The Broken Window (44 page)

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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?”

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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.”

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“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.

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.

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“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 that 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
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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?”

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“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.”

“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
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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.”