The Broken Window

Sellitto continued, “Give him a call and see if he can get a few people released for you.”

“I want you released.”

“Not gonna happen, Linc. I’m running a fucking stakeout. It’s a nightmare. But keep me posted and-”

“Gotta go, Lon…Command, disconnect phone.”

“You hung up on him,” Sachs pointed out.

Rhyme grunted and placed a call to Malloy. He’d be furious if he got voice mail.

But the man answered on the second ring. Another senior cop working on Sunday. Well, Rhyme had done so pretty often too and had the divorce to show for it.

“Malloy here.”

Rhyme identified himself.

A brief hesitation. Then: “Well, Lincoln…I don’t believe we’ve ever met. But I know about you, of course.”

“I’m here with one of your detectives, Amelia Sachs. We’re on speaker, Joe.”

“Detective Sachs, afternoon,” said the stiff voice. “What can I do for you two?” Rhyme explained about the case and how he believed Arthur was being set up.

“Your cousin? I’m sorry to hear that.” But he didn’t sound particularly sorry. Malloy would be worried that Rhyme wanted him to intervene and get the charges reduced. Uh-oh, appearance of impropriety at the most innocent. Or, at the worst, an internal-affairs investigation and the media. Weighed against that, of course, was the bad form of not helping out a man who provided invaluable service to the NYPD. And one who was a gimp. Political correctness thrives in city government.

But Rhyme’s request, of course, was more complicated. He added, “I think there’s a good chance that this same perp committed other crimes.” He gave the details of the coin theft and the rape.

So not one but three individuals had been wrongly arrested by Malloy’s NYPD. Which meant that three crimes had in fact gone unsolved and the real perp was still at large. This portended a major public-relations nightmare.

“Well, it’s pretty odd. Irregular, you know. I understand your loyalty to your cousin-”

“I have a loyalty to the truth, Joe,” Rhyme said, not caring if he sounded pompous.

“Well…”

“I just need a couple of officers assigned to us. To look over the evidence in these cases again. Maybe do some legwork.”

“Oh, I see… Well, sorry, Lincoln. We just don’t have the resources. Not for something like this. But I’ll bring it up tomorrow with the deputy commissioner.”

“Actually, think we could call him now?”

Another hesitation. “No. He’s got something going on today.”

Brunch. Barbecue. A Sunday-matinee performance of Young Frankenstein or Spamalot.

“I’ll raise the issue tomorrow at the briefing. It’s a curious situation. But you won’t do anything until you hear from me. Or someone.”

“Of course not.”

They disconnected. Rhyme and Sachs were both silent for a few long seconds.

A curious situation…

Rhyme gazed at the whiteboard-on which sat the corpse of an investigation shot dead just as it had lurched to life.

Snapping the quiet, Sachs asked, “Wonder what Ron’s up to.”

“Let’s find out, why don’t we?” He gave her a genuine-and rare-smile.

She pulled out her phone, hit a speed dial number, then SPEAKER.

A youthful voice crackled, “Yes, ma’am, Detective.”

Sachs had been after young patrolman Ron Pulaski to call her Amelia for years but usually he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“You’re on speaker, Pulaski,” Rhyme warned.

“Yes, sir.”

And the “sir” bothered Rhyme, but he had no inclination to correct the young man now.

“How are you?” Pulaski asked.

“Does it matter?” Rhyme responded. “What’re you doing? Right now. And is it important?”

“Right now?”

“I think I just asked that.”

“Washing dishes. Jenny and I just had Sunday brunch with my brother and his wife. We went to the farmers’ market with the kids. It’s a blast. Do you and Detective Sachs ever get to-?”

“You’re at home then. And not doing anything.”

“Well. The dishes.”

“Leave ’em. Get over here.” Rhyme, a civilian, had no authority to order anybody in the NYPD, even traffic cops, to do anything.

But Sachs was a detective third-class; while she couldn’t order him to help them, she could formally request a shift in assignment. “We need you, Ron. And we might need you tomorrow too.”

Ron Pulaski worked regularly with Rhyme, Sachs and Sellitto. Rhyme had been amused to learn that his assignments for the quasi-celeb forensic detective elevated the status of the young officer within the department. He was sure that the supervisor would agree to hand over Pulaski for a few days-as long as he didn’t call Malloy or anyone else downtown and learn that the case wasn’t a case at all.

Pulaski gave Sachs the name of the commander at the precinct house. Then asked, “Oh, sir? Is Lieutenant Sellitto working on this one? Should I call and coordinate with him?”

“No,” blurted both Rhyme and Sachs.

A brief silence followed, then Pulaski said uncertainly, “Well, then, I guess I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just, can I dry the glasses first? Jenny hates water spots.”

Chapter Five

Sundays are the best.

Because most Sundays I’m free to do what I love.

I collect things.