The Broken Window (Lincoln Rhyme 8)

"We are born to battle."

"He who understands wins; he who knows understands."

I consider what Andrew would think about what I'm up to, and I believe he'd be pleased.

And now, the battle against Them moves forward.

On the street near my home I press the key fob again and finally a horn gives a muted bleep.

Let's see, let's see. . . . Ah, here we go. Look at this piece of junk, a Honda Civic. Borrowed, of course, since Amelia 7303's car is now sitting in a pound--a coup I'm rather proud of. Never thought of trying that before.

My thoughts stray back to my beautiful redhead. Was she bluffing about what They knew? About Peter Gordon? That's the funny thing about knowledge; such a fine line between truth and a lie. But I can't take the chance. I'll have to hide the car.

My thoughts go back to her.

The woman's wild eyes, her red hair, the body . . . I'm not sure I can wait much longer.

Trophies . . .

A fast examination of the car. Some books, magazines, Kleenex, some empty Vitamin Water bottles, a Starbucks napkin, running shoes shedding rubber, a Seventeen magazine in the backseat and a textbook on poetry . . . And who owns this superb contribution to the world of Japanese technology? The registration tells me it's Pamela Willoughby.

I'll get a little more information on her from innerCircle then I'll pay her a visit. Wonder what she looks like? I'll check DMV to make sure she's worth the trouble.

The car starts up just fine. Ease out carefully, no upsetting other drivers. Don't want to make a scene.

A half block, into the alley.

What does Miss Pam like to listen to? Rock, rock, alternative, hip-hop, talk and NPR. Presets are extremely informative.

I'm already forming a game plan to arrange a transaction with the girl: getting to know her. We'll meet at Amelia 7303's memorial service (no body, no funeral). I'll offer sympathy. I met her during the case she was working on. I really liked her. Oh, don't cry, honey. It's okay. Tell you what. Let's get together. I can tell you all about the stories Amelia shared with me. Her father. And the interesting story of her grandfather's coming to this country. (After I learned she was snooping around, I checked out her dossier. What an interesting history.) We got to be good friends. I'm really devastated. . . . How about coffee? You like Starbucks? I always go there after my run in Central Park every evening. No! You too?

We sure seem to have something in common.

Oh, there's that feeling again, thinking about Pam. How ugly can she be?

It might be a wait to get her into my trunk. . . . I have to take care of Thom Reston first--and a few other things. But at least I have Amelia 7303 for tonight.

I drive into the garage and ditch the car--it'll rest here until I swap plates and it goes to the bottom of the Croton reservoir. But I can't think about that now. I'm pretty consumed, planning out the transaction with my red-haired friend, waiting back home in my Closet, like a wife for her husband after a really tough day at the office.

*

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Despite drawing from the world's largest database, despite the state-of-the-art software examining every detail of Amelia Sachs's life at the speed of light, the program struck out.

"I'm sorry," Mark Whitcomb said, dabbing his nose. The high-def system on the video-conferencing system displayed the nasal injury quite prominently. It looked bad; Ron Pulaski had really slammed him.

The young man continued, sniffing, "There just aren't enough details. What you get out is only as good as what you put in. It works best with a pattern of behaviors. All it tells us is that she's going someplace she's never been before, at least not on that route."

Right to the killer's house, Rhyme reflected in frustration.

Where the hell was she?

"Hold on a minute. The system's updating. . . ."

The screen flickered and changed. Whitcomb blurted, "I've got her! Some RFID hits twenty minutes ago."

"Where?" Rhyme whispered.