The Broken Window (Lincoln Rhyme 8)

"Microwaves destroy tracking devices?" she asked, playing along.

"Most of them. You can break the antennae too but they're so small nowadays. Almost microscopic." Jorgensen fell silent and she realized he was staring at her intently as he considered something. He announced. "You take it."

"What?"

"The book." His eyes were dancing madly around the room. "It's got the answer in it, the answer to everything that's happened to me. . . . Please! You're the first one who hasn't rolled their eyes when I told them my story, the only one who hasn't looked at me like I'm mad." He sat forward. "You want to get him as much as I do. You have all sorts of equipment, I'll bet. Scanning microscopes, sensors . . . You can find it! And it'll lead you to him. Yes!" He thrust it toward her.

"Well, I don't know what we're looking for."

He nodded sympathetically. "Oh, you don't have to tell me. That's the problem. They change things all the time. They're always one step ahead of us. But please . . ."

They . . .

She took the book, debating about slipping it into a plastic evidence bag and attaching a chain-of-custody card. She wondered how loud the ridicule would be in Rhyme's town house. Probably better just to carry it.

He leaned forward and pressed her hand hard. "Thank you." He was crying again.

"So you'll move?" she asked.

He said he would and gave her the name of another transient hotel, one down on the Lower East Side. "Don't write it down. Don't tell anybody. Don't mention me on the phone. They're listening all the time, you know."

"Call me if anything else comes to mind about . . . God." She gave him her card.

He memorized the information on it, then tore the cardboard up. He stepped into the bathroom, flushed half down the toilet. He noticed her curiosity. "I'll flush the other half later. Flushing something all at once is as stupid as leaving bills in your mailbox with the red flag up. People are such fools."

He walked her to the door, leaned close. The stink of unwashed clothing hit her. His red-rimmed eyes gazed fiercely at her. "Officer, listen to me. I know you have that big gun on your hip. But that won't do any good against somebody like him. You have to get close before you can shoot him. But he doesn't have to get close at all. He can sit in a dark room somewhere, sip a glass of wine and bring your life down in pieces." Jorgensen nodded at the book in her hand. "And now that you've got that, you're infected too."

Chapter Thirteen I've been checking the news--there are so many efficient ways to get information nowadays--and I've heard nothing about any redheaded police officers gunned down by fellow law enforcers in Brooklyn.

But at the least They're afraid.

They'd be edgy now.

Good. Why should I be the only one?

As I walk I reflect: How did this happen? How could it possibly have happened?

This isn't good, this isn't good this this . . .

They seemed to know exactly what I was doing, who my victim was.

And that I was on the way to DeLeon 6832's house at just that moment.

How?

Running through the data, permutating them, analyzing them. No, I can't understand how They did it.

Not yet. Have to think some more.

I don't have enough information. How can I draw conclusions if I don't have the data? How?

Ah, slow down, slow down, I tell myself. When sixteens walk quickly they shed data, revealing all sorts of information, at least to those who are smart, who can make good deductions.

Up and down the gray, urban streets, Sunday no longer beautiful. An ugly day, ruined. The sunlight's harsh and tainted. The city's cold, its edges ragged. The sixteens are mocking and snide and pompous.

I hate them all!

But keep your head down, pretend to enjoy the day.