The Broken Window

by Jeffery Deaver

  Pulaski wiped his palms on his dress slacks, which Jenny had ironed that morning, as she did every morning or the night before if he had an early tour or a predawn assignment.

  Please, Lord, don't let me lose my job, he prayed. He thought back to the day when he and his twin brother had taken the police officer exam.

  And the day they'd graduated. The swearing-in ceremony too, his mother crying, the look he and his father shared. Those were among the best moments of his life.

  Would all that be wasted? Goddamnit. Okay, Rhyme's brilliant and no one cared more about collaring perps than he did. But breaking the law like this? Hell, he was home sitting in that chair of his, being waited on. Nothing would happen to him.

  Why should Pulaski be the sacrificial lamb?

  Nonetheless he concentrated on his furtive task. Come on, come on, he urged the collection program. But it continued to churn away slowly, assuring him only that it was on the job. No bar easing to the right, no countdown, like in the movies.

  Working . . .

  "What was that, Pulaski?" Rhyme asked.

  "Some employees. They're gone."

  "How's it going?"

  "Okay, I think."

  "You think?"

  "It--" A new message popped up: Completed. Do you want to write to a file?

  "Okay, it's finished. It wants me to write to a file."

  Szarnek came on the line. "This is critical. Do exactly what I tell you." He gave instructions on how to create the files, compress them and move them to the hard drive. Hands shaking, Pulaski did as instructed. He was covered in sweat. In a few minutes the job was done.

  "Now you're going to have to erase your tracks, put everything back the way it was. To make sure nobody does what you just did and finds you." Szarnek sent the officer into the log files and had him type more commands. Finally he got these taken care of.

  "That's it."

  "Okay, get out of there, rookie," Rhyme urged.

  Pulaski hung up, unplugged the hard drive and slipped it back into his pocket, then logged off. He rose and walked outside, blinking in surprise to see that the security guard had moved closer. Pulaski realized he was the same one who'd escorted Amelia through the data pens, walking just behind her--as if he were taking a shoplifter to a store manager's office to await the police.

  Had the man seen anything?

  "Officer Pulaski. I'll take you back to Andrew's office." His face was unsmiling and his eyes didn't reveal a thing. He led the officer up the hall. With every step the hard drive chafed against his leg and felt as if it were red hot. More glances at the ceiling. It was acoustic tile; he couldn't see any damn cameras.

  Paranoia filled the halls, brighter than the stark white lighting.

  When they arrived Sterling waved him into the office, turning over several sheets of paper he was working on. "Officer, you got what you needed?"

  "I did, yes." Pulaski held up the client list CD like a kid at show-and-tell in school.

  "Ah, good." The CEO's bright green eyes looked him over. "And how's the investigation going?"

  "It's going okay." These were the first words that came to Pulaski's mind. He felt like an idiot. What would Amelia Sachs have said? He had no clue.

  "Is it now? Anything helpful in the client list?"

  "I just looked through it to make sure we could read it okay. We'll go over it back at the lab."

  "The lab. In Queens? Is that where you're based?"

  "We do work there, a few other places too."

  Sterling gave no response to Pulaski's evasion, just smiled pleasantly. The CEO was about four or five inches shorter but the young officer felt he was the one looking up. Sterling walked with him into the outer office. "Well, if there's anything else, just let us know. We're one hundred percent behind you."

  "Thanks."

  "Martin, make those arrangements we talked about earlier. Then take Officer Pulaski downstairs."

  "Oh, I can find my way."

  "He'll show you out. You have a good night." Sterling returned to his office. The door closed.

  "I'll just be a few minutes," Martin said to the policeman and picked up the phone and turned slightly, out of earshot.

  Pulaski strolled to the door and looked up and down the hall. A figure emerged from an office. He was speaking in hushed tones on his mobile. Apparently in this part of the building cell phones worked fine. He squinted at Pulaski, said a brief farewell and flipped the phone shut.

  "Excuse me, Officer Pulaski?"

  He nodded.

  "I'm Andy Sterling."

  Sure, Mr. Sterling's son.

  The young man's dark eyes confidently looked right into Pulaski's, though his handshake seemed tentative. "I think you called me. And my father left a message that I was supposed to talk to you."

  "Yeah, that's right. You have a minute?"

  "What do you need to know?"

  "We're checking into certain people's whereabouts on Sunday afternoon."

  "I went hiking up in Westchester. I drove up there about noon and got back--"

  "Oh, no, it's not you we're interested in. I'm just checking where your father was. He said he called you at around two from Long Island."

  "Well, yes, he did. I didn't take the call, though. I didn't want to stop on my hike." He lowered his voice. "Andrew has trouble separating business from pleasure and I thought he might want me to come into the office and I didn't want to screw up my day off. I called him back later, about three-thirty."

  "Do you mind if I take a look at your phone?"

  "No, not at all." He opened the phone and displayed the incoming-call list. He'd received and made several calls on Sunday morning but in the afternoon only one call was on the screen: from the number Sachs had given him--Sterling's Long Island house. "Okay. That'll do it. Appreciate it."

  The young man's face was troubled. "It's terrible, from what I've heard. Someone was raped and murdered?"

  "That's right."

  "Are you close to catching him?"

  "We have a number of leads."

  "Well, good. People like that should be lined up and shot."

  "Thanks for your time."

  As the young man walked off, Martin appeared and glanced at Andy's receding back. "If you'd follow me, Officer Pulaski." With a smile that might as well have been a frown, he walked toward the elevator.

  Pulaski was being eaten alive by nervous energy, the disk drive filling his thoughts. He was sure everybody could see it outlined in his pocket. He began rambling. "So, Martin . . . you been with the company long?"

  "Yes."

  "You a computer person too?"

  A different smile, which meant nothing more than the other one. "Not really."

  Walking down the hallway, black and white, sterile. Pulaski hated it here. He felt strangled, claustrophobic. He wanted the streets, he wanted Queens, the South Bronx. Even the danger didn't matter. He wanted to leave, just put his head down and run.

  A tickle of panic.

  The reporter not only lost his job but was prosecuted under criminal trespass statutes. He served six months in state prison.

  Pulaski was also disoriented. This was a different route from the one he'd taken to get to Sterling's office. Now Martin turned a corner and pushed through a thick door.

  The patrolman hesitated when he saw what was ahead: a station manned by three unsmiling security guards, along with a metal detector and an X-ray unit. These weren't the data pens, so there was no data-erasing system, as in the other part of the building, but he couldn't smuggle out the portable hard drive without being detected. When he'd been here earlier with Amelia Sachs they hadn't passed through any security stations like these. He hadn't even seen any.

  "Don't think we went through one of these last time," he said to the assistant, trying to sound casual.

  "Depends on whether people've been unattended for any period of time," Martin explained. "A computer makes the assessment and lets us know." He smiled. "Don't take it personal
ly."

  "Ha. Not at all."

  His heart pounded, his palms were damp. No, no! He couldn't lose his job. He just couldn't. It was so important to him.

  What the hell had he done, agreeing to do this? He told himself he was stopping the man who'd killed a woman who looked a lot like Jenny. A terrible man who had no problem with killing anyone if it suited his purpose.

  Still, he reflected, this isn't right.

  What would his parents say when he confessed to them that he was being arrested for stealing data? His brother?

  "You have any data on you, sir?"

  Pulaski showed him the CD. The man examined the case. He called a number, using speed dial. He stiffened slightly and then spoke quietly. He loaded the disk into a computer at his station and looked over the screen. The CD apparently was on a list of approved items; but still the guard ran it through the X-ray unit, studying the image of the jewel box and the disk inside carefully. It rolled on the conveyor to the other side of the metal detector.

  Pulaski started forward but a third guard stopped him. "Sorry, sir, please empty your pockets and put everything metal on there."

  "I'm a police officer," he said, trying to sound amused.

  The guard replied, "Your department has agreed to abide by our security guidelines, since we're government contractors. The rules apply to everybody. You can call your supervisor to check, if you'd like."

  Pulaski was trapped.

  Martin continued to watch him closely.

  "Everything on the belt, please."

  Think, come on, Pulaski raged to himself. Figure something out.

  Think!

  Bluff your way through this.

  I can't. I'm not smart enough.

  Yes, you are. What would Amelia Sachs do? Lincoln Rhyme?

  He turned away, knelt down and spent several moments carefully unlacing his shoes, slowly pulling them off. Standing, he placed the polished shoes on the belt and added his weapons, ammo, cuffs, radio, coins, phone and pens to a plastic tray.

  Pulaski started through the metal detector and it went off with a squeal as the unit sensed the hard drive.

  "You have anything else on you?"

  Swallowing, shaking his head, he patted his pockets. "Nope."

  "We'll have to wand you."

  Pulaski stepped out. The second guard passed the wand over his body and stopped at the officer's chest. The device gave a huge squeal.

  The patrolman laughed. "Oh, sorry." He undid a button on his shirt and displayed the bulletproof vest. "Metal heart plate. Forgot about it. Stops everything but a full-metal-jacket rifle slug."

  "Probably not a Desert Eagle," the guard said.

  "Now here's my opinion: A fifty-caliber handgun is just not natural," Pulaski joked, finally drawing smiles from the guards. He started to remove the shirt.

  "That's all right. I don't think we need to make you strip, Officer."

  With shaking hands Pulaski buttoned his shirt, right over the spot where the drive rested--between his undershirt and the vest; he'd stuffed it there when he'd bent down to unlace his shoes.

  He gathered up his gear.

  Martin, who'd bypassed the metal detector, guided him through another door. They were in the main lobby, a large, stark area in gray marble, etched with a huge version of the watchtower and window logo.

  "Have a good day, Officer Pulaski," Martin said, turning back.

  Pulaski continued to the massive glass doors, trying to control the shaking of his hands. He was noticing for the first time the bank of TV cameras monitoring the lobby. His impression was of vultures, sitting serenely on the wall, waiting for wounded prey to gasp and fall.

  Chapter Twenty-seven Even hearing Judy's voice, taking tearful comfort in its familiarity, Arthur Rhyme couldn't stop thinking about the tattooed white guy, the sizzling meth freak, Mick.

  The guy kept talking to himself, he slipped his hands inside his pants every five minutes or so, and he seemed to turn his eyes to Arthur almost as frequently.

  "Honey? Are you there?"

  "Sorry."

  "I have to tell you something," Judy said.

  About the lawyer, about the money, about the children. Whatever it was, it would be too much for him. Arthur Rhyme was close to exploding.

  "Go ahead," he whispered, resigned.

  "I went to see Lincoln."

  "You what?"

  "I had to. . . . You don't seem to believe the lawyer, Art. This isn't going to just fix itself."

  "But . . . I told you not to call him."

  "Well, there's a family involved here, Art. It's not just what you want. There's me and the children. We should've done it before."

  "I don't want him involved. No, call him back and tell him thanks but it's fine."

  "Fine?" Judy Rhyme blurted. "Are you crazy?"

  He sometimes believed she was stronger than he was--probably smarter too. She'd been furious when he'd stormed out of Princeton after being passed over for the professorship. She'd said he was behaving like a child having a tantrum. He wished he'd listened to her.

  Judy blurted, "You've got this idea that John Grisham is going to show up in court at the last minute and save you. But that's not going to happen. Jesus, Art, you ought to be grateful I'm doing something."

  "I am," he said quickly, his words darting out like squirrels. "It's just--"

  "Just what? This is a man who nearly died, was paralyzed over his whole body and now lives in a wheelchair. And he's stopped everything to prove you're innocent. What the hell are you thinking of? You want your children to grow up with a father in prison for murder?"

  "Of course not." He wondered again if she really believed his denial that he hadn't known Alice Sanderson, the dead woman. She wouldn't think he'd killed her, of course; she'd wonder if they'd been lovers.

  "I have faith in the system, Judy." God, that sounded weak.

  "Well, Lincoln is the system, Art. You should give him a call and thank him."

  Arthur hesitated, then asked, "What does he say?"

  "I just talked to him yesterday. He called to ask about your shoes--some of the evidence. But I haven't heard from him again."

  "Did you go see him? Or just call?"

  "I went to his place. He lives on Central Park West. His town house is real nice."

  A dozen memories of his cousin came to mind, rapid-fire.

  Arthur asked, "How does he look?"

  "Believe it or not, pretty much like when we saw him in Boston. Well, no, actually he looks in better shape now."

  "And he can't walk?"

  "He can't move at all. Just his head and shoulders."

  "What about his ex? Do he and Blaine see each other?"

  "No, he's seeing someone else. A policewoman. She's very pretty. Tall, redhead. I have to say, I was surprised. I shouldn't have been, I guess. But I was."

  A tall redhead? Arthur thought immediately of Adrianna. And tried to put that memory aside. It refused to leave.

  Tell me why, Arthur. Tell me why you did it.

  A snarl from Mick. His hand was back in his pants. His eyes flickered hatefully toward Arthur.

  "I'm sorry, honey. Thanks for calling him. Lincoln."

  It was then that he felt hot breath on his neck. "Yo, getoffadaphone."

  A Lat was standing behind him.

  "Offadaphone."

  "Judy, I have to go. There's only one phone here. I've used up my time."

  "I love you, Art--"

  "I--"

  The Lat stepped forward and Arthur hung up, then slipped back to his bench in a corner of the detention area. He sat staring at the floor in front of him, the scuff in the shape of a kidney. Staring, staring.

  But the distressed floor didn't hold his attention. He was thinking of the past. More memories joined those of Adrianna and his cousin Lincoln . . . Arthur's family's home on the North Shore. Lincoln's in the western suburbs. Arthur's stern king of a father, Henry. His brother, Robert. And shy, brilliant Marie.


  Thinking too of Lincoln's father, Teddy. (There was an interesting story behind the nickname--his given name wasn't Theodore; Arthur knew how it had come about but, curiously, he didn't think Lincoln did.) He'd always liked Uncle Teddy. A sweet guy, a little shy, a little quiet--but who wouldn't be in the shadow of an older brother like Henry Rhyme? Sometimes when Lincoln was out, Arthur would drive to Teddy and Anne's. In the small, paneled family room, uncle and nephew would watch an old movie or talk about American history.

  The spot on the Tombs' floor now morphed into the shape of Ireland. It seemed to move as Arthur stared, eyes fixed on it, willing himself away from here, disappearing through a magic hole into the life Out There.

  Arthur Rhyme felt complete despair now. And he understood how naive he'd been. There were no magical exit routes, and no practical ones either. He knew Lincoln was brilliant. He'd read all the articles in the popular press he could find. Even some of his scientific writing: "The Biologic Effects of Certain Nanoparticulate Materials . . ."

  But Arthur understood now that Lincoln could do nothing for him. The case was hopeless and he'd be in jail for the rest of his life.

  No, Lincoln's role in this was perfectly fitting. His cousin--the relative he'd been closest to while growing up, his surrogate brother--ought to be present at Arthur's downfall.

  A grim smile on his face, he looked up from the spot on the floor. And he realized that something had changed.

  Weird. This wing of detention was now deserted.

  Where had everybody gone?

  Then approaching footsteps.

  Alarmed, he glanced up and saw somebody moving toward him fast, feet scuffling. His friend, Antwon Johnson. Eyes cold.

  Arthur understood. Somebody was attacking him from behind!

  Mick, of course.

  And Johnson was coming to save him.

  Leaping to his feet, turning . . . So frightened he felt like crying. Looking for the tweaker, but--

  No. No one was there.

  Which is when he felt Antwon Johnson slip the garrote around his neck--homemade apparently, from a shirt torn into strips and twisted into a rope.

  "No, wha--" Arthur was jerked to his feet. The huge man pulled him off the bench. And dragged him to the wall from which the nail protruded, the one he'd seen earlier, seven feet from the floor. Arthur moaned and thrashed.

  "Shhhh." Johnson looked around at the deserted alcove of the hall.

  Arthur struggled but it was a struggle against a block of wood, against a bag of concrete. He slammed his fist pointlessly into the man's neck and shoulders, then felt himself lifted off the floor. The black man hefted him up and hooked the homemade hangman's noose to the nail. He let go and stood back, watching Arthur kick and jerk, trying to free himself.