command, answer phone,” he ordered instantly.

Click.

“Yes, Inspector Longhurst?” He’d given up on first names. Relations with Scotland Yard required a certain propriety.

“Detective Rhyme, hello,” she said. “We have some movement here.”

“Go on,” Rhyme said.

“Danny Krueger heard from one of his former gun-runners. It seems that the reason Richard Logan left London was to collect something in Manchester. We aren’t sure what, but we do know that Manchester’s got more than its share of black-market weapons dealers.”

“Any idea where he is exactly?”

“Danny’s still trying to find out. It would be lovely if we could take him there, rather than wait till London.”

“Is Danny being subtle?” Rhyme remembered from the videoconference a big, tanned, loud South African with a belly and a gold pinkie ring that both jutted outward alarmingly. Rhyme had had a case involving Darfur, and he and Krueger had spent some time talking about the country’s tragic conflict.

“Oh, he knows what he’s doing. He’s subtle when he needs to be. Fierce as a hound when the situation calls for it. He’ll get the details if there’s any way. We’re working with our counterparts in Manchester to get an assault team ready. We’ll call you back when we know something more.”

He thanked her and they disconnected.

“We’ll get him, Rhyme,” Sachs said, not simply for his benefit. She too had an interest in finding Logan; Sachs herself had nearly died in one of his plots.

Sachs took a call. She listened and said she’d be there in ten minutes. “The files in those other cases Flintlock mentioned? They’re ready. I’ll go get them… Oh, and Pam might stop by.”

“What’s she up to?”

Page 38

“Studying with a friend in Manhattan—a
boy
friend.”

“Good for her. Who?”

“Some kid from school. Can’t wait to meet him. He’s all she talks about. She sure deserves somebody decent in her life. But I just don’t want her getting too close too fast. I’ll feel better when I’ve met him and given him the third degree in person.”

Rhyme nodded as Sachs left, but his mind was elsewhere. He was staring at the whiteboard containing the information on the Alice Sanderson case as he ordered the phone to make another call.

“Hello?” a soft male voice answered as a waltz played in the background. Loud.

“Mel. Is that you?”

“Lincoln?”

“What’s that goddamn music? Where are you?”

“New England Ballroom Competition,” answered Mel Cooper.

Rhyme sighed. Washing dishes, theater matinees, ballroom dancing. He hated Sundays. “Well, I need you. I’ve got a case. It’s unique.”

“They’re all unique with you, Lincoln.”

“This one’s more unique than others, if you’ll forgive the grammatical misdemeanor. Can you come in?

You mentioned New England. Don’t tell me you’re in Boston or Maine.”

“Midtown. And I guess I’m free—Gretta and I were just eliminated. Rosie Talbot and Bryan Marshall are going to win. It’s all the scandal.” He said this with some significance. “How soon?”

“Now.”

Cooper chuckled. “How long will you need me?”

“Maybe a while.”

“As in six o’clock tonight? Or as in Wednesday?”

“Better call your supervisor and tell him you’re being reassigned. I hope it won’t be longer than Wednesday.”

“I’ll have to give him a name. Who’s running the investigation? Lon?”

“Let me put it this way: Be a little vague.”

“Well, Lincoln, you
do
remember being a cop, don’t you? ‘Vague’ doesn’t fly. ‘Very specific’ does.”

“There isn’t exactly a lead detective.”

Page 39

“You’re on your own?” His voice was uncertain.

“Not exactly. There’s Amelia, there’s Ron.”

“That’s all?”

“You.”

“I see. Who’s the perp?”

“Actually, the perps’re already in jail. Two are convicted, one’s awaiting trial.”

“And you have your doubts that we got the right parties.”

“Something like that.”

A detective with the NYPD Crime Scene Unit, Mel Cooper specialized in lab work and he was one of the most brilliant officers on the force, as well as one of the most savvy. “Oh. So you want me to help you find out how my bosses screwed up and arrested the wrong people, then talk them into opening three new and expensive investigations against the real perps, who, by the way, probably won’t be real tickled either when they learn that they’re not getting off scot-free after all. This is sort of a lose-lose-lose situation, isn’t it, Lincoln?”

“Apologize to your girlfriend for me, Mel. Be here soon.”

Sachs was halfway to her crimson Camaro SS when she heard, “Hey, Amelia!”

She turned to see a pretty teenage girl, with long chestnut hair, streaked with red, and a few tasteful piercings in both ears. She was lugging two canvas bags. Her face, dusted with delicate freckles, was radiant with happiness. “You’re leaving?” she asked Sachs.

“Big case. I’m going downtown. Want a ride?”

“Sure. I’ll get the train at City Hall.” Pam climbed into the car.

“How was studying?”

“You know.”

“So where’s your friend?” Sachs was looking around.

“You just missed him.”

Stuart Everett was a student at the Manhattan high school Pam was attending. She’d been going out with him for several months. They’d met in class and immediately discovered a mutual love of books and music. They were in the school’s Poetry Club, which reassured Sachs; at least he wasn’t a biker or a knuckle-dragging jock.

Page 40

Pam tossed one of her bags, containing schoolbooks, into the backseat and opened the other one. A fuzzy-headed dog looked out.

“Hey, Jackson,” Sachs said, petting his head.

The tiny Havanese grabbed the Milk-Bone the detective offered from an add-on cup holder, whose sole purpose was as a reservoir of dog treats; Sachs’s acceleration and cornering habits weren’t conducive to keeping liquids contained.

“Stuart couldn’t walk you here? What kind of gentleman is that?”

“He’s got this soccer game. He’s way into sports. Are most guys like that?”

Pulling into traffic, Sachs gave a wry laugh. “Yup.”

It seemed an odd question from a girl this age, most of whom would know all about boys and sports.

But Pam Willoughby wasn’t like most girls. When she was very young her father died on a U.N.

peacekeeping mission and her unstable mother had flung herself into the political and religious right-wing underground, growing more and more militant. She was now serving a life sentence for murder (she was responsible for the U.N. bombing some years ago in which six people died). Amelia Sachs and Pam had met back then, when the detective had saved the girl from a serial kidnapper. She then disappeared but, by sheer coincidence, Sachs had rescued her again, not long ago.

Liberated from her sociopath family, Pam had been placed with a foster family in Brooklyn—though not before Sachs had checked out the couple like a Secret Service agent planning a presidential visit. Pam enjoyed life with the family. But she and Sachs continued to hang out together and were close. With Pam’s foster mother often fully occupied with taking care of five younger children, Sachs took on the role of older sister.

This worked for them both. Sachs had always wanted children. But complications existed. She’d planned on a family with her first serious live-in boyfriend, though he, a fellow cop, proved to be about the worst choice in the world (extortion, assault and eventually prison, for a start). After him she’d been alone until she’d met Lincoln Rhyme and had been with him ever since. Rhyme didn’t quite get children, but he was a good man, fair and smart, and could separate his stony professionalism from his home life; a lot of men couldn’t.

But starting a family would be difficult at this point in their lives; they had to contend with the dangers and demands of policing and the restless energy they both felt—and the uncertainty about Rhyme’s future health. They also had a certain physical barrier to be overcome, though the problem, they’d learned, was Sachs’s, not Rhyme’s (he was perfectly capable of fathering a family).