The Broken Window (Lincoln Rhyme 8)

How could he have misjudged this so badly? Was it the head injury? Or was he just stupid? Whitcomb's friendship had been feigned, which hurt as much as it shocked. Bringing him the coffee, defending him to Cassel and Gillespie, suggesting they get together socially, helping with the time sheets . . . it was all a tactic to get close to the cop and use him.

"It's all a goddamn lie, isn't it, Mark? You didn't grow up in Queens at all, did you? And you don't have a brother who's a cop?"

"No to both." Whitcomb's face was dark. "I tried to reason with you, Ron. But you wouldn't work with me. Goddamnit! You could have. Now look what you've made me do."

The killer pushed Pulaski farther into the alley.

Chapter Forty-one Amelia Sachs was in the city, cruising through traffic, frustrated at the noisy, tepid response of the Japanese engine.

It sounded like an ice maker. And had just about as much horsepower.

She'd called Rhyme twice but both times the line went right to voice mail. This rarely happened; Lincoln Rhyme obviously wasn't away from home very much. And something odd was going on at the Big Building: Lon Sellitto's phone was out of order. And neither he nor Ron Pulaski was answering his mobile.

Was 522 behind this too?

All the more reason to move fast in following up on the lead she'd discovered at her town house. It was a solid one, she believed. Maybe it was the final clue, the one missing piece of the puzzle they needed to bring this case to its conclusion.

Now she saw her destination, not far away. Mindful of what had happened to the Camaro, and not wanting to jeopardize Pam's car too--if 522 had been behind the repossession, as she suspected--Sachs cruised around the block until she found the rarest of all phenomena in Manhattan: a legal, unoccupied parking space.

How 'bout that?

Maybe it was a good sign.

*

"Why are you doing this?" Ron Pulaski whispered to Mark Whitcomb as they stood in a deserted Queens alleyway.

But the killer ignored him. "Listen to me."

"We were friends, I thought."

"Well, everybody thinks a lot of things that turn out not to be true. That's life." Whitcomb cleared his throat. He seemed edgy, uncomfortable. Pulaski remembered Sachs saying that the killer was feeling the pressure of their pursuit, which made him careless. It also made him more dangerous.

Pulaski was breathing hard.

Whitcomb looked around again, fast, then back at the young officer. He kept the gun steady and it was clear he knew how to use it. "Are you fucking listening to me?"

"Goddamnit. I'm listening."

"I don't want this investigation to go any further. It's time for it to stop."

"Stop? I'm in Patrol. How can I stop anything?"

"I was telling you: Sabotage it. Lose some evidence. Send people in the wrong direction."

"I won't do that," the young officer muttered defiantly.

Whitcomb shook his head, looking almost disgusted. "Yes, you will. You can make this easy or hard, Ron."

"What about my wife? Can you get her out of there?"

"I can do anything I want."

The man who knows everything . . .

The young officer closed his eyes, grinding his teeth together the way he'd done as a kid. He looked at the building where Jenny was being held.

Jenny, the woman who looked just like Myra Weinburg.