Jeffery Deaver - The Broken Window

“Wait.”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes. Don’t-”

“At the next corner you’re going to turn to the right into that alley and keep going.”

“But-”

“I don’t have a silencer on the gun. But the muzzle is close enough to your body that nobody will know where the sound came from and I’ll be gone before you hit the ground. And the bullet will go through you and with these crowds I’m sure it will hit somebody else. You don’t want that.”

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

Joseph Malloy had made a lifelong career in law enforcement, and after his wife was killed by a drug-crazed burglar the profession became more than a career; it was an obsession. Maybe he was brass, an administrator now, but he still had the instincts he’d honed on the streets of Midtown South precinct years ago. He understood instantly. “Five Twenty-Two.”

“What?”

Calm. Stay calm. If you’re calm you’re in control. “You’re the man who killed that woman on Sunday and the groundskeeper in the cemetery last night.”

“What do you mean, ‘Five Twenty-Two’?”

“What the department’s calling you internally. An unknown subject, UNSUB, number Five Twenty-Two.” Give him some facts. Make him relax too. Carry on a conversation.

The killer gave a brief laugh. “A number? That’s interesting. Now, turn to the right.”

Well, if he wanted you dead, you’d be dead. He just needs to know something, or he’s kidnapping you for leverage. Relax. He’s obviously not going to kill you-he doesn’t want you to see his face. Okay, Lon Sellitto said they were calling him the man who knew everything? Well, get some information about him that you can use.

Maybe you can talk your way out.

Maybe you can lower his guard and get close enough to kill him with your bare hands.

Joe Malloy was perfectly capable of this, both mentally and physically.

After a brief walk 522 ordered him to stop in the alley. He put a stocking cap over Malloy’s head and pulled it down over his eyes. Good. A huge relief. As long as I don’t see him, I’ll live. Then his hands were taped and he was frisked. A firm hand on his shoulder, he was led forward and eased into a car trunk.

A drive in the stifling heat, the uncomfortable space, legs tucked up. A compact car. Okay, noted. No burning oil. And good suspension. Noted. No smell of leather. Noted. Malloy tried to keep track of the directions they turned but that was impossible. He paid attention to the sounds: traffic noises, a jackhammer. Nothing unique there. And seagulls and a boat horn. Well, how’s that going to help pinpoint where you are? Manhattan is an island. Get something useful !…Wait-the car has a noisy power-steering belt. That’s helpful. Tuck it away.

Twenty minutes later they came to a stop. He heard the rumble of a garage door closing, a big one, squeaky joints or wheels. Malloy gave a brief cry as the trunk popped, startling him. Musty but cool air embraced him. He gasped hard, sucking oxygen into his lungs through the damp wool of the cap.

“Out we go.”

“There are some things I’d like to talk to you about. I’m a captain-”

“I know who you are.”

“I have a lot of power in the department.” Malloy was pleased. His voice was steady. He was sounding reasonable. “We can work something out.”

“Come on over here.” Five Twenty-Two helped him over the smooth floor.

Then he was seated.

“I’m sure you have grievances. But I can help you. Tell me why you’re doing this, committing these crimes.”

Silence. What would happen next? Would he have a chance to fight physically? Malloy wondered. Or would he have to continue to work his way into the man’s mind? By now he’d be missed. Sellitto and Rhyme might have figured out what happened.

Then he heard a noise.

What was it?

Several clicks, followed by a tinny electronic voice. The killer was testing a tape recorder, it seemed.

Then another: the clink of metal against metal, like tools being gathered up.

And finally the disturbing screech of metal on concrete as the killer scooted his chair so close to Malloy’s that their knees touched.

A bounty hunter.

They’d caught a goddamn bounty hunter.

Well, as the man corrected, a “bond recovery specialist.”

“How the fuck did that happen?” was Lincoln Rhyme’s question.

“We’re checking,” Lon Sellitto said, standing dusty and hot beside the construction site where the man who’d been following Roland Bell sat in cuffs.

He wasn’t exactly under arrest. In fact, he hadn’t done anything wrong at all; he was licensed to carry a pistol and was merely trying to effect a citizen’s arrest of a man he believed to be a wanted criminal. But Sellitto was pissed off and ordered him cuffed.

Roland Bell himself was on the phone, trying to find out if 522 had been spotted elsewhere in the area. But so far no one on the takedown teams had seen anyone fitting the scant profile of the killer. “Might as well be in Timbuktu,” Bell drawled to Sellitto and folded up his phone.

“Look-” began the bounty hunter from his curb perch.

“Shut up,” the heavy detective barked for the third or fourth time. He returned to his conversation with Rhyme. “He follows Roland, moves in and looks like he’s going to take him out. But seems he’s just serving a warrant. He thought Roland was somebody named William Franklin. They look alike, Franklin and Roland. Lives in Brooklyn and missed a trial date on an assault with a deadly, and firearm possession. The bond company’s been after him for six months.”

“Five Twenty-Two set it all up, you know. He found this Franklin in the system and sent the bondsman after him to keep us distracted.”

“I know, Linc.”

“Anybody see anything helpful? Somebody staking us out?”

“Nope. Roland just checked with all the teams.”

Silence. Then Rhyme asked, “How did he know it was a trap?”

Though that wasn’t the most important issue. There was really only one question they wanted the answer to and that was “What the hell is he really up to?”

Do They think I’m stupid?

Did They think I wouldn’t be suspicious?

They know about knowledge service providers at this point. About predicting how sixteens will act, based on past behavior and the behavior of others. This concept has been a part of my life for a long, long time. It should be part of everyone’s. How will your next-door neighbor react if you do X? How will he react if you do Y? How will a woman behave when you’re accompanying her to a car while you’re laughing? When you’re silent and fishing in your pocket for something?

I’ve studied Their transactions from the moment They became interested in me. I sorted them, analyzed Them. They’ve been brilliant at times-for instance, that trap of theirs: letting SSD employees and customers know about the investigation and waiting for me to peek at NYPD files on the Myra 9834 case. I almost did, came within an ENTER keystroke of searching but just had a feeling something was wrong. I know now I was right.

And the press conference? Ah, that transaction smelled off from the beginning. Hardly fit predictable and established patterns of behavior. I mean, for the police and the city to meet journalists at that time of night? And the particular assemblage up on the podium certainly didn’t ring true.

Of course, maybe it was legit-even the best fuzzy logic and predictive behavior algorithms get it wrong occasionally. But it was in my interest to check further. I couldn’t, even casually, talk to any of Them directly.

So instead, I did what I do best.