The Broken Window

“Just thinking this guy is pretty sharp. If he called NYPD-which most people would’ve-they’d know about your operation and who you were. So he called us instead. All we’d know was that you were a shooter and we’d approach with caution, ready to take you out if you pulled a weapon.” A frown. “That’s smart.”

“Pretty fucking scary too,” Anthony said, his face still white.

The agents left and she made a call.

When Rhyme answered she told him about the incident.

The criminalist digested this, then he said, “He called the Feds?”

“Yep.”

“It’s almost as if he knew they were in the middle of a drug op. And that the agent who tried to collar you lived nearby.”

“He couldn’t know that,” she countered.

“Maybe not. But he sure as hell knew one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“He knew exactly where you were. Which means he was watching. Be careful, Sachs.”

Rhyme was explaining to Sellitto how the perp had set up Sachs in Brooklyn.

“He did that?”

“Looks like it.”

The men were discussing how he might’ve gotten the information-and coming to no helpful conclusions-when the phone trilled. Rhyme glanced at caller ID and answered quickly. “Inspector.”

Longhurst’s voice filled the speaker. “Detective Rhyme, how are you?”

“Good.”

“Excellent. Just wanted to let you know: We’ve found Logan’s safe house. It wasn’t in Manchester after all. It was in Oldham, nearby. East of the city.” She then explained that Danny Krueger had learned from some of his people that a man believed to be Richard Logan had inquired about purchasing some parts for guns. “Not guns themselves, mind. But if you have the parts to repair guns, presumably you could also make one.”

“Rifles?”

“Yes. Large caliber.”

“Any identity?”

“No, though they thought Logan was U.S. military. Apparently he promised he could get them some discount ammunition in bulk in the future. He seemed to have official army documents about inventories and specifications.”

“So, the shooting zone in London’s in play.”

“It would seem. Now, about the safe house: We have contacts in the Hindi community in Oldham. They’re quite impeccable. They heard about an American who’s rented an old house on the outskirts of town. We managed to track it down. We haven’t searched yet. Our team could have done it but we thought it best to talk to you first.”

Longhurst continued, “Now, Detective, my sense is that he doesn’t know we found out about the safe house. And I suspect there may be some rather helpful evidence inside it. I’ve rung up some fellows at MI5 and borrowed a bit of an expensive toy from them. It’s a high-definition video camera. We’d like to have one of our officers wear it and have you guide him through the scene, tell us what you think. We should have the equipment on site in forty minutes or so.”

To do a proper search of the safe house, including the exits and entrances, the drawers, the toilets, closets, mattresses…it would consume the better part of the night.

Why was this happening now? He was convinced that 522 was a real threat. In fact, given the time line-with the earlier cases, his cousin’s and the murder today-the crimes seemed to be accelerating. And he was particularly troubled by the latest event: 522’s turning on them, and nearly getting Sachs shot.

Yes, no?

After a moment of agonizing debate, he said, “Inspector, I’m sorry to say, something’s come up here. We’ve had a series of homicides. I need to focus on them.”

“I see.” Unflappable British reserve.

“I’ll have to hand over the case to your command.”

“Of course, Detective. I understand.”

“You’re free to make any and all decisions.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence. We’ll get it sorted out and I’ll keep you informed. I better ring off now.”

“Good luck.”

“And to you.”

This was hard for Lincoln Rhyme, stepping away from a hunt, especially when the quarry was this particular perp.

But the decision had been made. Five Twenty-Two was now his only prey.

“Mel, get on the phone and find out where the hell that evidence from Brooklyn is.”

Chapter Twelve

Okay, this is a surprise.

The Upper East Side address and the fact that Robert Jorgensen was an orthopedic surgeon had led Amelia Sachs to expect that the Henderson House Residence, the address on the Post-it note, would be a lot nicer than this.

But it was a disgusting dive, a transients’ hotel inhabited by druggies and drunks. The flyblown lobby, filled with mismatched and moldy furniture, stank of garlic, cheap disinfectant, useless air freshener and sour human odor. Most homeless shelters were more pleasant.

Standing in the grimy doorway, she paused and turned. Still uneasy about 522’s surveillance and the ease with which he’d set up the federal officers in Brooklyn, she looked carefully around the street. Nobody seemed to be paying much attention to her, but then the killer would have been nearby at DeLeon Williams’s house too and she’d missed him completely. She studied an abandoned building across the street. Was somebody gazing at her from one of the grime-covered windows?