Jeffery Deaver - The Broken Window

Naturally.

“Now we’ve got some information from the empty-space files Ron got from SSD. It’s taking some time. They were…” He apparently decided to avoid the technical explanation and said, “…pretty scrambled. But we’ve got fragments coming together. Looks like somebody did assemble dossiers and download them. We’ve got a nym-that’s a screen name or code name. ‘Runnerboy.’ That’s all so far.”

“Any idea who? An employee, customer, hacker?”

“Nope. I called a friend in the Bureau and checked their database for known nyms and e-mail addresses. They found about eight hundred Runnerboys. None in the metro area, though. We’ll know more later.”

Rhyme had Thom write the name Runnerboy on the list of suspects. “We’ll check with SSD. See if that’s a name anybody recognizes.”

“And the customer files on the CD?”

“I’ve got somebody going through it manually. The code I wrote only got us so far. There’re too many variables-different consumer products, Metro fare cards, E-ZPasses. Most of the companies downloaded certain information from the victims but statistically nobody’s jumping out as a suspect yet.”

“All right.”

He disconnected.

“We tried, Rhyme,” Sachs said.

Tried… He offered a lifted eyebrow, a gesture that meant absolutely nothing.

The phone buzzed and “Sellitto” popped up on caller ID.

“Command, answer… Lon, any-”

“Linc.”

Something was wrong. The tone, through the speakerphone, was hollow, the voice shaky.

“Another vic?”

Sellitto cleared his throat. “He got one of us.”

Alarmed, glancing at Sachs, who was involuntarily leaning forward toward the phone, her arms unfolding. “Who? Tell us.”

“Joe Malloy.”

“No,” whispered Sachs.

Rhyme’s eyes closed and his head eased into the wheelchair’s headrest. “Sure, of course. That was the setup, Lon. He had it all planned.” His voice lowered. “How bad was it?”

“What do you mean?” asked Sachs.

In a soft voice, Rhyme said, “He didn’t just kill Malloy, did he?”

Sellitto’s quivering voice was wrenching. “No, Linc, he didn’t.”

“Tell me!” Sachs said bluntly. “What are you talking about?”

Rhyme looked at her eyes, wide with the horror that they both felt. “He set up the whole thing because he wanted information. He tortured Joe to get it.”

“Oh, God.”

“Right, Lon?”

The big detective sighed. He coughed. “Yeah, got to say it was pretty bad. He used some tools. And from the amount of blood Joe held out for a long time. The prick finished him off with a gunshot.”

Sachs’s face was red with anger. She kneaded the grip of her Glock. Through clenched jaws she asked, “Did Joe have kids?”

Rhyme recalled that the captain’s wife had been killed a few years ago.

Sellitto answered, “A daughter in California. I made the call already.”

“You okay about it?” Sachs asked.

“Naw, I’m not.” His voice cracked again. Rhyme didn’t think he’d ever heard the detective sound so upset.

In his mind he could hear Joe Malloy’s voice when he was responding to Rhyme’s “forgetting” to share about the 522 case. The captain had looked beyond pettiness and backed them up, even after the criminalist and Sellitto hadn’t been honest with him.

Policing came before ego.

And 522 had tortured and killed him simply because he needed information. Goddamn information…

But then, from somewhere, Rhyme summoned the stone that resided within him. The detachment that, as some people had said, meant he had a damaged soul, but that he believed allowed him to better do his job. He said firmly, “Okay, you know what this means, don’t you?”

“What?” Sachs asked.

“He’s declaring war.”

“War?” It was Sellitto who asked this question.

“On us. He’s not going underground. He’s not running. He’s telling us to go fuck ourselves. He’s fighting back. And he thinks he can get away with it. Killing brass? Oh, yeah. He’s drawn the battle line. And he knows all about us now.”

“Maybe Joe didn’t tell him,” Sachs said.

“No, he told. He did everything he could to hold out but in the end he told.” Rhyme didn’t even want to picture what the captain had been through as he’d tried to keep silent. “It wasn’t his fault… But we’re all at risk now.”

“I’ve gotta go talk to the brass,” Sellitto said. “They want to know what went wrong. They weren’t happy about the plan in the first place.”

“I’m sure they weren’t. Where did it happen?”

“A warehouse. Chelsea.”

“Warehouse…perfect for a hoarder. Was he connected to it? Work there? Remember his comfortable shoes? Or did he just find out about it from going through the data? I want to know all of the above.”

“I’ll have it checked out,” Cooper said. “Sellitto gave him the details.”

“And we’ll get the scene searched.” Rhyme glanced at Sachs, who nodded.

After the detective disconnected, Rhyme asked, “Where’s Pulaski?”

“On his way back from the Roland Bell set.”

“Let’s call SSD, find out where all our suspects were at the time Malloy was killed. Some of them must have been in the office. I want to know who wasn’t . And I want to know about this Runnerboy. Think Sterling’ll help?”

“Oh, definitely,” Sachs said, reminding him how cooperative Sterling had been throughout the investigation. She hit the speakerphone button and placed the call.

An assistant answered and Sachs identified herself.

“Hello, Detective Sachs. This is Jeremy. How can I help you?”

“I need to talk to Mr. Sterling.”

“I’m afraid he’s not available.”

“It’s very important. There’s been another killing. A police officer.”

“Yes, I heard that on the news. I’m very sorry. Hold on a moment. Martin just walked in.”

They heard a muffled conversation and then another voice came through the speaker. “Detective Sachs. It’s Martin. I’m sorry to hear, another killing. But Mr. Sterling’s off-site.”

“It’s really important we talk to him.”

The calm assistant said, “I’ll relay the urgency.”

“What about Mark Whitcomb or Tom O’Day?”

“Hold for a moment, please.”

After a lengthy pause the young man’s voice said, “I’m afraid Mark is out of the office too. And Tom is in a meeting. I’ve left messages. I have another call, Detective Sachs. I should go. And I am truly sorry about your captain.”

“‘You that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more to my meditations, than you might suppose.’”

Sitting on a bench, overlooking the East River, Pam Willoughby felt a thud in her chest and her palms began to sweat.

She looked behind her at Stuart Everett, lit brilliantly by the sun over New Jersey. A blue shirt, jeans, a sports coat, the leather bag over his shoulder. His boyish face, a flop of brown hair, narrow lips about to break into a grin that often never arrived.

“Hi,” she said, sounding cheerful. She was angry with herself, wanted to sound harsh.

“Hey.” He glanced north, toward the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. “Fulton Street.”

“The poem? I know. It’s ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.’”

From Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman’s masterpiece. After Stuart Everett had mentioned in class that it was his favorite anthology of poems, she’d bought an expensive edition. Thinking that somehow it made them more connected.

“I didn’t assign that for class. You knew it anyway?”

Pam said nothing.

“Can I sit down?”

She nodded.