“Then . . . there were pictures of him with Tony Gallante.”
A senior organized crime capo from Bay Ridge.
“Your father and Gallante?”
“They were having dinner together, Rhyme. I called a cop that Pop used to work with, Joe Knox—he was in the Sixteenth Avenue Club too. Got busted. I asked him about Dad, point-blank. He didn’t want to say anything at first. He was pretty shaken up I’d called but finally he admitted it was true. Dad and Knox and a couple others put the finger on store owners and contractors for over a year. They ditched evidence, they even threatened to beat up people who complained.
“They thought Pop was going down big-time but, with the screwup, he got off. They called him the ‘fish that got away.’”
Wiping tears, she continued to scroll through the computer files. She was reviewing official documents too—archives in the NYPD that Rhyme had access to because of the work he did for the department. He wheeled close, so close he could smell her scented soap. She said, “Twelve officers in the Sixteenth Avenue Club were indicted. Internal Affairs knew about three others but they couldn’t make the case because of evidence problems. He was one of those three,” Sachs said. “Jesus. The fish that got away . . .”
She slumped in a chair, her finger disappearing into her hair and scraping. She realized she was doing it and dropped her hand into her lap. There was fresh blood on the nail.
“When that thing with Nick happened,” Sachs began. Another deep breath. “When that happened, all I could think was, there’s nothing worse than a crooked cop. Nothing. . . . And now I find out my father was one.”
“Sachs . . . “Rhyme felt painful frustration at not being able to lift his arm and place his hand on hers, to try to take some of the terrible sting away. He felt a burst of anger at this impotence.
“They took bribes to destroy evidence, Rhyme. You know what that means. How many perps ended up going free because of what they did?” She turned back to the computer. “How many shooters got off? How many innocent people’re dead because of my father? How many?”
Chapter 16
Vincent’s hunger was returning, as thick and heavy as a tide, and he couldn’t stop staring at the women on the street.
His mental violations made him even hungrier.
Here was a blonde with short hair, carrying a shopping bag. Vincent could imagine his hands cupping her head as he lay on top of her.
And here was a brunette, her hair long like Sally Anne’s, dangling from underneath her stocking cap. He could almost feel the quivering of her muscles as his hand pressed into the small of her back.
Here, another blonde, in a suit, carrying a briefcase. He wondered if she’d scream or cry. He bet she was a screamer.
Gerald Duncan was now driving the Band-Aid-mobile, maneuvering it down an alley and then back to a main street, heading north.
“No more transmissions.” The killer nodded at the police scanner, from which was clattering only routine calls and more traffic information. “They’ve changed the frequency.”
“Should I try to find the new one?”
“They’ll be scrambling it. I’m surprised they weren’t from the beginning.”
Vincent saw another brunette—oh, she’s nice—walking out of a Starbucks. She was wearing boots. Vincent liked boots.
How long could he wait? he wondered.
Not very long. Maybe until tonight, maybe until tomorrow. When he’d met Duncan, the killer told him he’d have to give up having his heart-to-hearts until they started on their “project.” Vincent had agreed—why not? The Watchmaker told him there would be five women among his victims. Two were older, middle-aged, but he could have them too if he was interested (it’s a chore but somebody’s got to do it, Clever Vincent quipped to himself).
So he’d been abstaining.
Duncan shook his head. “I’ve been trying to figure out how they knew it was we.”
We? He did talk funny sometimes.
“You have any idea?”
“Nope,” Vincent offered.
Duncan still wasn’t angry, which surprised Vincent. Vincent’s stepfather had screamed and shouted when he was mad, like after the Sally Anne incident. And Vincent himself would grow enraged when one of his ladies fought back and hurt him. But not Duncan. He said anger was inefficient. You had to look at the great scheme of things, he’d say. There was always a grand plan, and little setbacks were insignificant, not worth wasting your energy on. “It’s like time. The centuries and millennia are what matter. With humans, it’s the same thing. A single life is nothing. It’s the generations that count.”
Vincent supposed he agreed, though as far as he was concerned, every heart-to-heart was important; he didn’t want to miss a chance for a single one. And so he asked, “Are we going to try again? With Joanne?”
“Not now,” the killer replied. “They might have a guard with her. And even if we’re able to get to her they’d realize I wanted her dead for a reason. It’s important that they think these are just random victims. What we’ll do now is—”
He stopped talking. He was looking in the rearview mirror.
“What?”
“Cops. A police car came out of a side street. It started to turn one way but then turned toward us.”
Vincent looked over his shoulder. He could see the white car with a light bar on top about a block behind them. It seemed to be accelerating quickly.
“I think he’s after us.”
Duncan turned quickly down a narrow street and sped up. At the next intersection he turned south. “What do you see?”
“I don’t think. . . . Wait. There he is. He’s after us. Definitely.”
“That street there—up a block. On the right. You know it? Does it go through to the West Side Highway?”
“Yeah. Take it.” Vincent felt his palms sweating.
Duncan turned and sped down the one-way street, then turned left onto the highway, heading south.
“In front of us? What’s that? Flashing lights?”
“Yep.” Vincent could clearly see them. Heading their way. His voice rose. “What’re we going to do?”
“Whatever we have to,” Duncan said, calmly turning the wheel precisely and making an impossible turn seem effortless.
Lincoln Rhyme struggled to tune out the droning of Sellitto on his cell phone. He also tuned out the rookie, Ron Pulaski, making calls about Baltimore mobsters.
Tuning it all out so he could let something else into his thoughts.
He wasn’t sure what. A vague memory kept nagging.
A person’s name, an incident, a place. He couldn’t say. But it was something he knew was important, vital.
What?
He closed his eyes and swerved close to the thought. But it got away.
Ephemeral, like the puff balls he would chase when he was a boy in the Midwest, outside of Chicago, running through fields, running, running. Lincoln Rhyme had loved to run, loved to catch puff balls and the whirlygig seeds that spiraled from trees like descending helicopters. Loved to chase dragonflies and moths and bees.
To study them, to learn about them. Lincoln Rhyme was born with a fierce curiosity, a scientist even then.
Running . . . breathless.
And now the immobilized man was also running, trying to grasp a different sort of elusive seed. And even though the pursuit was in his mind only, it was no less strenuous and intense than the footraces of his youth.
There . . . there . . .
Almost have it.
No, not quite.
Hell.
Don’t think, don’t force. Let it in.
His mind sped through memories whole and memories fragmented, the way his feet would pound over fragrant grass and hot earth, through rustling reeds and cornfields, under massive thunderheads boiling up miles high and white in the blue sky.
A thousand images from homicides, and kidnappings and larcenies, crime scene photos, department memos and reports, evidence inventorie
s, the art captured in microscope eyepieces, the mountain peaks and valleys on the screen of a gas chromatograph. Like so many whirlygigs and puff balls and grasshoppers and katydids and robin feathers.
Okay, close . . . close . . .
Then his eyes opened.
“Luponte,” he whispered.
Satisfaction filled the body that could feel no sensation.
Rhyme wasn’t sure but he believed there was something significant about the name Luponte.
“I need a file.” Rhyme glanced at Sellitto, who was now sitting at a computer monitor, examining the screen. “A file!”
The big detective looked over at him. “Are you talking to me?”
“Yes, I’m talking to you.”
Sellitto chuckled. “A file? Do I have it?”
“No. I need you to find it.”
“About what? A case?”
“I think so. I don’t know when. All I know is the name Luponte figures.” He spelled it. “Was a while ago.”
“The perp?”
“Maybe. Or maybe a witness, maybe an arresting or a supervisor. Or even brass. I don’t know.”
Luponte . . .
Sellitto said, “You’re looking like the cat that got the cream.”
Rhyme frowned. “Is that an expression?”
“I don’t know. I just like the sound of it. Okay, the Luponte file. I’ll make some calls. Is it important?”
“With a psychotic killer out there, Lon, do you think I’m going to have you waste time finding me something that’s not important?”
A fax arrived.
“Our ASTER thermal images?” Rhyme asked eagerly.
“No. It’s for Amelia,” Cooper said. “Where is she?”
“Upstairs.”
Rhyme was about to call her but just then she walked into the lab. Her face was dry and no longer red, her eyes clear. She rarely wore makeup but he wondered if she’d made an exception to hide the fact she’d been crying.
“For you,” Cooper told her, looking over the fax. “Secondary analysis of the ash from what’s-his-name’s place.”
“Creeley.”
The tech said, “The lab finally imaged the logo that was on the spreadsheet. It’s from software that’s used in corporate accounting. Nothing unusual. It’s sold to thousands of CPAs around the country.”
She shrugged, taking the sheet and reading. “And Queens had a forensic accountant look over the recovered entries. It’s just standard payroll and compensation figures for executives in some company. Nothing unusual about it.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t seem important. I’m guessing whoever broke in just burned whatever they could find to make sure they destroyed everything connecting them to Creeley.”
Rhyme looked at her troubled eyes. He said, “It’s also common practice to burn materials that have nothing to do with the case just to lead investigators off.”
Sachs nodded. “Yeah, sure. Good point, Rhyme. Thanks.”
Her phone rang.
The policewoman listened, frowning. “Where?” she asked. “Okay.” She jotted some notes. “I’ll be right there.” She said to Pulaski, “May have a lead to the Sarkowski file. I’ll check it out.”
Uneasily he asked, “You want me to go with you?”
Calmer now, she smiled, though Rhyme could see it was forced. “No, you stay here, Ron. Thanks.”
She grabbed her jacket and, without saying anything else, hurried out.
As the front door clicked shut behind her, Sellitto’s phone rang. He tensed as he listened. Then he looked up, announced, “Get this. There was a hit on the EVL. Tan Explorer, two white males inside. Evading an RMP. They’re in pursuit.” He listened some more. “Got it.” He hung up. “They followed it to that big garage on the river at Houston by the West Side Highway. Exits’re sealed. This could be it.”
Rhyme ordered his radio to pick up the scrambled transmissions, and everyone in the lab stared at the small black plastic speakers. Two patrol officers reported that the Explorer had been spotted on the second floor but was abandoned. There was no sign of the men who’d been inside.
“I know the garage,” Sellitto said. “It’s a sieve. They could’ve gotten out anywhere.”
Bo Haumann and a lieutenant reported that they had squads combing the streets around the garage, but there was no sign yet of the Watchmaker or his partner.
Sellitto shook his head in frustration. “At least we’ve got their wheels. It’ll tell us plenty. We should get Amelia back to run the scene.”
Rhyme debated. He’d been anticipating that the conflict between the two cases might come to a head, though he’d never thought it would happen this fast.
Sure, they should get her back.
But the criminalist decided not to. He knew her perhaps even better than he knew himself and he understood that she needed to run with the St. James case.
There’s nothing worse than a crooked cop. . . .
He’d do this for her.
“No. Let her go.”
“But, Linc—”
“We’ll find somebody else.”
The tense silence, which seemed to go on forever, was broken with: “I’ll do it, sir.”
Rhyme glanced to his right.
“You, Ron?”
“Yessir. I can handle it.”
“I don’t think so.”
The rookie looked him in the eye and recited, “‘It’s important to note that the location where the victim’s corpse is actually found is often the least important of the many crime scenes created when a homicide occurs—since it is there that conscientious perpetrators will cleanse the scene of trace and plant false evidence to lead off investigators. The more important—’”
“That’s—”
“Your textbook, sir. I’ve read it. A couple of times, actually.”
“You memorized it?”
“Just the important parts.”
“What’s not important?”
“I meant I memorized the specific rules.”
Rhyme debated. He was young, inexperienced. But he at least knew the players and he had a sharp eye. “All right, Ron. But you don’t take a single step into the scene unless we’re online with each other.”
“That’s fine, sir.”
“Oh, it’s fine?” Rhyme asked wryly. “Thanks for your approval, rookie. Now, get going.”
They were out of breath from the run.
Duncan and Vincent, both carrying large canvas bags containing the contents of the Band-Aid-mobile, slowed to a walk at a park near the Hudson River. They were two blocks from the garage where they’d abandoned the SUV in their flight from the cops.
So wearing the gloves—which Vincent had first thought of as way too paranoid—had paid off after all.
Vincent looked back. “They’re not following. They didn’t see us.”
Duncan leaned against a sapling, hawked and spit into the grass. Vincent pressed his chest, which ached from the run. Steam flowed from their mouths and noses. The killer still wasn’t angry but was even more curious than before. “The Explorer too. They knew about the car. I don’t understand it. How did they know? And who’s after us? . . . That red-haired policewoman I saw on Cedar Street—maybe it’s she.”
She . . .
Then Duncan looked down at his side and frowned. The canvas bag was open. “Oh, no,” he whispered.
“What?”
The killer dropped to his knees and began to rummage through it. “Some things’re missing. The book and ammunition are still in the car.”
“Nothing with our names on it. Or fingerprints, right?”
“No. They won’t identify us.” He glanced at Vincent. “All your food wrappers and the cans? You wore gloves, right?”
Vincent lived in terror of disappointing his friend and was always careful. He nodded.
Duncan looked back at the garage. “But still . . . every bit of evidence they get is like finding another gear from a watch. With enough of them, if you’re smart, you can und
erstand how it works. You can even figure out who made it.” He pulled his jacket off, handed it to Vincent. He wore a gray sweatshirt underneath. He took a baseball cap out of the bag and pulled it on.
“Meet me back at the church. Go straight there. Don’t stop for anything.”
Vincent whispered, “What’re you going to do?”
“The garage’s dark and it’s big. They won’t have enough cops to cover it all. And that side door we used, it’s almost impossible to see from outside. They might not have anybody stationed there. . . . If we’re lucky they might not’ve found the Explorer yet. I’ll get the things we left.”
He took out the box cutter and slipped it into his sock. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his small pistol and checked to make sure it was loaded. He replaced it.
Vincent asked, “But what if they have? Found it, I mean.”
In his calm voice Duncan answered, “Depending, I may try to get them anyway.”
Chapter 17
Ron Pulaski didn’t believe he’d ever felt pressure like this, standing in the freezing-cold garage, staring at the tan Explorer, brilliantly lit by spotlights.
He was alone. Lon Sellitto and Bo Haumann—two legends in the NYPD—were at the command post, downstairs from this level. Two crime scene techs had set up the lights, thrust suitcases into his hands and left, wishing him good luck in what seemed like a pretty ominous tone of voice.
He was dressed in a Tyvek suit, without a jacket, and he was shivering.
Come on, Jenny, he said silently to his wife, as he often did in moments of stress, think good thoughts for me. He added, though speaking only to himself, Let me not fuck this up, which is what he’d share with his brother.
Headsets sat on his ears and he was told he was being patched into a secure frequency directly to Lincoln Rhyme, though so far he’d heard nothing but static.
Then abruptly: “So what’ve you got?” Lincoln Rhyme’s voice snapped through the headsets.
Pulaski jumped. He turned the volume down. “Well, sir, there’s the SUV in front of me. Approximately twenty feet away. It’s parked in a pretty deserted part of the—”
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 106
