Jeffery Deaver - The Broken Window

He glanced at the evidence itself-a shoeprint, some leaves, duct tape and envelopes of trace. They had to examine it as soon as possible; since this wasn’t planted evidence it might provide the final clue as to where 522 was. But without their equipment to analyze it and check the databases, the bags were nothing more than paperweights.

“Thom,” Rhyme called, “the power?”

“I’m still on hold,” the aide shouted from the dark hallway.

He knew this was probably a bad idea. But he was out of control.

And it took a lot for Ron Pulaski to be out of control.

Yet he was furious. This was beyond anything he’d ever felt. When he’d signed up for the blue he’d expected to be beat up and threatened from time to time. But he’d never thought that his career would put Jenny at risk, much less his children.

So despite being straitlaced and by the book-Sergeant Friday-he was taking the matter into his own hands. Going behind the backs of Lincoln Rhyme and Detective Sellitto and even his mentor, Amelia Sachs. They wouldn’t be happy at what he was going to do but Ron Pulaski was desperate.

And so on the way to the INS detention center in Queens, he’d made a call to Mark Whitcomb.

“Hey, Ron,” the man had said, “what’s going on?…You sound upset. You’re out of breath.”

“I’ve got a problem, Mark. Please. I need some help. My wife’s being accused of being an illegal alien. They say her passport’s forged and she’s a security threat. It’s crazy.”

“But she’s a citizen, isn’t she?”

“Her family’s been here for generations . Mark, we think this killer we’ve been after got into your system. He’s had one detective fail a drug test…and now he’s had Jenny arrested. He could do that?”

“He must’ve swapped her file with somebody who’s on a watch list and then called it in… Look, I know some people at INS. I can talk to them. Where are you?”

“On my way to the detention center in Queens.”

“I’ll meet you outside in twenty minutes.”

“Oh, thanks, man. I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t worry, Ron. We’ll get it worked out.”

Now, waiting for Whitcomb, Ron Pulaski was pacing in front of INS detention, beside a temporary sign indicating that the service was now operated by the Department of Homeland Security. Pulaski thought back to all the TV news reports he and Jenny had seen about illegal immigrants, how terrified they’d looked.

What was happening to his wife at the moment? Would she be stuck for days or weeks in some kind of bureaucratic purgatory? Pulaski wanted to scream.

Calm down. Handle it smart. Amelia Sachs always told him that.

Handle it smart.

Finally, thank you, Lord, Pulaski saw Mark Whitcomb walking quickly toward him, the expression one of urgent concern. He wasn’t sure exactly what the man could do to help but he hoped that the Compliance Department, with its connections to the government, could pull strings with Homeland Security and get his wife and child released, at least until the matter was officially resolved.

Whitcomb, breathless, came up to him. “Have you found out anything else?”

“I called about ten minutes ago. They’re inside now. I didn’t say anything. I wanted to wait for you.”

“You okay?”

“No. I’m pretty frantic here, Mark. Thanks for this.”

“Sure,” the Compliance officer said earnestly. “It’ll be okay, Ron. Don’t worry. I think I can do something.” Then he looked up into Pulaski’s eyes; the SSD Compliance officer was just slightly taller than Andrew Sterling. “Only…it’s pretty important for you to get Jenny out of there, right?”

“Oh, yeah, Mark. This’s just a nightmare.”

“Okay. Come this way.” He led Pulaski around the corner of the building, then into an alley. “I’ve got a favor to ask, Ron,” Whitcomb whispered.

“Whatever I can do.”

“Really?” The man’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, calm. And his eyes had a sharpness that Pulaski hadn’t seen before. As if he’d dropped an act and was now being himself. “You know, sometimes, Ron, we have to do things that we don’t think are right. But in the end it’s for the best.”

“What do you mean?”

“To help your wife out you might have to do something you might think isn’t so good.”

The officer said nothing, his thoughts whirling. Where was this going?

“Ron, I need you to make this case go away.”

“Case?”

“The murder investigation.”

“Go away? I don’t get it.”

“Stop the case.” Whitcomb looked around and whispered, “Sabotage it. Destroy the evidence. Give them some false leads. Point them anywhere but at SSD.”

“I don’t understand, Mark. Are you joking?”

“No, Ron. I’m real serious. This case’s got to stop and you can do it.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, yes, you can. If you want Jenny out of there.” A nod toward the detention center.

No, no… this was 522. Whitcomb was the killer! He’d used the passcodes of his boss, Sam Brockton, to get access to innerCircle.

Instinctively Pulaski started for his gun.

But Whitcomb drew first, a black pistol appearing in his hand. “No, Ron. That’s not going to get us anywhere.” Whitcomb reached into the holster and pulled Pulaski’s Glock out by the grip, slipped it into his waistband.

How could he have misjudged this so badly? Was it the head injury? Or was he just stupid? Whitcomb’s friendship had been feigned, which hurt as much as it shocked. Bringing him the coffee, defending him to Cassel and Gillespie, suggesting they get together socially, helping with the time sheets…it was all a tactic to get close to the cop and use him.

“It’s all a goddamn lie, isn’t it, Mark? You didn’t grow up in Queens at all, did you? And you don’t have a brother who’s a cop?”

“No to both.” Whitcomb’s face was dark. “I tried to reason with you, Ron. But you wouldn’t work with me. Goddamnit! You could have. Now look what you’ve made me do.”

The killer pushed Pulaski farther into the alley.

Amelia Sachs was in the city, cruising through traffic, frustrated at the noisy, tepid response of the Japanese engine.

It sounded like an ice maker. And had just about as much horsepower.

She’d called Rhyme twice but both times the line went right to voice mail. This rarely happened; Lincoln Rhyme obviously wasn’t away from home very much. And something odd was going on at the Big Building: Lon Sellitto’s phone was out of order. And neither he nor Ron Pulaski was answering his mobile.

Was 522 behind this too?

All the more reason to move fast in following up on the lead she’d discovered at her town house. It was a solid one, she believed. Maybe it was the final clue, the one missing piece of the puzzle they needed to bring this case to its conclusion.

Now she saw her destination, not far away. Mindful of what had happened to the Camaro, and not wanting to jeopardize Pam’s car too-if 522 had been behind the repossession, as she suspected-Sachs cruised around the block until she found the rarest of all phenomena in Manhattan: a legal, unoccupied parking space.

How ’bout that?

Maybe it was a good sign.

“Why are you doing this?” Ron Pulaski whispered to Mark Whitcomb as they stood in a deserted Queens alleyway.

But the killer ignored him. “Listen to me.”

“We were friends, I thought.”

“Well, everybody thinks a lot of things that turn out not to be true. That’s life.” Whitcomb cleared his throat. He seemed edgy, uncomfortable. Pulaski remembered Sachs saying that the killer was feeling the pressure of their pursuit, which made him careless. It also made him more dangerous.