The Broken Window (Lincoln Rhyme 8)

Past the police at the door, not even nodding to them. "Where?"

One officer pointed toward the living room.

Sachs hurried into the room . . . and found Pam on the couch. The girl looked up, her face pale.

The policewoman sat beside her. "You're all right?"

"I'm fine. A little freaked out is all."

"Nothing hurt? I can hug you?"

Pam laughed and Sachs flung her arms around the girl. "What happened?"

"Somebody broke in. He was here while I was. Mr. Rhyme could see him behind me on the webcam. He kept calling and on the, like, fifth ring or something, I picked up and he told me to start screaming and get out."

"And you did?"

"Not really. I kind of ran into the kitchen and got a knife. I was pretty pissed. He took off."

Sachs glanced at a detective from the local Brooklyn precinct, a squat African-American man, who said in a deep baritone, "He was gone when we got here. Neighbors didn't see anything."

So it had been her imagination at the warehouse crime scene where Joe Malloy was killed. Or maybe some kid or wino curious about what the cops were doing. After killing Malloy, 522 had come to her place--to look for files or evidence or to finish the job he'd started: kill her.

Sachs walked through the town house with the detective and Pam. The desk had been ransacked but nothing seemed to be missing.

"I thought maybe it was Stuart." Pam took a breath. "I kind of broke up with him."

"You did?"

A nod.

"Good for you. . . . But it wasn't him?"

"No. The guy here was wearing different clothes and wasn't built like Stuart. And, yeah, he's a son of a bitch but he's not going to break into somebody else's town house."

"You get a look at him?"

"Naw. He turned and ran before I could see him real clearly." She'd noticed only his outfit.

The detective explained that Pam had described the burglar as a male, white or light-skinned black or Latino, medium build, wearing blue jeans and a dark blue plaid sports jacket. He'd called Rhyme too, after he'd learned of the webcam, but the criminalist hadn't seen anything more than a vague form in the hallway.

They found the window through which he'd broken in. Sachs had an alarm system but Pam had shut it off when she'd arrived.

She looked around the place. The anger and dismay she'd felt at Malloy's horrible death faded, replaced by the same uneasiness, and vulnerability, that she'd been aware of at the cemetery, at the warehouse where Malloy had died, at SSD . . . in fact, everywhere since they'd started the pursuit of 522. Like at the scene near DeLeon's house: Was he watching her now?

She saw motion outside the window, a flash of light. . . . Was it from the blowing leaves in front of nearby windows reflecting the pale sunlight?

Or was it 522?

"Amelia?" Pam asked in a soft voice, looking around uneasily herself. "Everything okay?"

This brought Sachs back to reality. Get to work. And fast. The killer had been here--and not that long ago. Goddamnit, find out something useful. "Sure, honey. It's fine."

A patrol officer from the precinct asked, "Detective, you want somebody from Crime Scene to look it over?"

"That's okay," she said with a glance to Pam and a tight smile. "I'll handle it."

*