The Broken Window (Lincoln Rhyme 8)

"Why would somebody risk his own case by trying to kill another prisoner there?"

"I don't know, Judy. It doesn't make sense. Have you talked to him?"

"They let him make a call. He can't speak very well. His throat was damaged. But it's not too bad. They're keeping him in for a day or two."

"Good," Rhyme said. "Listen, Judy, I wanted more information before I called but . . . I'm pretty sure we'll be able to show that Arthur's innocent. It looks like there's someone else behind it. He killed another victim yesterday and I think we can tie him to the murder of the Sanderson woman."

"No! Really? Who the hell is it, Lincoln?" No longer treading on ice, no longer carefully choosing words and worried about offending. Judy Rhyme had grown tough in the last twenty-four hours.

"That's what we're trying to find out now." He glanced at Sachs then turned back to the speakerphone. "And it doesn't look as if he had any connection with the victim. No connection at all."

"You . . . ?" Her voice faded. "Are you sure about that?"

Sachs identified herself and said, "That's right, Judy."

They could hear her inhaling. "Should I call the lawyer?"

"There's nothing he can do. As things stand now, Arthur's still under arrest."

"Can I call Art and tell him?"

Rhyme hesitated. "Yes, sure."

"He asked about you, Lincoln. In the clinic."

"Did he?"

He sensed Amelia Sachs was looking at him.

"Yes. He said whatever came of it, thank you for helping."

Everything would've been different. . . .

"I should go, Judy. We have a lot to do. We'll let you know what we find."

"Thank you, Lincoln. And everybody there. God bless you."

A hesitation. "Good-bye, Judy."

Rhyme didn't bother with the voice command. He disconnected with his right index finger. He had better control with the ring finger of his left hand but the right moved fast as a snake.

*

Miguel 5465 is a survivor of tragedy and a dependable employee. He regularly visits his sister and her husband on Long Island. He wires Western Union money to his mother and sister in Mexico. He's a moral man. Once, a year after his wife and child died, he got a precious $400 out of an ATM machine in an area of Brooklyn known for its prostitutes. The janitor, though, balked. The money went back into his account the next day. Unfair he had to pay the $2.50 service charge at the ATM.

I know a lot more about Miguel 5465, more than most other sixteens in the database--because he's one of my escape hatches.

Which I desperately need now.

I've been grooming him as a surrogate for the past year. After he dies the diligent police will begin to put the pieces together. Why, we've found the killer/rapist/art-and-coin thief! He confessed in his suicide note--despondent and driven to murder by the death of his family. And in a box in his pocket, a fingernail from the victim Myra Weinburg.

And look at what else we have here: Sums of money passed through his account and vanished inexplicably. Miguel 5465 looked into getting a large mortgage to buy a house on Long Island, with a half million down, despite his salary of $46,000 a year. He went on art-dealer Web sites, inquiring about Prescott paintings. In the basement of his apartment building is a five-pack of Miller beer, Trojan condoms, Edge shave cream and a photo of Myra Weinburg's realm from OurWorld. Also hidden are books on hacking and thumb drives containing passcode-cracking programs. He's been depressed and even called a suicide counseling service just last week to ask for a brochure.

And then there are his time sheets, revealing that he was out of the office when the crimes occurred.

Slam dunk.

In my pocket is his suicide note, a reasonable facsimile of his handwriting, from the copies of his canceled checks and loan applications, conveniently scanned and obscenely available online. It's written on paper similar to what he bought a month ago at his neighborhood drugstore and the ink is from the same type of pen he owns a dozen of.