The Broken Window

“Danny’s still trying to find out. It would be lovely if we could take him there, rather than wait till London.”

“Is Danny being subtle?” Rhyme remembered from the videoconference a big, tanned, loud South African with a belly and a gold pinkie ring that both jutted outward alarmingly. Rhyme had had a case involving Darfur, and he and Krueger had spent some time talking about the country’s tragic conflict.

“Oh, he knows what he’s doing. He’s subtle when he needs to be. Fierce as a hound when the situation calls for it. He’ll get the details if there’s any way. We’re working with our counterparts in Manchester to get an assault team ready. We’ll call you back when we know something more.”

He thanked her and they disconnected.

“We’ll get him, Rhyme,” Sachs said, not simply for his benefit. She too had an interest in finding Logan; Sachs herself had nearly died in one of his plots.

Sachs took a call. She listened and said she’d be there in ten minutes. “The files in those other cases Flintlock mentioned? They’re ready. I’ll go get them… Oh, and Pam might stop by.”

“What’s she up to?”

“Studying with a friend in Manhattan-a boyfriend.”

“Good for her. Who?”

“Some kid from school. Can’t wait to meet him. He’s all she talks about. She sure deserves somebody decent in her life. But I just don’t want her getting too close too fast. I’ll feel better when I’ve met him and given him the third degree in person.”

Rhyme nodded as Sachs left, but his mind was elsewhere. He was staring at the whiteboard containing the information on the Alice Sanderson case as he ordered the phone to make another call.

“Hello?” a soft male voice answered as a waltz played in the background. Loud.

“Mel. Is that you?”

“Lincoln?”

“What’s that goddamn music? Where are you?”

“New England Ballroom Competition,” answered Mel Cooper.

Rhyme sighed. Washing dishes, theater matinees, ballroom dancing. He hated Sundays. “Well, I need you. I’ve got a case. It’s unique.”

“They’re all unique with you, Lincoln.”

“This one’s more unique than others, if you’ll forgive the grammatical misdemeanor. Can you come in? You mentioned New England. Don’t tell me you’re in Boston or Maine.”

“Midtown. And I guess I’m free-Gretta and I were just eliminated. Rosie Talbot and Bryan Marshall are going to win. It’s all the scandal.” He said this with some significance. “How soon?”

“Now.”

Cooper chuckled. “How long will you need me?”

“Maybe a while.”

“As in six o’clock tonight? Or as in Wednesday?”

“Better call your supervisor and tell him you’re being reassigned. I hope it won’t be longer than Wednesday.”

“I’ll have to give him a name. Who’s running the investigation? Lon?”

“Let me put it this way: Be a little vague.”

“Well, Lincoln, you do remember being a cop, don’t you? ‘Vague’ doesn’t fly. ‘Very specific’ does.”

“There isn’t exactly a lead detective.”

“You’re on your own?” His voice was uncertain.

“Not exactly. There’s Amelia, there’s Ron.”

“That’s all?”

“You.”

“I see. Who’s the perp?”

“Actually, the perps’re already in jail. Two are convicted, one’s awaiting trial.”

“And you have your doubts that we got the right parties.”

“Something like that.”

A detective with the NYPD Crime Scene Unit, Mel Cooper specialized in lab work and he was one of the most brilliant officers on the force, as well as one of the most savvy. “Oh. So you want me to help you find out how my bosses screwed up and arrested the wrong people, then talk them into opening three new and expensive investigations against the real perps, who, by the way, probably won’t be real tickled either when they learn that they’re not getting off scot-free after all. This is sort of a lose-lose-lose situation, isn’t it, Lincoln?”

“Apologize to your girlfriend for me, Mel. Be here soon.”

Sachs was halfway to her crimson Camaro SS when she heard, “Hey, Amelia!”

She turned to see a pretty teenage girl, with long chestnut hair, streaked with red, and a few tasteful piercings in both ears. She was lugging two canvas bags. Her face, dusted with delicate freckles, was radiant with happiness. “You’re leaving?” she asked Sachs.

“Big case. I’m going downtown. Want a ride?”

“Sure. I’ll get the train at City Hall.” Pam climbed into the car.

“How was studying?”

“You know.”

“So where’s your friend?” Sachs was looking around.

“You just missed him.”

Stuart Everett was a student at the Manhattan high school Pam was attending. She’d been going out with him for several months. They’d met in class and immediately discovered a mutual love of books and music. They were in the school’s Poetry Club, which reassured Sachs; at least he wasn’t a biker or a knuckle-dragging jock.

Pam tossed one of her bags, containing schoolbooks, into the backseat and opened the other one. A fuzzy-headed dog looked out.

“Hey, Jackson,” Sachs said, petting his head.

The tiny Havanese grabbed the Milk-Bone the detective offered from an add-on cup holder, whose sole purpose was as a reservoir of dog treats; Sachs’s acceleration and cornering habits weren’t conducive to keeping liquids contained.