The Broken Window (Lincoln Rhyme 8)

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"Yes, Inspector Longhurst?" He'd given up on first names. Relations with Scotland Yard required a certain propriety.

"Detective Rhyme, hello," she said. "We have some movement here."

"Go on," Rhyme said.

"Danny Krueger heard from one of his former gun-runners. It seems that the reason Richard Logan left London was to collect something in Manchester. We aren't sure what, but we do know that Manchester's got more than its share of black-market weapons dealers."

"Any idea where he is exactly?"

"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?"