The Broken Window (Lincoln Rhyme 8)

Pam held her eye briefly, then turned and left, closing the door behind her.

Sachs reflected that, yes, indeed, somebody had said just that to her, practically those very words.

And who else but Amelia Sachs's own mother?

*

Miguel Abrera 5465-9842-4591-0243, the "maintenance specialist," as the corporately correct say, left work at his usual time, around 5:00 P.M. He now gets out of the subway car near his home in Queens and I'm right behind him as he strolls home.

I'm trying to stay calm. But it's not easy.

They--the police--are close, close to me! Which has never happened before. In years and years of collecting, many dead sixteens, many ruined lives, many people in jail on my account, nobody has ever come close like this. Since I learned about the police suspicions, I've kept up a good facade, I'm sure. Still, I've been analyzing the situation frantically, picking through the data, looking for the lump of gold that tells me what They know and what They don't. How much at risk I really am. But I can't find the answer.

There's too much noise in the data!

Contamination . . .

I'm running through how I've behaved lately. I've been careful. Data certainly can work against you; they can pin you to the grid like a blue Morpho menelaus butterfly, smelling of cyanide's almond perfume, on a velvet board. But those of us in the know, we can us

e data for protection too. Data can be erased, can be massaged, can be skewed. We can add noise on purpose. We can place Data Set A right next to Data Set X to make A and X seem much more similar than they are. Or more different.

We can cheat in the simplest of ways. RFIDs, for instance. Slip a smart pass transponder into someone's suitcase and it will show your car's been in a dozen places over the weekend, while in fact it's actually been sitting in your garage the whole time. Or think about how easy it is to put your employee ID into an envelope and have it delivered to the office, where it sits for four hours until you ask somebody to collect the package and bring it to you in a restaurant downtown. Sorry, forgot to pick it up. Thanks. Lunch is on me. . . . And what do the data show? Why, that you were slaving away at work, while in reality you were wiping your razor clean as you stood over someone's cooling body during those hours in question. That nobody actually saw you at your desk is irrelevant. Here are my time sheets, Officer. . . . We trust data, we don't trust the human eye. There are a dozen more tricks I've perfected.

And now I have to rely on one of the more extreme measures.

Ahead of me now Miguel 5465 pauses and glances into a bar. I know for a fact that he drinks rarely and if he goes in for a cerveza it will throw off the timing a bit but that won't ruin my plans for this evening. He forgoes the drink, though, and continues along the street, head cocked to the side. I actually feel sorry that he didn't give in and indulge, considering he has less than an hour to live.

Chapter Twenty-nine Finally somebody from the detention center called Lon Sellitto.

He nodded as he listened. "Thanks." He disconnected. "Arthur's going to be okay. He's hurt but not bad."

"Thank God," Sachs whispered.

"What happened?" Rhyme asked.

"Nobody can figure it out. The perp's Antwon Johnson, doing fed time for kidnapping and state lines. They moved him to the Tombs for trial on related state charges. He just kind of snapped, looks like, tried to make it look like Arthur hanged himself. Johnson denied it at first, then claimed Arthur wanted to die, asked him to help."

"The guards found him in time?"

"No. Weird. Another prisoner went after Johnson. Mick Gallenta, two-timer in for meth and smack. He was half Johnson's size, took him on, knocked him out and got Arthur down from the wall. Nearly started a riot."

The phone rang and Rhyme noticed a 201 area code.

Judy Rhyme.

He took the call.

"Did you hear, Lincoln?" Her voice was unsteady.

"I did. Yes."

"Why would somebody do that? Why?"

"Jail's jail. It's a different world."

"But it's just a holding cell, Lincoln. It's detention. I could understand if he were in prison with convicted murderers. But most of those people are awaiting trial, aren't they?"

"That's right."