Jeffery Deaver - The Broken Window

They sat in silence. She smelled his cologne. Wondered if his wife had bought it for him.

“Your friend talked to you, I’m sure.”

“Yeah.”

“I liked her. When she first called, okay, I thought she was going to arrest me.”

Pam’s frown softened into a smile.

Stuart continued, “She wasn’t happy about the situation. But that was good. She was looking out for you.”

“Amelia’s the best.”

“I couldn’t believe she was a cop.”

And a cop who ran a check on my boyfriend. Being in the dark wasn’t so bad, Pam reflected; having too much information sucked big-time.

He took her hand. Her impulse to pull it away vanished. “Look, let’s get this whole thing out in the open.”

She kept her eyes focused on the distance; looking into his brown eyes, under droopy lids, would be a way bad idea. She watched the river and the harbor beyond. Ferries still ran but most of the traffic was either private boats or cargo ships. She often sat near the river here and watched them. Forced to live underground, deep in the Midwest woods, with her crazy mother and a bunch of right-wing fanatics, Pam had developed a fascination with rivers and oceans. They were open and free and constantly in motion. That thought soothed her.

“I wasn’t honest, I know. But my relationship with my wife isn’t what it seems. I don’t sleep with her anymore. Haven’t for a long time.”

Was that the first thing a man said at a time like this? Pam wondered. She hadn’t even considered the sex, just the married.

He continued, “I didn’t want to fall in love with you. I thought we’d be friends. But you turned out to be different from everybody else. You lit up something in me. You’re beautiful, obviously. But you’re, well, you’re like Whitman. Unconventional. Lyrical. A poet in your own way.”

“You’ve got kids,” Pam couldn’t stop herself from saying.

A hesitation. “I do. But you’d like them. John’s eight. Chiara’s in middle school. She’s eleven. They’re wonderful kids. That’s why Mary and I are together, the only reason.”

Her name’s Mary. Was wondering.

He squeezed her hand. “Pam, I can’t let you go.”

She was leaning into him, feeling the comfort of his arm against hers, smelling the dry, pleasing scent, not caring who’d bought the aftershave. She thought: He was probably going to tell me sooner or later.

“I was going to tell you in a week or so. I swear. I was working up my courage.” She felt his hand trembling. “I see my children’s faces. I think, I can’t break up the family. And then you come along. The most incredible person I’ve ever met… I’ve been lonely for a long, long time.”

“But what about holidays?” she asked. “I wanted to do something on Thanksgiving or Christmas with you.”

“I can probably get away for one of them. At least part of the day. We just need to plan ahead of time.” Stuart lowered his head. “Here’s the thing. I can’t live without you. If you can be patient, we’ll make it work.”

She thought back to the one night they’d spent together. A secret night that nobody knew about. At Amelia Sachs’s town house, when she was staying at Lincoln Rhyme’s and Pam, and Stuart, had the place to themselves. It was magical. She wished every night of her life could be like that one.

She gripped his hand harder yet.

He whispered, “I can’t lose you.”

He inched closer on the bench. She found comfort in every square inch of contact. She actually had written a poem about him, describing their attraction as gravitational: one of the fundamental forces in the universe.

Pam rested her head against his shoulder.

“I promise I’ll never hide anything from you again. But please…I have to keep seeing you.”

She thought of the wonderful times they’d had, times that would seem insignificant to anyone else, silly.

Nothing like it.

The comfort was like warm water on a wound, washing away the pain.

When they’d been on the run, Pam and her mother had lived with and around petty men who would strike them “for their own good,” who didn’t share a word with their wives or children except when correcting or silencing them.

Stuart wasn’t even in the same universe with those monsters.

He whispered, “Just give me a little while. It’ll work out. I promise. We’ll see each other like we have been… Hey, here’s an idea. I know you want to travel. There’s a poetry conference in Montreal next month. I could fly you there, get you a room. You could attend the sessions. And we’d have the evenings free.”

“Oh, I love you.” She leaned toward his face. “I understand why you didn’t tell me, really.”

He gripped her hard, kissed her neck. “Pam, I’m so-”

Which is when she eased back and clutched her book bag to her chest like a shield. “But no, Stuart.”

“What?”

Pam believed her heart was beating faster than it ever had. “When you get divorced call me up and let’s see. But until then, no. I can’t see you anymore.”

She’d said what she thought Amelia Sachs would say at a time like this. But could she behave the same and not cry? Amelia wouldn’t. No way.

She slapped a smile onto her face, struggling to control the pain as the loneliness and panic killed the comfort instantly. The warmth froze to icy shards.

“But, Pam, you’re everything to me.”

“But what are you to me, Stuart? You can’t be everything. And I’m not willing to take less than that.” Keep your voice steady, she told herself. “If you get a divorce I’ll be with you… Will you?”

Now the seductive eyes lowered. “Yes.” A whisper.

“Now?”

“I can’t just now. It’s complicated.”

“No, Stuart. It’s really, really simple.” She rose. “If I don’t see you again, have a nice life.” She began walking away quickly, heading for Amelia’s town house, which was nearby.

Okay, maybe Amelia wouldn’t cry. But Pam could no longer hold the tears back. She walked straight down the sidewalk, eyes streaming, and-afraid she’d weaken-not daring to look back, not daring to think about what she’d done.

Though she did have one thought about the encounter, which she supposed someday she’d consider pretty funny: What a sucky parting line that was. Wish I’d come up with something better.

Mel Cooper was frowning.

“The warehouse? Where Joe was killed? Some publisher rents it to store paper there for recycling, though it hasn’t been used actively for months. But what’s strange is that the ownership’s not clear.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ve run all the corporate documents. It’s leased to a chain of three companies and owned by a Delaware corporation-and that ’s owned by a couple of New York corporations. The ultimate ownership seems to be in Malaysia.”

But 522 had known about it and that it was safe to torture a victim there. How? Because he’s the man who knows everything.

The phone in the lab trilled and Rhyme glanced at caller ID. We’ve had such bad news in the 522 case, please let this be good. “Inspector Longhurst.”

“Detective Rhyme, just to update you. It’s looking rather productive here.” Her voice betrayed a rare excitement. She explained that d’Estourne, the team’s French security service agent, had sped to Birmingham and contacted some Algerians in a Muslim community in West Bromwich, outside the city. He’d learned that an American had commissioned a passport and transit papers to North Africa, traveling on to Singapore. He’d given them a large down payment and they promised the documents would be ready tomorrow evening. As soon as he picked them up he was heading for London to finish the job.