The Broken Window (Lincoln Rhyme 8)

The things a doorman knows. I could write a book.

But the question nagged: Why was this guy so familiar?

And then he was saying to the wife, with a laugh, "You saw me? It made the news there? Mom did too?"

Saw him. A TV celebrity?

Wait, wait. Almost there . . .

Ah, got it. Last night, watching the news on TV. Sure--this guy was a professor or doctor of some kind. Sloane . . . or Soames. A computer expert from some fancy school. The one that Ron Scott, the assistant mayor or whatever, was talking about. The prof was helping the police with that rape and murder on Sunday and some other crime.

Then the professor's face went still and he said, "Sure, honey, don't worry. I'll be fine." He disconnected and looked around.

"Hey, sir," the doorman said. "Saw you on TV."

The professor smiled shyly. "Did you?" He seemed embarrassed by the attention. "Say, can you tell me how to get to One Police Plaza?"

"Right up there. About five blocks. By City Hall. You can't miss it."

"Thanks."

"Good luck." The doorman was watching a limo approach, pleased that he'd had a brush with a semi-celebrity. Something to tell his own wife about.

Then he felt a thunk on his back, almost painful, as another man hurried out the door of the hotel and pushed past him. The guy didn't look back and said nothing by way of apology.

Prick, thought the doorman, watching the man, who was moving fast, head down, in the same direction as the professor. The doorman didn't say anything, though. However rude they were, you just put up with it. They could be guests or friends of guests or they could be guests next week. Or even executives from the home office, testing you.

Just put up and shut up. That was the rule.

The TV professor and the rude asshole faded from the doorman's thoughts as a limo stopped and he stepped forward to open the door. He got a nice view of soft cleavage as the guest climbed out; it was better than a tip, which he knew, absolutely knew, she wasn't going to give him anyway.

I could write a book.

Chapter Thirty-four

Death is simple.

I've never understood why people complicate it. Movies, for instance. I'm not a fan of thrillers but I've seen my share. Sometimes I'll take a sixteen out on a date, to stave off boredom, to keep up appearances or because I'm going to kill her later, and we'll sit in a movie theater and it's easier than dinner; you don't have to talk so much. And I watch the film and think, What on earth is going on up there on the screen, setting up these contrived ways to kill?

Why use wires and electronics and elaborate weapons and plots when you can walk up to someone and beat them to death with a hammer in thirty seconds?

Simple. Efficient.

And make no mistake, the police are smart (and, how's this for irony, a lot of them have SSD and innerCircle helping them out). The more complicated the scheme, the more chance of leaving behind something they can use to track you down, the more chance for witnesses.

And my plans today for this

sixteen I'm following through the streets of lower Manhattan are simplicity itself.

The failure at the cemetery yesterday is behind me now and I'm exhilarated. I'm on a mission and, as part of it, I'll be adding to one of my collections.

As I follow my target I dodge sixteens right and left. Why, look at them all. . . . My pulse is picking up. My head is throbbing at the thought that these sixteens are themselves collections--of their past. More information than we can comprehend. DNA is, after all, nothing more than a database of our bodies and genetic history, stretching back millennia. If you could plug that into hard drives, how much data could you extract? Makes innerCircle look like a Commodore 64.

Breathtaking . . .

But back to the task at hand. I maneuver around a young sixteen, smell her perfume, which she dabbed on this morning in her Staten Island or Brooklyn apartment in a sad attempt to exude competence and came off as cheaply seductive. I move closer to my target, feeling the comfort of the pistol against my skin. Knowledge may be one kind of power, but there are others that are nearly as effective.

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