Jeffery Deaver - The Broken Window

They thanked Dobyns. He wished them luck and the psychologist left. Sachs updated the UNSUB list, based on what he’d told them.

UNSUB 522 PROFILE

· Male

· Probably nonsmoker

· Probably no wife/children

· Probably white or light-skinned ethnic

· Medium build

· Strong-able to strangle victims

· Access to voice-disguise equipment

· Possibly computer literate; knows OurWorld. Other social-networking sites?

· Takes trophies from victims. Sadist?

· Portion of residence/workplace dark and moist

· Eats snack food/hot sauce

· Wears size-11 Skechers work shoe

· Hoarder. Suffers from OCD

· Will have a “secret” life and a “façade” life

· Public personality will be opposite of his real self

· Residence: Won’t rent, will have two separate living areas, one normal and one secret

· Windows will be covered or painted

· Will become violent when collecting or trove are threatened

“Helpful?” Cooper asked.

Rhyme could only shrug.

“What do you think, Sachs? Could it be anybody you talked to at SSD?”

She shrugged. “I’d say Gillespie came the closest. He seemed just plain odd. But Cassel seemed the slickest-in terms of putting on a good façade. Arlonzo-Kemper’s married, which takes him out of the running, according to Terry. I didn’t see the technicians. Ron did.”

With an electronic trill, a caller ID box popped up on the screen. It was Lon Sellitto, back home but apparently still at work on the Expert Plan that Rhyme and the detective had put together earlier.

“Command, answer phone…Lon, how are we doing?”

“It’s all set, Linc.”

“Where are we?”

“Watch the eleven o’clock news. You’ll find out. I’m going to bed.”

Rhyme disconnected and turned on the TV in the corner of the lab.

Mel Cooper said good night. He was packing up his briefcase when his computer dinged. He looked over the screen. “Amelia, you’ve got an e-mail here.”

She wandered over, sat down.

“Is it the Colorado State Police, about Gordon?” Rhyme asked.

Sachs said nothing but he noticed an eyebrow rise as she read through the lengthy document. Her finger disappeared into her long red hair, tied back in a ponytail, and worried her scalp.

“What?”

“I’ve got to go,” she said. She rose quickly.

“Sachs? What is it?”

“It’s not about the case. Call me if you need me.”

And with that she was out the door, leaving behind a cloud of mystery as subtle as the aroma of the lavender soap she’d been favoring recently.

The 522 case was moving fast.

And yet cops always have to juggle other aspects of their lives.

Which was why she was now standing uneasily in front of a tidy detached house in Brooklyn, not far from her own home. The night was pleasant. A delicate breeze, fragrant with lilac and mulch, waltzed around her. It would be good to sit on the curb or a door stoop here and not do what she was about to.

What she had to do.

God, I hate this.

Pam Willoughby appeared in the doorway. She was wearing sweats and had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was talking to one of the other foster children, another teenager. Their faces had that conspiratorial yet innocent expression teenage girls wear like makeup. Two dogs played at their feet: Jackson, the tiny Havanese, and a much larger but equally exuberant Briard, Cosmic Cowboy, who lived with Pam’s foster family.

The policewoman would meet the girl here occasionally, then they’d head off for a movie or Starbucks or ice cream. Pam’s face usually brightened when she saw Sachs.

Not tonight.

Sachs got out of the car and leaned against the hot hood. Pam picked up Jackson and joined her as the other girl waved to Sachs and disappeared into the house with Cosmic Cowboy.

“Sorry to come by so late.”

“It’s okay.” The girl was cautious.

“How’s homework?”

“Homework’s homework. Some’s good, some sucks.”

True now, true in Sachs’s day.

Sachs petted the dog, which Pam clutched possessively. She did this often with her things. The girl always refused offers to let someone else carry her book bag or groceries. Sachs guessed that so much had been taken away from her, she held tight to whatever she could.

“So. What’s up?”

She could think of no way to ease gently into the subject. “I talked to your friend.”

“Friend?” Pam asked.

“Stuart.”

“You what ?” Light fragmented by leaves of a ginkgo tree fell on her troubled face.

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Pam…I was worried about you. I had a friend in the department-somebody who does security checks-look him up.”

“No!”

“I wanted to see if there were any skeletons in his closet.”

“You didn’t have any right to do that!”

“True. But I did anyway. And I just got an e-mail back.” Sachs felt her stomach muscles clench. Facing killers, driving 170 mph…those were nothing. She was shaken badly now.

“So is he a fucking murderer?” Pam snapped. “A serial killer? A terrorist?”

Sachs hesitated. She wanted to touch the girl’s arm. But didn’t. “No, honey. But…he’s married.”

In the dappled light Sachs saw Pam blink.

“He’s…married?”

“I’m sorry. His wife’s a teacher too. A private school on Long Island. And he has two children.”

“No! You’re wrong.” Sachs saw Pam’s free hand was clenched so tightly the muscles had to be cramping. Anger filled her eyes, but there wasn’t much surprise. Sachs wondered if Pam would be running through certain memories. Maybe Stuart had said he didn’t have a home phone, only a mobile. Or maybe he’d asked her to use a particular e-mail account, not his general one.

And my house is such a mess. I’d be embarrassed for you to see it. I’m a teacher, you know. We’re absentminded… I need to get a housekeeper…

Pam blurted, “It’s a mistake. You’ve got him mixed up with somebody else.”

“I went to see him just now. I asked him and he told me.”

“No, you didn’t! You’re making it up!” The girl’s eyes flared and a cold smile crossed her face, cutting deep into Sachs’s heart. “You’re doing just what my mother did! When she didn’t want me to do something, she lied to me! Just like you’re doing.”

“Pam, I’d never-”

“Everybody takes things away from me! You’re not going to! I love him and he loves me, and you’re not taking him away!” She wheeled and made for the house, the dog firmly under her arm.

“Pam!” Sachs’s voice choked. “No, honey…”

As the girl stepped inside she looked back once fast, hair swirling, posture stiff as iron, leaving Amelia Sachs grateful that the backlight prevented her from seeing Pam’s face; she couldn’t have stomached witnessing the hatred she knew was there.

The travesty at the cemetery still burns like fire.

Miguel 5465 should have died. Should be pinned to a velvet board for the police to examine. They’d say case closed and all would be well.

But he didn’t. That butterfly got away. I can’t try to fake a suicide again. They’ve learned something about me. They’ve collected some knowledge…

Hate Them hate Them hate Them hate Them…

I’m so close to taking my razor and storming out and…

Calm. Down. But it’s becoming harder and harder to do that, as the years go by.

I’ve canceled certain transactions for this evening-I was going to celebrate the suicide-and now I head into my Closet. Being surrounded by my treasures helps. I wander through the fragrant rooms and hold several items close to me. Trophies from various transactions over the past year. Feeling the dried flesh and fingernails and hair against my cheek is such a comfort.