Jeffery Deaver - The Broken Window

“Good,” Rhyme said, chuckling. “That means Logan’s already there, don’t you think? In London.”

“Quite certain of it,” Longhurst agreed. “Trying the shot tomorrow when our double meets the MI5 people at the shooting zone.”

“Exactly.”

So Richard Logan had ordered the papers, and paid a large price for them, to keep the team focused on Birmingham, while he hurried to London to complete his mission to kill the Reverend Goodlight.

“What do Danny Krueger’s people say?”

“That a boat will be waiting on the south coast to spirit him away to France.”

Spirit him away. Rhyme loved it. Cops don’t talk that way over here.

He thought again about the safe house near Manchester. And the break-in at Goodlight’s NGO in London. Was there anything Rhyme might’ve seen if he had walked the grid at either of those locales via the high-definition video? Some tiny clue that they’d missed that might give them a clearer idea of exactly where and when the killer was going to strike? If so, the evidence was gone now. He’d just have to hope they’d made the right deductions.

“What do you have in place?”

“Ten officers around the shooting zone. All plainclothed or in camouflage.” She added that Danny Krueger, along with the French security man and another tactical team, were making themselves “subtly visible” in Birmingham. Longhurst had also added an extra protection detail where the reverend was actually hiding; they had no evidence that the killer had learned the location but she didn’t want to take any chances.

“We’ll know something soon, Detective.”

Just as they disconnected, his computer dinged.

“mr Rhyme?”

The words appeared on the screen in front of him. A small window had opened. It was a webcam view of Amelia Sachs’s living room. He could see Pam at the keyboard, instant messaging him.

He spoke to her through his voice-recognition system. “Hello Pam owe are you dew in?”

Goddamn computer. Maybe he should have their digital guru, Rodney Szarnek, install a new system.

But she deduced the message just fine.

“Good,” she typed. “How R U?”

“I am good.”

“Amelia there?”

“No. She is how on a case.”

“ :-( Bummer. Want 2 talk 2 her. Called but not picking up.”

“Any thing eye can dew-”

Damn. He sighed and tried again. “Anything we can do here?”

“No thx.” A pause and he saw her glance at her cell phone. She looked back at the computer. Typed, “ Rachel calling. Back in minute.”

She left the webcam on but turned away, speaking into her mobile. She lugged a massive book bag onto her lap and dug through it, opened a text and found some notes inside. She read them aloud, it seemed.

Rhyme was about to turn to the whiteboards when he glanced at the webcam window.

Something had changed.

He frowned and maneuvered his chair closer, alarmed.

Someone else seemed to be in Sachs’s town house. Could it be? It was hard to tell for certain but as he squinted he saw that, yes, a man was there, hiding in a dark hallway, only twenty feet or so from Pam.

Rhyme squinted, moving his head as far forward as he could. An intruder, his face hidden by a hat. And he was holding something. Was it a gun? A knife?

“Thom!”

The aide wasn’t within earshot. Of course, he was taking the trash out.

“Command, dial Sachs, home.”

Thank God the ECU did exactly as instructed.

He could see Pam glance at the phone beside the computer. But she ignored the ringing; the house wasn’t hers-she’d let voice mail take a message. She continued speaking into her mobile.

The man leaned out of the hallway, his face, obscured by the brim of his hat, aimed directly at her.

“Command, instant message!”

The box popped up on the screen.

“Command, type: ‘Pam exclamation point.’ Command, send.”

“Pamex lamentation point.”

Fuck!

“Command, type, ‘Pam danger leave now.’ Command, send.”

This message went through pretty much unchanged.

Pam, read it, please! Rhyme begged silently. Look at the screen!

But the girl was lost in her conversation. Her face was no longer so carefree. The discussion had turned serious.

Rhyme called 911, and the operator assured him that a police car would be at the town house in five minutes. But the intruder was only seconds away from Pam, who was completely unaware of him.

Rhyme knew it was 522, of course. He’d tortured Malloy to get information about all of them. Amelia Sachs was the first on the list to die. Only it wouldn’t be Sachs. It would be this innocent girl.

His heart was pounding, a sensation registering as a fierce, throbbing headache. He tried the phone again. Four rings. “ Hi, this is Amelia. Please leave your message at the tone.”

He tried again. “Command, type, ‘Pam call me period. Lincoln period.’”

And what would he tell her to do if he got through? Sachs had weapons in the place but he didn’t know where she kept them. Pam was an athletic girl, and the intruder didn’t seem much larger than she was. But he’d have a weapon. And, given where he was, he could get a garrote around her neck or a knife into her back before she was even aware of his presence.

And it would happen before his eyes.

Then at last she was swiveling toward the computer. She’d see the message.

Good, keep turning.

Rhyme saw a shadow on the floor across the room. Was the killer moving in closer?

Still talking on her phone, Pam moved toward the computer but she was looking at the keyboard, not the screen.

Look up! Rhyme urged silently.

Please! Read the goddamn message!

But like all kids today, Pam didn’t need to look at the screen to make sure she’d typed correctly. With her cell held tight between cheek and shoulder, she glanced fast at the keyboard as she stabbed the letters with quick strokes.

“gotta go. bye mr Rhyme. C U :-)”

The screen went black.

Amelia Sachs was uncomfortable in the crime-scene Tyvek jumpsuit, with surgeon’s hat and booties. Claustrophobic, nauseous from inhaling the bitter scent of damp paper and blood and sweat in the warehouse.

She hadn’t known Captain Joseph Malloy well. But he was, as Lon Sellitto had announced, “one of ours.” And she was appalled at what 522 had done to him, to extract the information he wanted. She was nearly finished running the scene and carried the evidence-collection bags outside, infinitely grateful for the air here, even though it reeked of diesel fumes.

She kept hearing the voice of her father. As a young girl she’d glanced into her parents’ bedroom and found him in his dress patrolman’s uniform, wiping tears. This had shaken her; she’d never seen him cry. He’d gestured her inside. Hermann Sachs always played straight with his daughter and he’d sat her down on a bedside chair and explained that a friend of his, a fellow officer, had been shot and killed while stopping a robbery.

“Amie, in this business, everybody’s family. You probably spend more time with the guys you work with than you do with your own wife and kids. Every time somebody in blue dies, you die a little bit too. Doesn’t matter, patrol or brass, they’re all family and it’s the same pain when you lose somebody.”

And she now felt the pain he’d been speaking of. Felt it very deeply.

“I’m finished,” she said to the crime-scene crew, who were standing beside their rapid response van. She’d searched the scene alone but the officers from Queens had videotaped and photographed it and walked the grid at the secondary scenes-the likely entrance and exit routes.