The Broken Window (Lincoln Rhyme 8)

Now, waiting for Whitcomb, Ron Pulaski was pacing in front of INS detention, beside a temporary sign indicating that the service was now operated by the Department of Homeland Security. Pulaski thought back to all the TV news reports he and Jenny had seen about illegal immigrants, how terrified they'd looked.

W

hat was happening to his wife at the moment? Would she be stuck for days or weeks in some kind of bureaucratic purgatory? Pulaski wanted to scream.

Calm down. Handle it smart. Amelia Sachs always told him that.

Handle it smart.

Finally, thank you, Lord, Pulaski saw Mark Whitcomb walking quickly toward him, the expression one of urgent concern. He wasn't sure exactly what the man could do to help but he hoped that the Compliance Department, with its connections to the government, could pull strings with Homeland Security and get his wife and child released, at least until the matter was officially resolved.

Whitcomb, breathless, came up to him. "Have you found out anything else?"

"I called about ten minutes ago. They're inside now. I didn't say anything. I wanted to wait for you."

"You okay?"

"No. I'm pretty frantic here, Mark. Thanks for this."

"Sure," the Compliance officer said earnestly. "It'll be okay, Ron. Don't worry. I think I can do something." Then he looked up into Pulaski's eyes; the SSD Compliance officer was just slightly taller than Andrew Sterling. "Only . . . it's pretty important for you to get Jenny out of there, right?"

"Oh, yeah, Mark. This's just a nightmare."

"Okay. Come this way." He led Pulaski around the corner of the building, then into an alley. "I've got a favor to ask, Ron," Whitcomb whispered.

"Whatever I can do."

"Really?" The man's voice was uncharacteristically soft, calm. And his eyes had a sharpness that Pulaski hadn't seen before. As if he'd dropped an act and was now being himself. "You know, sometimes, Ron, we have to do things that we don't think are right. But in the end it's for the best."

"What do you mean?"

"To help your wife out you might have to do something you might think isn't so good."

The officer said nothing, his thoughts whirling. Where was this going?

"Ron, I need you to make this case go away."

"Case?"

"The murder investigation."

"Go away? I don't get it."

"Stop the case." Whitcomb looked around and whispered, "Sabotage it. Destroy the evidence. Give them some false leads. Point them anywhere but at SSD."

"I don't understand, Mark. Are you joking?"

"No, Ron. I'm real serious. This case's got to stop and you can do it."

"I can't."

"Oh, yes, you can. If you want Jenny out of there." A nod toward the detention center.

No, no . . . this was 522. Whitcomb was the killer! He'd used the passcodes of his boss, Sam Brockton, to get access to innerCircle.

Instinctively Pulaski started for his gun.

But Whitcomb drew first, a black pistol appearing in his hand. "No, Ron. That's not going to get us anywhere." Whitcomb reached into the holster and pulled Pulaski's Glock out by the grip, slipped it into his waistband.