The Broken Window

Chapter Fifty

“Okay, the com­pu­ter hel­ped,” Lin­coln Rhyme ack­now­led­ged.

He was re­fer­ring to in­ner­Circ­le, the Watch­to­wer da­ta­ba­se ma­na­ge­ment prog­ram and SSD’s ot­her prog­rams. “But it was mostly the evi­den­ce,” he sa­id stri­dently. “The com­pu­ter po­in­ted me in a ge­ne­ral di­rec­ti­on. That’s all. We to­ok over from the­re.”

It was well af­ter mid­night and Rhyme was spe­aking to Sachs and Pu­las­ki, both se­ated ne­arby in the lab. She’d re­tur­ned from 522’s town ho­use, whe­re the me­dics had re­por­ted that Ro­bert Jor­gen­sen wo­uld sur­vi­ve; the bul­let had mis­sed ma­j­or or­gans and blo­od ves­sels. He was in the Co­lum­bia-Presby­te­ri­an in­ten­si­ve ca­re fa­ci­lity.

Rhyme con­ti­nu­ed his exp­la­na­ti­on of how he’d fo­und out that Sachs was in an SSD se­cu­rity gu­ard’s town ho­use. He told her abo­ut her mas­si­ve Comp­li­an­ce dos­si­er. Mel Co­oper cal­led it up on the com­pu­ter for her to lo­ok at. She scrol­led thro­ugh it, her fa­ce as­hen at the amo­unt of in­for­ma­ti­on in­si­de. Even as they watc­hed, the scre­en flic­ke­red as it up­da­ted.

“They know everyt­hing,” she whis­pe­red. “I don’t ha­ve a sing­le sec­ret in the world.”

Rhyme went on to tell her how the system had com­pi­led a list of her po­si­ti­ons af­ter she had left the pre­cinct ho­use in Bro­oklyn. “But all the com­pu­ters co­uld do was gi­ve a ro­ugh di­rec­ti­on of yo­ur tra­vel. It ca­me up blank for a des­ti­na­ti­on. I kept lo­oking at the map and re­ali­zed that you we­re he­aded in the ge­ne­ral di­rec­ti­on of SSD—which, by the way, the­ir own god­damn com­pu­ter didn’t fi­gu­re out. I cal­led and the lobby gu­ard sa­id that you’d just spent a half ho­ur the­re, as­king abo­ut emp­lo­ye­es. But no­body knew whe­re you’d go­ne af­ter that.”

She exp­la­ined how her le­ad had ta­ken her to SSD: The man who’d bro­ken in­to her town ho­use had drop­ped a re­ce­ipt from a cof­fee shop next to the com­pany. “That told me the perp had to be an emp­lo­yee or so­me­body con­nec­ted to SSD. Pam got a lo­ok at the guy’s clot­hes—blue jac­ket, je­ans and a cap—and I fi­gu­red the se­cu­rity gu­ards might know of emp­lo­ye­es who’d worn that out­fit to­day. The ones who we­re on duty didn’t re­mem­ber se­e­ing an­yo­ne li­ke that so I got the na­mes and ad­dres­ses of gu­ards who we­re off duty. I star­ted can­vas­sing them.” A gri­ma­ce. “Ne­ver oc­cur­red to me that Fi­ve Twenty-Two was one of them. How’d you know he was a gu­ard, Rhyme?”

“Well, I knew you we­re lo­oking for an emp­lo­yee. But was it one of the sus­pects or so­me­body el­se? The god­damn com­pu­ter wasn’t any help so I tur­ned to the evi­den­ce. Our perp was an emp­lo­yee who wo­re unsty­lish work sho­es and had tra­ces of Cof­fee-ma­te on him. He was strong. Did tho­se me­an he had so­me physi­cal job in the lo­wer rungs of the com­pany? Ma­il­ro­om, de­li­very­man, jani­tor? Then I re­cal­led the ca­yen­ne pep­per.”

“Pep­per spray,” Sachs sa­id, sig­hing. “Of co­ur­se. It wasn’t fo­od at all.”

“Exactly. A se­cu­rity gu­ard’s ma­in we­apon. And the vo­ice-dis­gu­ise box? You can buy them at sto­res that sell se­cu­rity equ­ip­ment. Then I tal­ked to the he­ad of se­cu­rity at SSD. Tom O’Day.”

“Right. We met him.” A nod at Pu­las­ki.

“He told me a lot of se­cu­rity gu­ards wor­ked only part-ti­me, which’d gi­ve Fi­ve Twenty-Two plenty of ti­me to prac­ti­ce his hobby out­si­de the of­fi­ce. I ran the ot­her evi­den­ce past O’Day. The bits of le­af we fo­und co­uld’ve co­me from the plants in the se­cu­rity gu­ards’ lunch ro­om. And they ha­ve Cof­fee-ma­te the­re, not re­al milk. I told him Terry Dobyns’s pro­fi­le and as­ked for a list of all the gu­ards who we­re sing­le and had no child­ren. Then he cross-re­fe­ren­ced the­ir ti­me she­ets with the ti­mes of the kil­lings for all the cri­mes go­ing back two months.”

“And you fo­und one who was out of the of­fi­ce at the ti­me—John Rol­lins, aka Pe­ter Gor­don.”

“No, I fo­und that John Rol­lins was in the of­fi­ce every ti­me the cri­me oc­cur­red.”

“In the of­fi­ce?”

“Obvi­o­usly. He got in­to the of­fi­ce ma­na­ge­ment system and chan­ged the ti­me she­ets to gi­ve him­self an ali­bi. I had Rod­ney Szar­nek check the me­ta­da­ta. Yep, he was our man. I cal­led it in.”

“But, Rhyme, I don’t un­ders­tand how Fi­ve Twenty-Two got the dos­si­ers. He had ac­cess to all the da­ta pens but every­body was se­arc­hed when they left, even him. And he didn’t ha­ve on­li­ne ac­cess to in­ner­Circ­le.”

“That was the one stumb­ling block, yep. But we ha­ve Pam Wil­lo­ughby to thank. She hel­ped me fi­gu­re it out.”

“Pam? How?”

“Re­mem­ber she told us that no­body co­uld down­lo­ad the pic­tu­res from the so­ci­al-net­wor­king si­te, Our­World, but the kids just to­ok pic­tu­res of the scre­en?”

Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Rhyme. A lot of ti­mes pe­op­le miss the ob­vi­o­us an­s­wer…

“I re­ali­zed that’s how Fi­ve Twenty-Two co­uld get his in­for­ma­ti­on. He didn’t ne­ed to down­lo­ad tho­usands of pa­ges of dos­si­ers. He just co­pi­ed what he ne­eded abo­ut the vic­tims and the fall guys, pro­bably la­te at night when he was one of the only pe­op­le in the pens. Re­mem­ber we fo­und tho­se flecks from yel­low pads? And at the se­cu­rity sta­ti­on the X-ray or me­tal de­tec­tors wo­uldn’t pick up pa­per. No­body’d even think abo­ut it.”

Sachs sa­id that she’d se­en may­be a tho­usand yel­low pads sur­ro­un­ding his desk in his sec­ret ro­om.

Lon Sel­lit­to ar­ri­ved from down­town. “The fuc­ker’s de­ad,” he mut­te­red, “but I’m still in the system for be­ing a god­damn crack­he­ad. All I can get out of them is, ‘We’re wor­king on it.’”

But he did ha­ve so­me go­od news. The dist­rict at­tor­ney wo­uld re­open all the ca­ses in which 522 had ap­pa­rently fab­ri­ca­ted evi­den­ce. Art­hur Rhyme had be­en re­le­ased out­right, and the sta­tus of the ot­hers wo­uld be re­vi­ewed im­me­di­ately, the li­ke­li­ho­od be­ing that they’d be re­le­ased wit­hin the next month.

Sel­lit­to ad­ded, “I chec­ked on the town ho­use whe­re Fi­ve Twenty-Two was li­ving.”

The Up­per West Si­de re­si­den­ce had to be worth tens of mil­li­ons. How Pe­ter Gor­don, emp­lo­yed as a se­cu­rity gu­ard, had be­en ab­le to af­ford it was a mystery.

But the de­tec­ti­ve had the ans­wer. “He wasn’t the ow­ner. Tit­le’s held by a Fi­ona McMil­lan, an eighty-ni­ne-ye­ar-old wi­dow, no clo­se re­la­ti­ves. She still pays the ta­xes and uti­lity bills. Ne­ver mis­ses a pay­ment. Only, funny thing—no­body’s se­en her in fi­ve ye­ars.”

“Abo­ut the ti­me SSD mo­ved to New York.”

“I fi­gu­re he got all the in­for­ma­ti­on he ne­eded abo­ut as­su­ming her iden­tity and kil­led her. They’re go­ing to start se­arc­hing for the body to­mor­row. They’ll start with the ga­ra­ge and then try the ba­se­ment.” The li­e­ute­nant then ad­ded, “I’m put­ting to­get­her the me­mo­ri­al ser­vi­ce for Joe Mal­loy. It’s on Sa­tur­day. If you want to be the­re.”

“Of co­ur­se,” Rhyme sa­id.

Sachs to­uc­hed his hand and sa­id, “Pat­rol or brass, they’re all fa­mily and it’s the sa­me pa­in when you lo­se so­me­body.”

“Yo­ur fat­her?” Rhyme as­ked. “So­unds li­ke so­met­hing he’d say.”

A vo­ice from the hal­lway int­ru­ded: “Heh. Too la­te. Sorry. Just got word you clo­sed the ca­se.” Rod­ney Szar­nek was strol­ling in­to the lab, ahe­ad of Thom. He was hol­ding a stack of prin­to­uts and on­ce aga­in was spe­aking to Rhyme’s com­pu­ter and ECU system, the equ­ip­ment, not the hu­man be­ings.

“Too la­te?” Rhyme as­ked.

“The ma­inf­ra­me fi­nis­hed as­semb­ling the empty-spa­ce fi­les that Ron sto­le. Well, that he bor­ro­wed. I was on the way he­re to show them to you and he­ard that you na­iled the perp. Gu­ess you don’t ne­ed them now.”

“Just cu­ri­o­us. What’d you find?”

He wal­ked for­ward with a num­ber of prin­to­uts and disp­la­yed them to Rhyme. They we­re in­comp­re­hen­sib­le. Words, num­bers and symbols, and lar­ge gaps of whi­te spa­ce in bet­we­en.

“I don’t re­ad Gre­ek.”

“Heh, that’s funny. You don’t re­ad Ge­ek.”

Rhyme didn’t bot­her to cor­rect him. He as­ked, “What’s the bot­tom li­ne?”

“Run­ner­boy—that nym I fo­und ear­li­er—did down­lo­ad a lot of in­for­ma­ti­on from in­ner­Circ­le sec­retly and then he era­sed his tracks. But they we­ren’t the dos­si­ers of any of the vic­tims or any­body el­se con­nec­ted with the Fi­ve Twenty-Two ca­se.”

“You got his na­me?” Sachs as­ked. “Run­ner­boy’s?”

“Ye­ah. So­me­body na­med Se­an Cas­sel.”

The po­li­ce­wo­man clo­sed her eyes. “Run­ner­boy…And he sa­id he was tra­ining for a tri­ath­lon. I didn’t even think abo­ut it.”

Cas­sel was the sa­les di­rec­tor and one of the­ir sus­pects, Rhyme ref­lec­ted. He now no­ti­ced that Pu­las­ki was re­ac­ting to the news. The yo­ung of­fi­cer blin­ked in surp­ri­se and glan­ced at Sachs with a lif­ted eyeb­row and a fa­int but dark smi­le of re­cog­ni­ti­on. He re­cal­led the of­fi­cer’s re­luc­tan­ce to re­turn to SSD and his em­bar­ras­sment at not kno­wing abo­ut Ex­cel. A run-in bet­we­en Pu­las­ki and Cas­sel was a cre­dib­le exp­la­na­ti­on.

The of­fi­cer as­ked, “What was Cas­sel up to?”

Szar­nek flip­ped thro­ugh the prin­to­uts. “I co­uldn’t tell you exactly.” He stop­ped and prof­fe­red the pa­ge to the yo­ung cop, shrug­ging. “Ta­ke a lo­ok, if you want. He­re are so­me of the dos­si­ers he ac­ces­sed.”

Pu­las­ki sho­ok his he­ad. “I don’t know any of the­se guys.” He re­ad so­me na­mes out lo­ud.

“Wa­it,” Rhyme bar­ked. “What was the last one?”

“Di­en­ko…He­re, it’s men­ti­oned aga­in. Vla­di­mir Di­en­ko. You know him?”

“Shit,” sa­id Sel­lit­to.

Di­en­ko—the de­fen­dant in the Rus­si­an or­ga­ni­zed cri­me in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on, the one who­se ca­se had be­en drop­ped be­ca­use of wit­ness and evi­den­ti­ary prob­lems. Rhyme sa­id, “And the one just be­fo­re him?”

“Alex Ka­ra­kov.”

This was an in­for­mant aga­inst Di­en­ko who had be­en in hi­ding, un­der an as­su­med iden­tity. He’d di­sap­pe­ared two we­eks be­fo­re tri­al, pre­su­med de­ad, tho­ugh no one co­uld fi­gu­re out how Di­en­ko’s men had got­ten to him. Sel­lit­to to­ok the she­ets from Pu­las­ki and flip­ped thro­ugh them. “Jesus, Linc. Ad­dres­ses, ATM withd­ra­wals, car re­gist­ra­ti­ons, pho­ne logs. Just what a hit­man wo­uld ne­ed to get clo­se for a clip… Oh, and get this. Ke­vin McDo­nald.”

“Wasn’t he the de­fen­dant in so­me RI­CO ca­se you we­re wor­king on?” Rhyme as­ked.

“Yep. Hell’s Kitc­hen, arms de­aling, cons­pi­racy. So­me drugs and ex­tor­ti­on. He got off too.”

“Mel? Run all the na­mes on that list thro­ugh our system.”

Of the eight na­mes that Rod­ney Szar­nek had fo­und in the re­as­semb­led fi­les, six had be­en de­fen­dants in cri­mi­nal ca­ses over the past three months. All six had eit­her be­en ac­qu­it­ted or had had se­ri­o­us char­ges aga­inst them drop­ped at the last mi­nu­te be­ca­use of unex­pec­ted prob­lems with wit­nes­ses and evi­den­ce.

Rhyme ga­ve a la­ugh. “This’s pretty se­ren­di­pi­to­us.”

“What?” Pu­las­ki as­ked.

“Buy a dic­ti­onary, ro­okie.”

The of­fi­cer sig­hed and sa­id pa­ti­ently, “Wha­te­ver it me­ans, Lin­coln, it’s pro­bably not a word I’ll ever want to use.”

Every­body in the ro­om la­ug­hed, Rhyme inc­lu­ded. “To­uché. What I me­an is we’ve co­in­ci­den­tal­ly stumb­led on so­met­hing very in­te­res­ting, if you will, Mel. NYPD has fi­les on the SSD ser­vers, thro­ugh Pub­lic­Su­re. Well, Cas­sel’s be­en down­lo­ading in­for­ma­ti­on abo­ut the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on, sel­ling it to the de­fen­dants and era­sing all tra­ces of it.”

“Oh, I can see him do­ing it,” Sachs sa­id. “Don’t you think, Ron?”

“Don’t do­ubt it for a mi­nu­te.” The yo­ung of­fi­cer ad­ded, “Wa­it…Cas­sel was the one who ga­ve us the CD of the cus­to­mers’ na­mes—he’s the one who fin­ge­red Ro­bert Car­pen­ter.”

“Of co­ur­se,” Rhyme sa­id, nod­ding. “He chan­ged the da­ta to imp­li­ca­te Car­pen­ter. He ne­eded to po­int the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on away from SSD. Not be­ca­use of the Fi­ve Twenty-Two ca­se. But be­ca­use he didn’t want any­body lo­oking over the fi­les and fin­ding that he’d be­en sel­ling po­li­ce re­cords. And who bet­ter to gi­ve to the wol­ves than so­me­body who’d tri­ed to be­co­me a com­pe­ti­tor?”

Sel­lit­to as­ked Szar­nek, “Anybody el­se in­vol­ved from SSD?”

“Not from what I fo­und. Just Cas­sel.”

Rhyme then lo­oked at Pu­las­ki, who was sta­ring at the evi­den­ce bo­ard. His eyes disp­la­yed the sa­me hard ed­ge Rhyme had se­en ear­li­er that day.

“Hey, ro­okie? You want it?”

“Want what?”

“The ca­se aga­inst Cas­sel?”

The yo­ung of­fi­cer con­si­de­red this. But then his sho­ul­ders slum­ped and, la­ug­hing, he sa­id, “No, I don’t think so.”

“You can hand­le it.”

“I know I can. I just…I me­an, when I run my first ca­se so­lo I want to ma­ke su­re I’m do­ing it for the right re­asons.”

“Well sa­id, ro­okie,” Sel­lit­to mut­te­red, lif­ting his cof­fee mug to­ward the yo­ung man. “May­be the­re’s ho­pe for you af­ter all… All right. If I’m sus­pen­ded at le­ast I can fi­nish up that work aro­und the ho­use that Rac­hel’s be­en nag­ging me to do.” The big de­tec­ti­ve grab­bed a sta­le co­okie and amb­led out the do­or. “’Night, every­body.”

Szar­nek as­semb­led his fi­les and disks and pla­ced them on a tab­le. Thom sig­ned the cha­in-of-cus­tody card as the cri­mi­na­list’s at­tor­ney-in-fact. The tec­hie left, re­min­ding Rhyme, “And when you’re re­ady to jo­in the twenty-first cen­tury, De­tec­ti­ve, gi­ve me a call.” A nod at the com­pu­ters.

Rhyme’s pho­ne rang—it was a call for Sachs, who­se dis­mem­be­red mo­bi­le wo­uldn’t be ope­ra­ti­ve any ti­me so­on. Rhyme de­du­ced from the con­ver­sa­ti­on that the cal­ler was in the pre­cinct ho­use in Bro­oklyn and that her car had be­en lo­ca­ted at a po­und not far away.

She ma­de plans with Pam to dri­ve to the pla­ce to­mor­row mor­ning in the girl’s car, which had be­en fo­und in a ga­ra­ge be­hind Pe­ter Gor­don’s town ho­use. Sachs went ups­ta­irs to get re­ady for bed, and Co­oper and Pu­las­ki left.

Rhyme was wri­ting a me­mo for the de­puty ma­yor, Ron Scott, desc­ri­bing 522’s M.O. and sug­ges­ting they lo­ok for ot­her ins­tan­ces in which he’d com­mit­ted cri­mes and fra­med so­me­body for them. The­re’d be ot­her evi­den­ce in the ho­ar­der’s town ho­use, of co­ur­se, but he co­uldn’t ima­gi­ne the amo­unt of work in­vol­ved in se­arc­hing that cri­me sce­ne.

He fi­nis­hed the e-ma­il, sent it on its way and was spe­cu­la­ting what And­rew Ster­ling’s re­ac­ti­on might be to one of his un­der­lings’ sel­ling da­ta on the si­de, when his pho­ne rang. An unk­nown num­ber on cal­ler ID.

“Com­mand, ans­wer pho­ne.”

Click.

“Hel­lo?”

“Lin­coln. It’s Judy Rhyme.”

“Well, hel­lo, Judy.”

“Oh, I don’t know if you he­ard. They drop­ped the char­ges. He’s out.”

“Alre­ady? I knew it was in the works. I tho­ught it might ta­ke a lit­tle lon­ger.”

“I don’t know what to say, Lin­coln. I gu­ess, I me­an: thank you.”

“Su­re.”

She sa­id, “Hold on a mi­nu­te.”

Rhyme he­ard a mu­ted vo­ice, her hand over the mo­uth­pi­ece, and sup­po­sed she was tal­king to one of the child­ren. What we­re the­ir na­mes aga­in?

Then he he­ard: “Lin­coln?”

How cu­ri­o­us that his co­usin’s vo­ice was ins­tantly fa­mi­li­ar to him, a vo­ice he hadn’t he­ard for ye­ars. “Well, Art. Hel­lo.”

“I’m down­town. They just re­le­ased me. All the char­ges are drop­ped.”

“Go­od.”

How awk­ward is this?

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Su­re.”

“All the­se ye­ars…I sho­uld ha­ve cal­led be­fo­re. I just…”

“That’s okay.” What the hell’s that sup­po­sed to me­an? Rhyme won­de­red. Art’s ab­sen­ce from his li­fe wasn’t okay, it wasn’t not okay. His res­pon­ses to his co­usin we­re me­re fil­ler. He wan­ted to hang up.

“You didn’t ha­ve to do what you did.”

“The­re we­re so­me ir­re­gu­la­ri­ti­es. It was an odd si­tu­ati­on.”

Which me­ant ab­so­lu­tely not­hing eit­her. And Lin­coln Rhyme won­de­red too why he was de­const­ruc­ting the con­ver­sa­ti­on. It was so­me de­fen­se mec­ha­nism, he sup­po­sed—and this tho­ught was as te­di­o­us as the ot­hers. He wan­ted to hang up. “You’re okay, af­ter what hap­pe­ned in de­ten­ti­on?”

“Not­hing se­ri­o­us. Scary, but this guy got to me in ti­me. Hel­ped me down off the wall.”

“Go­od.”

Si­len­ce.

“Well, thanks aga­in, Lin­coln. Not a lot of pe­op­le wo­uld ha­ve do­ne this for me.”

“I’m glad it wor­ked out.”

“We’ll get to­get­her. You and Judy and me. And yo­ur fri­end. What’s her na­me?”

“Ame­lia.”

“We’ll get to­get­her.” A long si­len­ce. “I’d bet­ter go. We ha­ve to get ho­me to the kids. Okay, you ta­ke ca­re.”

“You too…Com­mand, dis­con­nect.”

Rhyme’s eyes set­tled on his co­usin’s dos­si­er from SSD.

The ot­her son…

And he knew that they’d ne­ver “get to­get­her.” So it ends, he tho­ught. Fe­eling at first tro­ub­led—that with the click of a dis­con­nec­ting pho­ne so­met­hing that might ha­ve be­en now wo­uld not be. But Lin­coln Rhyme conc­lu­ded that this was the only lo­gi­cal end to the events of the past three days.

Thin­king of SSD’s lo­go, he ref­lec­ted that, yes, the­ir li­ves had co­in­ci­ded on­ce aga­in af­ter all the­se ye­ars, but it was as if the two co­usins re­ma­ined se­pa­ra­ted by a se­aled win­dow. They’d ob­ser­ved each ot­her, they’d sha­red so­me words, but that was to be the ex­tent of the­ir con­tact. It was now ti­me to re­turn to the­ir dif­fe­rent worlds.

Chapter Fifty-One

At 11:00 A.M. Ame­lia Sachs sto­od in a scruffy lot in Bro­oklyn. Cho­king back te­ars, she was ga­zing at the corp­se.

The wo­man who had be­en shot at, who had kil­led in the li­ne of duty, who tal­ked her way on­to po­int in dyna­mic hos­ta­ge-res­cue ops was now pa­raly­zed with gri­ef.

Roc­king back and forth, her in­dex fin­ger dig­ging in­to the qu­ick of her thumb, na­il aga­inst na­il, un­til a mi­nor sta­in of blo­od ap­pe­ared. She glan­ced down at her fin­gers. Saw the crim­son but didn’t stop the com­pul­si­on. She co­uldn’t.

Yes, they’d fo­und her be­lo­ved 1969 Chev­ro­let Ca­ma­ro SS.

But what the po­li­ce ap­pa­rently hadn’t known was that the car had be­en sold for scrap, not just im­po­un­ded for mis­sed pay­ments. She and Pam we­re stan­ding in the car im­po­und lot, which co­uld ha­ve be­en a set in a Scor­se­se film, or The Sop­ra­nos, a junk­yard stin­king of old oil and smo­ke from a trash fi­re. Lo­ud, me­an gulls ho­ve­red ne­arby, whi­te vul­tu­res. She wan­ted to draw her we­apon and empty the clip in­to the air to send them fle­e­ing in ter­ror.

A crus­hed me­tal rec­tang­le was all that re­ma­ined of the car, which had be­en with her sin­ce her te­ena­ge days. The ve­hic­le was one of her fat­her’s three most im­por­tant le­ga­ci­es to her, the ot­hers be­ing his strength of cha­rac­ter and his lo­ve of po­li­ce work.

“I got the pa­per­work. It’s all, you know, in or­der.” The une­asy he­ad of the scrap yard was bran­dis­hing the limp prin­to­uts that had tur­ned her car in­to an un­re­cog­ni­zab­le cu­be of ste­el.

“Sold for the bas­ket” was the exp­res­si­on; it me­ant sel­ling a car for parts and, wha­te­ver was left, for scrap. Which was idi­otic, of co­ur­se; you’re not go­ing to ma­ke any mo­ney sel­ling forty-ye­ar-old pony car parts from a gray-mar­ket yard in the So­uth Bronx. But as she’d le­ar­ned all too well in the co­ur­se of this ca­se, when a com­pu­ter in aut­ho­rity gi­ves inst­ruc­ti­on, you do as you’re told.

“I’m sorry, lady.”

“She’s a po­li­ce of­fi­cer,” Pam Wil­lo­ughby sa­id harshly. “A de­tec­ti­ve.”

“Oh,” he sa­id, con­si­de­ring the furt­her imp­li­ca­ti­ons of the si­tu­ati­on and not li­king them much. “Sorry, De­tec­ti­ve.”

Still, he had his in-order pa­per­work shi­eld. He wasn’t all that sorry. The man sto­od be­si­de them for a few mi­nu­tes, roc­king from one fo­ot to anot­her. Then wan­de­red away.

The pa­in wit­hin her was far wor­se than the gre­enish bru­ise from the 9-mil­li­me­ter slug that had punc­hed her belly last night.

“You okay?” Pam as­ked.

“Not re­al­ly.”

“Li­ke, you don’t get fre­aked much.”

No, I don’t, Sachs tho­ught. But I’m fre­aked now.

The girl twi­ned her red-stre­aked ha­ir aro­und her fin­gers, per­haps a ta­me ver­si­on of Sachs’s own ner­vo­us to­uch. She lo­oked on­ce mo­re at the ugly squ­are of me­tal, abo­ut three by fo­ur fe­et, sit­ting amid a half do­zen ot­hers.

Me­mo­ri­es we­re re­eling. Her fat­her and te­ena­ge Ame­lia, sha­ring Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­ons in the­ir tiny ga­ra­ge, wor­king on a car­bu­re­tor or clutch. They’d es­ca­ped to the back for two re­asons—for the ple­asu­re of the mec­ha­ni­cal work in each ot­her’s com­pany, and to es­ca­pe the mo­ody third party in the fa­mily: Sachs’s mot­her.

“Gaps?” he’d as­ked, play­ful­ly tes­ting her.

“Plug,” te­ena­ge Ame­lia had rep­li­ed, “is ze­ro three fi­ve. Po­ints, thirty to thirty-two dwell.”

“Go­od, Amie.”

Sachs re­cal­led anot­her ti­me—a da­te, her first ye­ar in col­le­ge. She and a boy who went by the na­me of C.T. had met at a bur­ger pla­ce in Bro­oklyn. The­ir ve­hic­les surp­ri­sed each ot­her. Sachs in the Ca­ma­ro—yel­low at the ti­me, with tar black stri­pes for ac­cent—and he atop a Hon­da 850.

The bur­gers and so­das va­nis­hed fast, sin­ce they we­re only a few mi­les from an aban­do­ned airst­rip and a ra­ce was ine­vi­tab­le.

He was off the li­ne first, gi­ven that she was in­si­de a ton and a half of ve­hic­le, but her big block ca­ught him be­fo­re the half mi­le—he was ca­uti­o­us and she wasn’t—and she ste­ered in­to the drift on the cur­ves and kept ahe­ad all the way to the fi­nish.

Then her fa­vo­ri­te dri­ve of all ti­me: Af­ter they’d conc­lu­ded the­ir first ca­se to­get­her, Lin­coln Rhyme, lar­gely im­mo­bi­li­zed, strap­ped in be­si­de her, win­dows down and wind how­ling. She res­ted his hand on the ge­ars­hift knob as she shif­ted and she re­mem­be­red him sho­uting over the slipst­re­am, “I think I can fe­el it. I think I can!”

And now the car was go­ne.

Sorry, lady…

Pam clim­bed down the em­bank­ment.

“Whe­re are you go­ing?”

“You sho­uldn’t go down the­re, miss.” The ow­ner, out­si­de the of­fi­ce shack, was wa­ving the pa­per­work li­ke a war­ning se­map­ho­re.

“Pam!”

But she wo­uldn’t be stop­ped. She wal­ked up to the mass of me­tal and dug aro­und in­si­de. She tug­ged hard and pul­led out so­met­hing, then re­tur­ned to Sachs.

“He­re, Ame­lia.” It was the horn but­ton emb­lem, with the Chev­ro­let lo­go.

Sachs felt the te­ars but con­ti­nu­ed to will them away. “Thanks, ho­ney. Co­me on. Let’s get the hell out of he­re.”

They dro­ve back to the Up­per West Si­de and stop­ped for re­cu­pe­ra­ti­ve ice cre­am; Sachs had ar­ran­ged for Pam to ta­ke the day off from scho­ol. She didn’t want her to be aro­und Stu­art Eve­rett, and the girl was only too happy to ag­ree.

Sachs won­de­red if the te­ac­her wo­uld ta­ke no for an ans­wer. Thin­king of the trashy flicks—à la Scre­am and Fri­day the 13th—that she and Pam so­me­ti­mes watc­hed la­te at night, for­ti­fi­ed with Do­ri­tos and pe­anut but­ter, Sachs knew that old boyf­ri­ends, li­ke hor­ror mo­vie kil­lers, so­me­ti­mes ha­ve a way of ri­sing from the de­ad.

Lo­ve ma­kes us we­ird…

Pam fi­nis­hed her ice cre­am and pat­ted her sto­mach. “I so ne­eded that.” Then she sig­hed. “How co­uld I be so stu­pid?”

In the girl’s en­su­ing la­ugh—eerily adult—Ame­lia Sachs he­ard what she be­li­eved was the fi­nal sho­vel of earth on the gra­ve of the hoc­key-mas­ked kil­ler.

They left Bas­kin-Rob­bins and wal­ked to­ward Rhyme’s town ho­use, se­ve­ral blocks away, plan­ning a girls’ night out, along with anot­her fri­end of Sachs’s, a po­li­ce­wo­man she’d known for ye­ars. She as­ked the girl, “Mo­vie or play?”

“Oh, a play…Ame­lia, when do­es an off-Bro­ad­way play be­co­me an off-off-Bro­ad­way play?”

“That’s a go­od qu­es­ti­on. We’ll Go­og­le it.”

“And why do they call them Bro­ad­way plays when the­re aren’t any the­aters on Bro­ad­way?”

“Ye­ah. They sho­uld be ‘ne­ar Bro­ad­way’ plays. Or ‘right aro­und the cor­ner from Bro­ad­way’ plays.”

The pa­ir wal­ked along the east-west si­de stre­et, ap­pro­ac­hing Cent­ral Park West. Sachs was sud­denly awa­re of a pe­dest­ri­an ne­arby. So­me­body was cros­sing the stre­et be­hind them, mo­ving in the­ir ge­ne­ral di­rec­ti­on, as if fol­lo­wing them.

She felt no alarm, put­ting the bre­eze of con­cern down to the pa­ra­no­ia from the 522 ca­se.

Re­lax. The perp’s de­ad and go­ne.

She didn’t bot­her to lo­ok back.

But Pam did.

And scre­amed shrilly, “It’s him, Ame­lia!”

“Who?”

“The guy who bro­ke in­to yo­ur town ho­use. That’s him!”

Sachs spun aro­und. The man in the blue pla­id jac­ket and ba­se­ball cap. He mo­ved to­ward them fast.

She slap­ped her hip, go­ing for her gun.

Which wasn’t the­re.

No, no, no…

Sin­ce Pe­ter Gor­don had fi­red the we­apon, the Glock was now evi­den­ce—as was her kni­fe—and both we­re at Cri­me Sce­ne Unit in Qu­e­ens. She hadn’t had the chan­ce to go down­town and do the pa­per­work for a rep­la­ce­ment.

Sachs now fro­ze, re­cog­ni­zing him. It was Cal­vin Ged­des, an emp­lo­yee of Pri­vacy Now. She co­uldn’t ma­ke sen­se of this, and won­de­red if they’d be­en wrong. We­re Ged­des and 522 in on the mur­ders to­get­her?

He was now just yards away. Sachs co­uld do not­hing but step bet­we­en Ged­des and Pam. She bal­led her fists up as the man step­ped clo­se and re­ac­hed in­to his jac­ket.

Chapter Fifty-Two

The do­or­bell rang, and Thom went to ans­wer it.

Rhyme he­ard so­me he­ated words from the front entry­way. A man’s vo­ice, angry. A sho­ut.

Frow­ning, he glan­ced at Ron Pu­las­ki, who had his we­apon out of his high-ri­ding hols­ter, and po­in­ted it up, re­ady to fi­re. He held it ex­pertly. Ame­lia Sachs was a go­od men­tor.

“Thom?” Rhyme cal­led.

He didn’t ans­wer.

A mo­ment la­ter a man ap­pe­ared in the do­or­way, we­aring a ba­se­ball cap, je­ans and an ugly pla­id jac­ket. He blin­ked in shock as Pu­las­ki aimed the gun to­ward him.

“No! Wa­it!” the man cri­ed, duc­king and lif­ting a hand.

Then Thom, Sachs and Pam en­te­red im­me­di­ately be­hind him. The po­li­ce­wo­man saw the we­apon and sa­id, “No, no, Ron. It’s okay… He’s Cal­vin Ged­des.”

It to­ok Rhyme a mo­ment to re­call. Ah, that’s right: with the Pri­vacy Now or­ga­ni­za­ti­on, and the so­ur­ce of the le­ad abo­ut Pe­ter Gor­don. “What’s this all abo­ut?”

Sachs sa­id, “He’s the one who bro­ke in­to my pla­ce. It wasn’t Fi­ve Twenty-Two.”

Pam nod­ded, con­fir­ming this.

Ged­des step­ped clo­ser to Rhyme and re­ac­hed in­to his jac­ket poc­ket and ext­rac­ted so­me blue-bac­ked do­cu­ments. “Pur­su­ant to New York Sta­te ci­vil pro­ce­du­re laws, I’m ser­ving you this sub­po­ena in con­nec­ti­on with Ged­des et al. ver­sus Stra­te­gic Systems Da­ta­corp, Inc.” He held them out.

“I got one too, Rhyme.” Sachs held up her own copy.

“And I’m sup­po­sed to do what with tho­se?” Rhyme as­ked Ged­des, who con­ti­nu­ed to prof­fer the do­cu­ments.

The man frow­ned, then lo­oked down at the whe­elc­ha­ir, awa­re of Rhyme’s con­di­ti­on for the first ti­me. “I, well—”

“He’s my at­tor­ney-in-fact.” Rhyme nod­ded to Thom, who to­ok the pa­pers.

Ged­des be­gan, “I’m—”

“You mind if we re­ad it?” Rhyme as­ked acer­bi­cal­ly, with a nod to­ward his aide.

Thom did so, alo­ud. It was a sub­po­ena re­qu­es­ting all the pa­per and com­pu­ter fi­les, no­tes and ot­her in­for­ma­ti­on that Rhyme had in his pos­ses­si­on that re­la­ted to SSD, its Comp­li­an­ce Di­vi­si­on and evi­den­ce of SSD’s con­nec­ti­ons with any go­vern­men­tal body.

“She told me abo­ut Comp­li­an­ce.” Ged­des nod­ded to­ward Sachs. “It didn’t ma­ke any sen­se at all. So­met­hing was fishy abo­ut it. No way wo­uld And­rew Ster­ling vo­lun­te­er to work with the go­vern­ment on pri­vacy is­su­es if he didn’t get so­met­hing big out of the ar­ran­ge­ment. He’d fight them to­oth and na­il. That ma­de me sus­pi­ci­o­us. Comp­li­an­ce is abo­ut so­met­hing el­se. I don’t know what. But we’re go­ing to find out.”

He exp­la­ined that the su­it was un­der fe­de­ral and sta­te pri­vacy acts and for va­ri­o­us ci­vil vi­ola­ti­ons of com­mon law and cons­ti­tu­ti­onal rights of pri­vacy.

Rhyme ref­lec­ted that Ged­des and his at­tor­neys wo­uld ha­ve a pretty ple­asant surp­ri­se when they had a lo­ok at the Comp­li­an­ce dos­si­ers. One of which he just hap­pe­ned to ha­ve in a com­pu­ter not ten fe­et from whe­re Ged­des now sto­od. And which he wo­uld be mo­re than de­ligh­ted to hand over, gi­ven And­rew Ster­ling’s re­fu­sal to help find Sachs af­ter she’d di­sap­pe­ared.

He won­de­red which wo­uld be in wor­se tro­ub­le, Was­hing­ton or SSD, when the press le­ar­ned of the Comp­li­an­ce ope­ra­ti­on.

De­ad he­at, he conc­lu­ded.

Sachs then sa­id, “Of co­ur­se, Mr. Ged­des he­re will ha­ve to jug­gle the ca­se with his own tri­al.” Gi­ving him a dark lo­ok. She was re­fer­ring to the bre­ak-in at her town ho­use in Bro­oklyn, who­se mis­si­on pre­su­mably was to find in­for­ma­ti­on abo­ut SSD. She exp­la­ined that, iro­ni­cal­ly, it had be­en Ged­des, not 522, who’d drop­ped the re­ce­ipt that had led her to SSD. He re­gu­larly hung out at the cof­fee shop in Mid­town, from which he kept up a fur­ti­ve sur­ve­il­lan­ce of the Gray Rock, no­ting the co­mings and go­ings of Ster­ling and ot­her emp­lo­ye­es and cus­to­mers.

Ged­des sa­id fer­vently, “I’ll do wha­te­ver’s ne­ces­sary to stop SSD. I don’t ca­re what hap­pens to me. I’ll hap­pily be the sac­ri­fi­ci­al lamb if it brings back our in­di­vi­du­al rights.”

Rhyme res­pec­ted his mo­ral co­ura­ge but de­ci­ded he ne­eded mo­re qu­otab­le li­nes.

The ac­ti­vist be­gan to lec­tu­re them now—re­ite­ra­ting much of what Sachs had re­por­ted ear­li­er—abo­ut the arach­nid swe­ep of SSD and ot­her da­ta mi­ners, the de­ath of pri­vacy in the co­untry, the risk to de­moc­racy.

“Okay, we’ve got the pa­per­work,” Rhyme in­ter­rup­ted the ti­re­so­me rant. “We’ll ha­ve a lit­tle talk with our own law­yers and, if they say everyt­hing’s in or­der, I’m su­re you’ll be get­ting a ca­re pac­ka­ge by yo­ur de­ad­li­ne.”

The do­or­bell rang. On­ce, twi­ce. Then lo­ud knoc­king.

“Oh, brot­her. God­damn Grand Cent­ral Sta­ti­on…What now?”

Thom went to the do­or. He re­tur­ned a mo­ment la­ter with a short, con­fi­dent-lo­oking man in a black su­it and whi­te shirt. “Cap­ta­in Rhyme.”

The cri­mi­na­list tur­ned his whe­elc­ha­ir to fa­ce And­rew Ster­ling, who­se calm gre­en eyes re­gis­te­red no surp­ri­se what­so­ever at the cri­mi­na­list’s con­di­ti­on. Rhyme sus­pec­ted that his own Comp­li­an­ce dos­si­er do­cu­men­ted the ac­ci­dent and his li­fe af­ter­ward in con­si­de­rab­le de­ta­il, and that Ster­ling wo­uld ha­ve bo­ned up on the par­ti­cu­lars be­fo­re he ar­ri­ved he­re.

“De­tec­ti­ve Sachs, Of­fi­cer Pu­las­ki.” He nod­ded to them, then re­tur­ned to Rhyme.

Be­hind him we­re Sam Brock­ton, the SSD Comp­li­an­ce di­rec­tor, and two ot­her men, who we­re dres­sed con­ser­va­ti­vely. Ne­at ha­ir. They co­uld ha­ve be­en cong­res­si­onal aides or cor­po­ra­te mid­dle ma­na­gers, tho­ugh Rhyme was not surp­ri­sed to le­arn they we­re law­yers.

“Hel­lo, Cal,” Brock­ton sa­id, lo­oking over Ged­des we­arily. The Pri­vacy Now man gla­red back.

Ster­ling sa­id in a soft vo­ice, “We fo­und out what Mark Whit­comb did.” Des­pi­te his di­mi­nu­ti­ve sta­tu­re, Ster­ling was im­po­sing in per­son, with the vib­rant eyes, the per­fectly stra­ight pos­tu­re, the unf­lap­pab­le vo­ice. “I’m af­ra­id he’s out of a job. For star­ters.”

“Be­ca­use he did the right thing?” Pu­las­ki snap­ped.

Ster­ling’s fa­ce con­ti­nu­ed to show no emo­ti­on. “And I’m af­ra­id too the mat­ter’s not over with yet.” A nod to Brock­ton.

“Ser­ve them,” the Comp­li­an­ce di­rec­tor snap­ped to one of the at­tor­neys. The man han­ded out his own batch of blue-bac­ked do­cu­ments.

“Mo­re?” Rhyme com­men­ted, nod­ding at the se­cond set of pa­per­work. “All this re­ading. Who’s got the ti­me?” He was in a go­od mo­od, still ela­ted that they’d stop­ped 522 and that Ame­lia Sachs was sa­fe.

The se­qu­el tur­ned out to be a co­urt or­der for­bid­ding them to gi­ve Ged­des any com­pu­ters, disks, do­cu­ments or any ma­te­ri­al of any kind re­la­ting to the Comp­li­an­ce ope­ra­ti­on. And to turn over to the go­vern­ment any such ma­te­ri­al in the­ir pos­ses­si­on.

One hi­red gun sa­id, “Fa­ilu­re to do so will su­bj­ect you to ci­vil and cri­mi­nal pe­nal­ti­es.”

Sam Brock­ton of­fe­red, “And be­li­eve me, we will pur­sue all re­me­di­es ava­ilab­le to us.”

“You can’t do this,” Ged­des sa­id, angry. His eyes sho­ne and swe­at dot­ted his dark fa­ce.

Ster­ling co­un­ted the com­pu­ters in Rhyme’s lab. The­re we­re twel­ve. “Which one has the Comp­li­an­ce dos­si­er that Mark sent you, Cap­ta­in?”

“I for­get.”

“Did you ma­ke any co­pi­es?”

Rhyme smi­led. “Always back up yo­ur da­ta. And sto­re it in a se­pa­ra­te, se­cu­re lo­ca­ti­on. Off si­te. Isn’t that the mes­sa­ge of the new mil­len­ni­um?”

Brock­ton sa­id, “We’ll just get anot­her or­der to con­fis­ca­te everyt­hing and se­arch all the ser­vers you’ve up­lo­aded da­ta to.”

“But that’ll ta­ke ti­me and mo­ney. And who knows what co­uld hap­pen in the me­an­ti­me? E-ma­ils or en­ve­lo­pes might get sent to the press, say. Ac­ci­den­tal­ly, of co­ur­se. But it co­uld hap­pen.”

“This has be­en a very trying ti­me for ever­yo­ne, Mr. Rhyme,” Ster­ling sa­id. “No one’s in the mo­od for ga­mes.”

“We’re not pla­ying ga­mes,” Rhyme sa­id evenly. “We’re ne­go­ti­ating.”

The CEO ga­ve what ap­pe­ared to be his first ge­nu­ine smi­le. He was on his ho­me turf now and he pul­led up a cha­ir next to Rhyme. “What do you want?”

“I’ll gi­ve you everyt­hing. No co­urt bat­tles, no press.”

“No!” Ged­des was en­ra­ged. “How can you ca­ve in?”

Rhyme ig­no­red the ac­ti­vist as ef­fi­ci­ently as Ster­ling did and con­ti­nu­ed, “Pro­vi­ded you get my as­so­ci­ates’ re­cords cle­ared up.” He exp­la­ined abo­ut Sel­lit­to’s drug test and Pu­las­ki’s wi­fe.

“I can do that,” Ster­ling sa­id as if it we­re no mo­re tro­ub­le than tur­ning up the vo­lu­me on a TV.

Sachs sa­id, “And you ha­ve to fix Ro­bert Jor­gen­sen’s li­fe too.” She told him abo­ut how 522 had vir­tu­al­ly dest­ro­yed the man.

“Gi­ve me the de­ta­ils and I’ll ma­ke su­re it’s ta­ken ca­re of. He’ll ha­ve a cle­an sla­te.”

“Go­od. As so­on as everyt­hing’s cle­ared up you’ll ha­ve what you want. And no­body will see a sing­le pi­ece of pa­per or fi­le abo­ut yo­ur Comp­li­an­ce ope­ra­ti­on. I gi­ve you my word.”

“No, you ha­ve to fight it!” Ged­des sa­id bit­terly to Rhyme. “Every ti­me you don’t stand up to them, every­body lo­ses.”

Ster­ling tur­ned to him and sa­id in a vo­ice just a few de­ci­bels abo­ve a whis­per, “Cal­vin, let me tell you so­met­hing. I lost three go­od fri­ends in the Tra­de To­wers on Sep­tem­ber ele­venth. Fo­ur mo­re we­re badly bur­ned. The­ir li­ves’ll ne­ver be the sa­me. And our co­untry lost tho­usands of in­no­cent ci­ti­zens. My com­pany had the tech­no­logy to find so­me of the hi­j­ac­kers and the pre­dic­ti­ve soft­wa­re to fi­gu­re out what they we­re go­ing to do. We—I—co­uld ha­ve pre­ven­ted the who­le tra­gedy. And I reg­ret every sing­le day that I didn’t.”

He sho­ok his he­ad. “Oh, Cal. You and yo­ur black-and-whi­te po­li­tics… Don’t you see: That’s what SSD is abo­ut. Not abo­ut the tho­ught po­li­ce kic­king in yo­ur do­or at mid­night be­ca­use they don’t li­ke what you and yo­ur girlf­ri­end are do­ing in bed or ar­res­ting you be­ca­use you bo­ught a bo­ok abo­ut Sta­lin or the Ko­ran or be­ca­use you cri­ti­ci­zed the Pre­si­dent. The mis­si­on of SSD is to gu­aran­tee that you’re free and sa­fe to enj­oy the pri­vacy of yo­ur ho­me and to buy and re­ad and say wha­te­ver you want to. If you’re blown up by a su­ici­de bom­ber in Ti­mes Squ­are, you won’t ha­ve any iden­tity to pro­tect.”

“Spa­re us the lec­tu­res, And­rew,” Ged­des ra­ged.

Brock­ton sa­id, “Cal, if you don’t calm down, you’re go­ing to find yo­ur­self in a lot of tro­ub­le.”

Ged­des ga­ve a cold la­ugh. “We’re al­re­ady in a lot of tro­ub­le. Wel­co­me to the bra­ve new world…” The man spun aro­und and stor­med out. The front do­or slam­med.

Brock­ton sa­id, “I’m glad you un­ders­tand, Lin­coln. And­rew Ster­ling is do­ing very go­od things. We’re all sa­fer be­ca­use of it.”

“I’m so happy to he­ar it.”

Brock­ton mis­sed the irony en­ti­rely. But And­rew Ster­ling didn’t. He was, af­ter all, the man who knew everyt­hing. But his re­ac­ti­on was a hu­mo­ro­us, self-assu­red smi­le—as if he knew that the lec­tu­res even­tu­al­ly got thro­ugh to pe­op­le, even if they didn’t ap­pre­ci­ate the mes­sa­ge just yet. “Go­od-bye, De­tec­ti­ve Sachs, Cap­ta­in. Oh, and you too, Of­fi­cer Pu­las­ki.” He glan­ced wryly at the yo­ung cop. “I’ll miss se­e­ing you aro­und the halls. But if you want to spend any mo­re ti­me ho­ning yo­ur com­pu­ter skills, our con­fe­ren­ce ro­om’ll al­ways be ava­ilab­le to you.”

“Well, I…”

Andrew Ster­ling ga­ve him a wink and tur­ned. He and his en­to­ura­ge left the town ho­use.

“You think he knew?” the ro­okie as­ked. “Abo­ut the hard dri­ve?”

Rhyme co­uld only shrug.

“Hell, Rhyme,” Sachs sa­id, “I sup­po­se the or­der’s le­git but af­ter all we’ve be­en thro­ugh with SSD, did you ha­ve to ca­ve so qu­ickly? Brot­her, that Comp­li­an­ce dos­si­er…I’m not happy all that in­for­ma­ti­on’s out the­re.”

“A co­urt or­der’s a co­urt or­der, Sachs. Not much we can do abo­ut it.”

Then she lo­oked at him clo­sely and must ha­ve no­ti­ced the glim­mer in his eyes. “Okay, what?”

Rhyme as­ked his aide, “In yo­ur lo­vely te­nor re­ad me that or­der aga­in. The one our SSD fri­ends just de­li­ve­red.”

He did.

Rhyme nod­ded. “Go­od…The­re’s a La­tin phra­se I’m thin­king of, Thom. Can you gu­ess what it is?”

“Oh, you know, I sho­uld, Lin­coln, con­si­de­ring all tho­se ho­urs I ha­ve free he­re, sit­ting in the par­lor and stud­ying the clas­sics. But I’m af­ra­id I’m dra­wing a blank.”

“La­tin…what a lan­gu­age that is. Ad­mi­rab­le pre­ci­si­on. Whe­re el­se can you find fi­ve dec­len­si­ons of no­uns, and tho­se ama­zing verb co­nj­uga­ti­ons?…Well, the phra­se is In­c­lu­sis unis, exc­lu­sis al­te­ri­us. It me­ans that by inc­lu­ding one ca­te­gory you auto­ma­ti­cal­ly exc­lu­de ot­her, re­la­ted ca­te­go­ri­es. Con­fu­sed?”

“Not re­al­ly. To be con­fu­sed you ha­ve to be pa­ying at­ten­ti­on.”

“Excel­lent ri­pos­te, Thom. But I’ll gi­ve you an examp­le. Say you’re a cong­res­sman and you wri­te a sta­tu­te that says, ‘No raw me­at shall be im­por­ted in­to the co­untry.’ By cho­osing tho­se par­ti­cu­lar words you’re auto­ma­ti­cal­ly gi­ving per­mis­si­on to im­port can­ned or co­oked me­at. See how it works?”

“Mi­ra­bi­le dic­tu,” sa­id Ron Pu­las­ki.

“My God,” Rhyme sa­id, truly surp­ri­sed. “A La­tin spe­aker.”

He la­ug­hed. “A few ye­ars. In high scho­ol. And, be­ing a cho­ir­boy, you tend to pick things up.”

“Whe­re are we go­ing with this, Rhyme?” Sachs as­ked.

“Brock­ton’s co­urt or­der only bars gi­ving Pri­vacy Now in­for­ma­ti­on abo­ut the Comp­li­an­ce Di­vi­si­on. But Ged­des as­ked for everyt­hing we ha­ve abo­ut SSD. The­re­fo­re—ergo—anything el­se we ha­ve on SSD is fa­ir to re­le­ase. The fi­les Cas­sel sold to Di­en­ko we­re part of Pub­lic­Su­re, not Comp­li­an­ce.”

Pu­las­ki la­ug­hed. But Sachs was frow­ning. “They’ll just get anot­her co­urt or­der.”

“I’m not so su­re. What’re the NYPD and the FBI go­ing to say when they find out that so­me­body who works for the­ir own da­ta cont­rac­tor has be­en sel­ling out high-pro­fi­le ca­ses? Oh, I’ve got a fe­eling the brass’ll back us on this one.” This tho­ught led to anot­her. And the conc­lu­si­on was alar­ming. “Wa­it, wa­it, wa­it…In de­ten­ti­on—that man who mo­ved on my co­usin. Ant­won John­son?”

“What abo­ut him?” Sachs as­ked.

“It ne­ver ma­de any sen­se that he’d try to kill Art­hur. Even Judy Rhyme men­ti­oned that. Lon sa­id he was a fe­de­ral pri­so­ner tem­po­ra­rily in sta­te de­ten­ti­on. I won­der if so­me­body from Comp­li­an­ce cut a de­al with him. May­be he was the­re to see if Art­hur tho­ught so­me­body was get­ting con­su­mer in­for­ma­ti­on abo­ut him to use in the cri­mes. If so, John­son was sup­po­sed to clip him. May­be for a re­duc­ti­on in his sen­ten­ce.”

“The go­vern­ment, Rhyme? Trying to ta­ke out a wit­ness? That’s a bit pa­ra­no­id, don’t you think?”

“We’re tal­king abo­ut fi­ve-hund­red-pa­ge dos­si­ers, chips in bo­oks and CCTVs on every stre­et cor­ner in the city, Sachs… But, okay, I’ll gi­ve them the be­ne­fit of the do­ubt: May­be so­me­body from SSD con­tac­ted John­son. In any ca­se we’ll call Cal­vin Ged­des and gi­ve him all that in­for­ma­ti­on too. Let the pit bull run with it if he wants. Only wa­it un­til every­body’s fi­les are cle­aned up. Gi­ve it a we­ek.”

Ron Pu­las­ki sa­id go­od-bye and left to see his wi­fe and baby da­ugh­ter.

Sachs wal­ked up to Rhyme and bent down to kiss him on the mo­uth. She win­ced, pro­bing her belly.

“You okay?”

“I’ll show you to­night, Rhyme,” she whis­pe­red flir­ta­ti­o­usly. “Ni­ne-mil­li­me­ter slugs le­ave so­me in­te­res­ting bru­ises.”

“Sexy?” he as­ked.

“Only if you think purp­le Rorsc­hachs are ero­tic.”

“As a mat­ter of fact, I do.”

Sachs ga­ve a subt­le smi­le to him, then wal­ked in­to the hal­lway and cal­led to Pam, who’d be­en in the front par­lor, re­ading. “Co­me on. We’re go­ing shop­ping.”

“Excel­lent. What for?”

“A car. Can’t be wit­ho­ut whe­els.”

“Ne­at, what kind? Oh, a Pri­us’d be way co­ol.”

Both Rhyme and Sachs la­ug­hed hard. Pam smi­led un­cer­ta­inly and Sachs exp­la­ined that tho­ugh her li­fe was gre­en in many ways, ga­so­li­ne mi­le­age didn’t fi­gu­re in­to her lo­ve of the en­vi­ron­ment. “We’re go­ing to get a musc­le car.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll find out.” She bran­dis­hed a list of po­ten­ti­al ve­hic­les she’d down­lo­aded from the In­ter­net.

“You go­ing to get a new one?” the girl as­ked.

“Ne­ver, ever buy a new car,” Sachs lec­tu­red.

“Why?”

“Be­ca­use cars to­day are just com­pu­ters with whe­els. We don’t want elect­ro­nics. We want mec­ha­nics. You can’t get gre­ase on yo­ur hands with com­pu­ters.”

“Gre­ase?”

“You’ll lo­ve gre­ase. You’re a gre­ase kind of girl.”

“You think so?” Pam se­emed ple­ased.

“You bet. Let’s go. La­ter, Rhyme.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

The pho­ne tril­led.

Lin­coln Rhyme glan­ced up at a ne­arby com­pu­ter scre­en, whe­re cal­ler ID disp­la­yed “44.”

At last. This was it.

“Com­mand, ans­wer pho­ne.”

“De­tec­ti­ve Rhyme,” sa­id the im­pec­cab­le Bri­tish vo­ice. Long­hurst’s al­to ne­ver ga­ve anyt­hing away.

“Tell me.”

A he­si­ta­ti­on. Then: “I’m so sorry.”

Rhyme clo­sed his eyes. No, no, no…

Long­hurst con­ti­nu­ed, “We ha­ven’t ma­de the of­fi­ci­al an­no­un­ce­ment yet but I wan­ted to tell you be­fo­re the press re­por­ted it.”

So the kil­ler had suc­ce­eded af­ter all. “He’s de­ad then, Re­ve­rend Go­od­light?”

“Oh, no, he’s fi­ne.”

“But—”

“But Ric­hard Lo­gan got his in­ten­ded tar­get, De­tec­ti­ve.”

“He got…?” Rhyme’s vo­ice fa­ded as the pi­eces be­gan co­ming to­get­her. The in­ten­ded tar­get. “Oh, no…Who was he re­al­ly af­ter?”

“Danny Kru­eger, the arms de­aler. He’s de­ad, two of his se­cu­rity pe­op­le too.”

“Ah, yes, I see.”

Long­hurst con­ti­nu­ed, “Appa­rently af­ter Danny went stra­ight, so­me car­tels in So­uth Af­ri­ca, So­ma­lia and Syria felt he was too gre­at a risk to stay ali­ve. A cons­ci­en­ce-stric­ken arms de­aler ma­de them ner­vo­us. They hi­red Lo­gan to kill him. But Danny’s se­cu­rity net­work in Lon­don was too tight so Lo­gan ne­eded to draw him out in­to the open.”

The re­ve­rend had be­en me­rely a di­ver­si­on. The kil­ler him­self had plan­ted the ru­mor that the­re was a cont­ract out on Go­od­light. And he’d for­ced the Bri­tish and the Ame­ri­cans to turn to Danny for help to sa­ve the re­ve­rend.

“And it’s wor­se, I must say,” Long­hurst went on. “He got all of Danny’s fi­les. All his con­tacts, every­body who’s be­en wor­king for him—infor­mants, war­lords who co­uld be tur­ned, mer­ce­na­ri­es, bush pi­lots, so­ur­ces of funds. All the po­ten­ti­al wit­nes­ses will go to gro­und now. The ones who aren’t kil­led out­right, that is. A do­zen cri­mi­nal ca­ses’ll ha­ve to be dis­mis­sed.”

“How’d he do it?”

She sig­hed. “He was mas­qu­era­ding as our French li­a­ison, d’Esto­ur­ne.”

So the fox had be­en in the hen­ho­use from the be­gin­ning.

“I wo­uld gu­ess he in­ter­cep­ted the re­al d’Esto­ur­ne in Fran­ce on the way to the Chun­nel, kil­led him and bu­ri­ed the body or dum­ped it at sea. It was bril­li­ant, I must say. He re­se­arc­hed everyt­hing abo­ut the French­man’s li­fe and his or­ga­ni­za­ti­on. He spo­ke per­fect French—and Eng­lish with a per­fect French ac­cent. Even the idi­oms we­re spot-on.

“A few ho­urs ago so­me chap shows up at a bu­il­ding in the Lon­don co­urt­yard sho­oting zo­ne. Lo­gan had hi­red him to de­li­ver a pac­ka­ge. He wor­ked for Tot­ten­ham Par­cel Exp­ress; they we­ar gray uni­forms. Re­mem­ber the fi­bers we fo­und? And the kil­ler had re­qu­es­ted a par­ti­cu­lar dri­ver he cla­imed he’d used be­fo­re—who hap­pe­ned to be blond.”

“The ha­ir dye.”

“Exactly. De­pen­dab­le fel­low, Lo­gan sa­id. Which is why he wan­ted him in par­ti­cu­lar. Ever­yo­ne was so fo­cu­sed on the ope­ra­ti­on the­re, trac­king this fel­low thro­ugh the sho­oting zo­ne, lo­oking for ac­comp­li­ces, wor­ri­ed abo­ut di­ver­si­onary bombs, that the pe­op­le in Bir­ming­ham lo­we­red the­ir gu­ard. The kil­ler just knoc­ked on the do­or to Danny’s ro­om in the Ho­tel Du Vin, whi­le most of his se­cu­rity te­am we­re down in the cham­pag­ne bar ha­ving a pint. He star­ted sho­oting—with tho­se dum-dum bul­lets. The wo­unds we­re hor­rib­le. Danny and two of his men we­re kil­led ins­tantly.”

Rhyme clo­sed his eyes. “So no fa­ke tran­sit pa­pers.”

“All a di­ver­si­on…It’s a blo­ody aw­ful mess, I’m af­ra­id. And the French—they’re not even re­tur­ning my calls… I don’t even want to think abo­ut it.”

Lin­coln Rhyme co­uldn’t help but won­der what wo­uld ha­ve hap­pe­ned if he’d stuck with the ca­se, se­arc­hed the sce­ne out­si­de Manc­hes­ter with the high-def vi­deo system. Wo­uld he ha­ve se­en so­met­hing that re­ve­aled the true na­tu­re of the kil­ler’s plan? Wo­uld he ha­ve de­ci­ded that the Bir­ming­ham evi­den­ce too was plan­ted? Or was the­re so­met­hing that might ha­ve led him to conc­lu­de that the per­son who’d ren­ted the ro­om—the man he was so des­pe­ra­te to catch—was mas­qu­era­ding as the French se­cu­rity agent?

Was the­re so­met­hing he might ha­ve se­en at the NGO of­fi­ce bre­ak-in in Lon­don?

“And the na­me Ric­hard Lo­gan?” Rhyme as­ked.

“Wasn’t his, ap­pa­rently. A comp­le­te ali­as. He sto­le so­me­body’s iden­tity. It’s surp­ri­singly easy to do, ap­pa­rently.”

“So I’ve he­ard,” Rhyme sa­id bit­terly.

Long­hurst con­ti­nu­ed, “One rat­her odd thing, tho­ugh, De­tec­ti­ve. That bag that was to be de­li­ve­red in the sho­oting zo­ne by the Tot­ten­ham chap? In­si­de was—”

“—a pac­ka­ge ad­dres­sed to me.”

“Why, yes.”

“Was it a watch or clock, by any chan­ce?” Rhyme as­ked.

Long­hurst bar­ked an inc­re­du­lo­us la­ugh. “A rat­her posh tab­le clock, Vic­to­ri­an. How on earth did you pos­sibly know?”

“Just a hunch.”

“Our exp­lo­si­ves pe­op­le chec­ked it. It’s qu­ite sa­fe.”

“No, it wo­uldn’t be an IED… Ins­pec­tor, ple­ase se­al it in plas­tic and ship it over he­re over­night. And I’d li­ke to see yo­ur ca­se re­port when it’s fi­nis­hed.”

“Of co­ur­se.”

“And my part­ner—”

“De­tec­ti­ve Sachs.”

“That’s right. She’ll want to vi­deo in­ter­vi­ew every­body in­vol­ved.”

“I’ll put to­get­her a dra­ma­tis per­so­nae.”

Des­pi­te his an­ger and dis­may, Rhyme had to smi­le at the exp­res­si­on. He lo­ved the Brits.

“It’s be­en a pri­vi­le­ge to work with you, De­tec­ti­ve.”

“And with you too, Ins­pec­tor.” He dis­con­nec­ted, sig­hed.

A Vic­to­ri­an clock.

Rhyme lo­oked at the man­tel­pi­ece, on which was disp­la­yed a Bre­gu­et poc­ket watch, old and qu­ite va­lu­ab­le, a gift from the very sa­me kil­ler. The watch had be­en de­li­ve­red he­re just af­ter the man had es­ca­ped from Rhyme on a cold, cold day in De­cem­ber not so long ago.

“Thom. Scotch. Ple­ase.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The­re’s not­hing wrong. It’s not bre­ak­fast ti­me and I want so­me scotch. I pas­sed my physi­cal with flying co­lors and the last ti­me I lo­oked you we­ren’t a Bib­le-thum­ping, te­eto­ta­ling Bap­tist. Why the hell do you think the­re’s so­met­hing wrong?”

“Be­ca­use you sa­id ‘ple­ase.’”

“Very funny. Qu­ite the wit to­day.”

“I try.” But he frow­ned as he stu­di­ed Rhyme and re­ad so­met­hing in his exp­res­si­on. “May­be a do­ub­le?” he as­ked softly.

“A do­ub­le wo­uld be lo­vely,” Rhyme sa­id, lap­sing in­to Brit Eng­lish.

The aide po­ured a lar­ge tumb­ler­ful of Glen­mo­ran­gie and ar­ran­ged the straw ne­ar his mo­uth.

“Jo­in me?”

Thom blin­ked. Then he la­ug­hed. “May­be la­ter.” It was the first ti­me, Rhyme be­li­eved, that he’d ever of­fe­red his aide a drink.

The cri­mi­na­list sip­ped the smoky li­qu­or, sta­ring at the poc­ket watch. He tho­ught of the no­te the kil­ler had inc­lu­ded with the ti­me­pi­ece. Rhyme had long ago me­mo­ri­zed it.

The poc­ket watch is a Bre­gu­et. It is the fa­vo­ri­te of the many ti­me­pi­eces I ha­ve co­me ac­ross in the past ye­ar. It was ma­de in the early 1800s and fe­atu­res a ruby cylin­der es­ca­pe­ment, per­pe­tu­al ca­len­dar and pa­rac­hu­te an­ti-shock de­vi­ce. I ho­pe you ap­pre­ci­ate the pha­ses-of-the-mo­on win­dow, in light of our re­cent ad­ven­tu­res to­get­her. The­re are few spe­ci­mens li­ke this watch in the world. I gi­ve it to you as a pre­sent, out of res­pect. In my ye­ars at this pro­fes­si­on, no one has ever stop­ped me from fi­nis­hing a job; you’re as go­od as they get. (I wo­uld say you’re as go­od as I, but that is not qu­ite true; you did not, af­ter all, catch me.)

Ke­ep the Bre­gu­et wo­und (but gently); it will be co­un­ting out the mi­nu­tes un­til we me­et aga­in.

So­me ad­vi­ce—If I we­re you, I wo­uld ma­ke every one of tho­se se­conds co­unt.

You’re go­od, Rhyme spo­ke si­lently to the kil­ler.

But I’m go­od too. Next ti­me, we fi­nish our ga­me.

Then his tho­ughts we­re in­ter­rup­ted. Rhyme squ­in­ted, lo­oking away from the watch and fo­cu­sing out the win­dow. So­met­hing had ca­ught his eye.

A man in ca­su­al clot­hing was dawd­ling on the si­de­walk ac­ross the stre­et. Rhyme ma­ne­uve­red his TDX to the win­dow and lo­oked out. He sip­ped mo­re whisky. The man sto­od be­si­de a dark over­pa­in­ted bench in front of the sto­ne wall bor­de­ring Cent­ral Park. He was sta­ring at the town ho­use, hands in his poc­kets. Ap­pa­rently he co­uldn’t see that he was be­ing ob­ser­ved from in­si­de the town ho­use’s lar­ge win­dow.

It was his co­usin, Art­hur Rhyme.

The man star­ted for­ward, ne­arly cros­sing the stre­et. But then he stop­ped. He wal­ked back to the park and sat on one of the benc­hes fa­cing the town ho­use, be­si­de a wo­man in a run­ning su­it, sip­ping wa­ter and bob­bing her fo­ot as she lis­te­ned to her iPod. Art­hur pul­led a pi­ece of pa­per out of his poc­ket, lo­oked at it and put it back. His eyes re­tur­ned to the town ho­use.

Cu­ri­o­us. He lo­oks li­ke me, Rhyme ref­lec­ted. In all the­ir ye­ars of com­ra­des­hip and se­pa­ra­ti­on, he’d ne­ver re­ali­zed it.

Sud­denly, for so­me re­ason, his co­usin’s words from a de­ca­de ago fil­led his mind:

Did you even try with yo­ur fat­her? What do you think he felt, ha­ving a son li­ke you, who was a hund­red ti­mes smar­ter than he was? Go­ing off all the ti­me be­ca­use he’d rat­her hang out with his unc­le. Did you even gi­ve Teddy a chan­ce?

The cri­mi­na­list sho­uted, “Thom!”

No res­pon­se.

A lo­uder sum­mons.

“What?” the aide as­ked. “You fi­nis­hed the scotch al­re­ady?”

“I ne­ed so­met­hing. From the ba­se­ment.”

“The ba­se­ment?”

“I just sa­id that. The­re’re a few old bo­xes down the­re. They’ll ha­ve the word ‘Illi­no­is’ on them.”

“Oh, tho­se. Ac­tu­al­ly, Lin­coln, the­re are abo­ut thirty of them.”

“Ho­we­ver many.”

“Not a few.”

“I ne­ed you to lo­ok thro­ugh them and find so­met­hing for me.”

“What?”

“A pi­ece of conc­re­te in a lit­tle plas­tic box. Abo­ut three by three inc­hes.”

“Conc­re­te?”

“It’s a pre­sent for so­me­one.”

“Well, I can’t wa­it for Christ­mas, to see what’s in my stoc­king. When wo­uld you—?”

“Now. Ple­ase.”

A sigh. Thom di­sap­pe­ared.

Rhyme con­ti­nu­ed to watch his co­usin, sta­ring at the front do­or of the town ho­use. But the man wasn’t bud­ging.

A long sip of scotch.

When Rhyme lo­oked back, the park bench was empty.

He was alar­med—and hurt—by the man’s ab­rupt de­par­tu­re. He dro­ve the whe­elc­ha­ir for­ward qu­ickly, get­ting as clo­se to the win­dow as he co­uld.

And he saw Art­hur, dod­ging traf­fic, ma­king for the town ho­use.

Si­len­ce for a long, long mo­ment. Fi­nal­ly the do­or­bell buz­zed.

“Com­mand,” Rhyme sa­id qu­ickly to his at­ten­ti­ve com­pu­ter. “Unlock front do­or.”