Authors: Jeffery Deaver
“I laid it all out for him and he came back with two cases that might fit our profile right off the top of his head. One was a theft of rare coins, worth about fifty G. The other a rape.”
“Rape?” This added a deeper, and much more disturbing, element to the case.
“Yep. In both of them an anonymous witness called to report the crime and gave some information that was instrumental in ID’ing the perp—like the wit calling about your cousin’s car.”
“Both male callers, of course.”
“Right. And the city offered a reward but neither of them came forward.”
“What about the evidence?”
“Flintlock didn’t remember it too clearly. But he did say that the trace and circumstantial connections were right on. Just what happened to your cousin—five or six types of associated class evidence at the scene and in the perps’ houses. And in both cases the victims’ blood was found on a rag or article of clothing in the suspects’ residence.”
“And I’ll bet there weren’t any fluid matches in the rape case.” Most rapists are convicted because they leave behind traces of the Three S’s—semen, saliva or sweat.
“Nope. None.”
“And the anonymous callers—did they leave
partial
license plate numbers?”
She glanced at her notes. “Yeah, how did you know?”
“Because our perp needed to buy some time. If he left the whole tag number, the cops’d head right to the fall guy’s house and he wouldn’t have time to plant the evidence there.” The killer had thought out everything. “And the suspects denied everything?”
“Yep. Totally. Rolled the dice with the jury and lost.”
“No, no, no, this’s all too coincidental,” Rhyme muttered. “I want to see—”
“I asked somebody to pull the files from the disposed cases archives.”
He laughed. One step ahead of him, as often. He recalled when they’d first met, years ago, Sachs a disillusioned patrol officer ready to give up her career in policing, Rhyme ready to give up more than that.
How far they’d both come since then.
Rhyme spoke into his stalk mike. “Command, call Sellitto.” He was excited now. He could feel that unique buzz—the thrill of a budding hunt. Answer the damn phone, he thought angrily, and for once he wasn’t thinking about England.
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“Hey, Linc.” Sellitto’s Brooklyn-inflected voice filled the room. “What’s—”
“Listen. There’s a problem.”
“I’m kinda busy here.” Rhyme’s former partner, Lieutenant Detective Lon Sellitto, hadn’t been in the best of moods himself lately. A big task force case he’d worked on had just tanked. Vladimir Dienko, the thug of a Russian mob boss from Brighton Beach, had been indicted last year for racketeering and murder. Rhyme had assisted with some of the forensics. To everyone’s shock the case against Dienko and three of his associates had been dismissed, just last Friday, after witnesses had stonewalled or vanished. Sellitto and agents from the Bureau had been working all weekend, trying to track down new witnesses and informants.
“I’ll make it fast.” He explained what he and Sachs had found about his cousin and the rape and coin-theft cases.
“
Two
other cases? Friggin’ weird. What’s your cousin say?”
“Haven’t talked to him yet. But he denies everything. I want to have this looked into.”
“‘Looked into.’ The fuck’s that mean?”
“I don’t think Arthur did it.”
“He’s your cousin. Of
course
you don’t think he did it. But whatta you have concrete?”
“Nothing yet. That’s why I want your help. I need some people.”
“I’m up to my ass in the Dienko situation in Brighton Beach. Which, I gotta say, you’d be helping on except, no, you’re too busy sipping fucking tea with the Brits.”
“This could be big, Lon. Two other cases that stink of planted evidence? I’ll bet there are more. I know how much you love your clichés, Lon. Doesn’t ‘getting away with murder’ move you?”
“You can throw all the clauses you want at me, Linc, I’m busy.”
“That’s a phrase, Lon. A clause has a subject and predicate.”
“What-fucking-ever. I’m trying to salvage the Russian Connection. Nobody at City Hall or the Federal Building’s happy about what happened.”
“And they have my deepest sympathies. Get reassigned.”
“It’s homicide. I’m Major Cases.”
The Major Cases Division of the NYPD didn’t investigate murders, but Sellitto’s excuse brought a cynical laugh to Rhyme’s lips. “You work homicides when you
want
to work them. When the hell have department protocols meant anything to you?”
“Tell you what I’ll do,” the detective mumbled. “There’s a captain working today. Downtown. Joe Malloy. Know him?”
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“No.”
“I do,” said Sachs. “He’s solid.”
“Hey, Amelia. You surviving the cold front today?”
Sachs laughed. Rhyme snarled, “Funny, Lon. Who the hell’s this guy?”
“Smart. No compromises. And no sense of humor. You’ll appreciate that.”
“Lots of comedians round here today,” Rhyme muttered.
“He’s good. And a crusader. His wife was killed in a B and E five, six years ago.”
Sachs winced. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, and he gives the job a hundred fifty percent. Word is he’s headed for a corner office upstairs some day. Or maybe even next door.”
Meaning City Hall.
Sellitto continued, “Give him a call and see if he can get a few people released for you.”
“I want
you
released.”
“Not gonna happen, Linc. I’m running a fucking stakeout. It’s a nightmare. But keep me posted and—”
“Gotta go, Lon… Command, disconnect phone.”
“You hung up on him,” Sachs pointed out.
Rhyme grunted and placed a call to Malloy. He’d be furious if he got voice mail.
But the man answered on the second ring. Another senior cop working on Sunday. Well, Rhyme had done so pretty often too and had the divorce to show for it.
“Malloy here.”
Rhyme identified himself.
A brief hesitation. Then: “Well, Lincoln… I don’t believe we’ve ever met. But I know about you, of course.”
“I’m here with one of your detectives, Amelia Sachs. We’re on speaker, Joe.”
“Detective Sachs, afternoon,” said the stiff voice. “What can I do for you two?” Rhyme explained about the case and how he believed Arthur was being set up.
“Your cousin? I’m sorry to hear that.” But he didn’t sound particularly sorry. Malloy would be worried that Rhyme wanted him to intervene and get the charges reduced. Uh-oh, appearance of impropriety at
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the most innocent. Or, at the worst, an internal-affairs investigation and the media. Weighed against that, of course, was the bad form of not helping out a man who provided invaluable service to the NYPD.
And
one who was a gimp. Political correctness thrives in city government.
But Rhyme’s request, of course, was more complicated. He added, “I think there’s a good chance that this same perp committed other crimes.” He gave the details of the coin theft and the rape.
So not one but three individuals had been wrongly arrested by Malloy’s NYPD. Which meant that three crimes had in fact gone unsolved and the real perp was still at large. This portended a major public-relations nightmare.
“Well, it’s pretty odd. Irregular, you know. I understand your loyalty to your cousin—”
“I have a loyalty to the truth, Joe,” Rhyme said, not caring if he sounded pompous.
“Well…”
“I just need a couple of officers assigned to us. To look over the evidence in these cases again. Maybe do some legwork.”
“Oh, I see… Well, sorry, Lincoln. We just don’t have the resources. Not for something like this. But I’ll bring it up tomorrow with the deputy commissioner.”
“Actually, think we could call him now?”
Another hesitation. “No. He’s got something going on today.”
Brunch. Barbecue. A Sunday-matinee performance of
Young Frankenstein
or
Spamalot.
“I’ll raise the issue tomorrow at the briefing. It’s a curious situation. But you won’t do anything until you hear from me. Or someone.”
“Of course not.”
They disconnected. Rhyme and Sachs were both silent for a few long seconds.
A curious situation…
Rhyme gazed at the whiteboard—on which sat the corpse of an investigation shot dead just as it had lurched to life.
Snapping the quiet, Sachs asked, “Wonder what Ron’s up to.”
“Let’s find out, why don’t we?” He gave her a genuine—and rare—smile.
She pulled out her phone, hit a speed dial number, then SPEAKER.
A youthful voice crackled, “Yes, ma’am, Detective.”
Sachs had been after young patrolman Ron Pulaski to call her Amelia for years but usually he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
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“You’re on speaker, Pulaski,” Rhyme warned.
“Yes, sir.”
And the “sir” bothered Rhyme, but he had no inclination to correct the young man now.
“How are you?” Pulaski asked.
“Does it matter?” Rhyme responded. “What’re you doing? Right now. And is it important?”
“Right now?”
“I think I just asked that.”
“Washing dishes. Jenny and I just had Sunday brunch with my brother and his wife. We went to the farmers’ market with the kids. It’s a blast. Do you and Detective Sachs ever get to—?”
“You’re at home then. And not doing anything.”
“Well. The dishes.”
“Leave ’em. Get over here.” Rhyme, a civilian, had no authority to order anybody in the NYPD, even traffic cops, to do anything.
But Sachs was a detective third-class; while she couldn’t order him to help them, she could formally request a shift in assignment. “We need you, Ron. And we might need you tomorrow too.”
Ron Pulaski worked regularly with Rhyme, Sachs and Sellitto. Rhyme had been amused to learn that his assignments for the quasi-celeb forensic detective elevated the status of the young officer within the department. He was sure that the supervisor would agree to hand over Pulaski for a few days—as long as he didn’t call Malloy or anyone else downtown and learn that the case wasn’t a case at all.
Pulaski gave Sachs the name of the commander at the precinct house. Then asked, “Oh, sir? Is Lieutenant Sellitto working on this one? Should I call and coordinate with him?”
“No,” blurted both Rhyme and Sachs.
A brief silence followed, then Pulaski said uncertainly, “Well, then, I guess I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Just, can I dry the glasses first? Jenny hates water spots.”
Sundays are the best.
Because most Sundays I’m free to do what I love.
I collect things.
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Everything you can imagine. If it appeals to me and I can get it into my backpack, or into my trunk, I’ll collect it. I’m not a pack rat like some people might say. Those rodents leave something in place of what they’ve taken. Once I find something, it’s mine. I never let go. Ever.
Sunday’s my favorite day. Because it’s the day of rest for the masses, the sixteens who call this amazing city home. Men, women, children, lawyers, artists, cyclists, cooks, thieves, wives and lovers (I collect DVDs too), politicians, joggers and curators… It’s amazing the number of things that sixteens do for enjoyment.
They roam like happy antelope through the city and the parks of New Jersey and Long Island and upstate New York.
And I’m free to hunt them.
Which is what I’m up to right now, having deflected all the other boring distractions of Sunday: brunch, movies and even an invitation to go play golf. Oh, and worship—always popular with the antelope, provided, of course, that a visit to church is followed by the aforementioned brunch or nine holes of smack-the-ball.
Hunting…
Right now I’m thinking of my most recent transaction, the memory tucked away in my mental collection—the transaction with young Alice Sanderson, 3895-0967-7524-3630, who was looking fine, very fine. Until the knife, of course.
Alice 3895 in that nice pink dress, accentuating her breasts, flirting at the hip (I also think of her as 38-26-36, but that’s a joke on my part). Pretty enough, perfume the scent of Asian flowers.
My plans for her had only partly to do with the Harvey Prescott painting that she was lucky enough to snatch off the market (or unlucky, as it turned out for her). Once I was sure she’d received the delivery, out would come the duct tape and I’d spend the next few hours with her in the bedroom. But she’d ruined it all. Just as I was coming up behind her she turned and gave that nightmare scream. I had no choice but to slice her neck like tomato skin, grab my beautiful Prescott and sneak out—through the window, so to speak.
No, I can’t stop thinking about pretty-enough Alice 3895, in a skimpy pink dress, her skin floral-scented like a tea house. So, bottom line, I need a woman.
Strolling along these sidewalks, glancing at the sixteens through my sunglasses. They, on the other hand, don’t really see me. As I intend; I groom myself to be invisible and there’s no place like Manhattan to be invisible.
I turn corners, slip along an alleyway, make a purchase—cash, of course—then plunge into a deserted area of the city, formerly industrial, becoming residential and commercial, near SoHo. Quiet here. That’s good. I want it peaceful for my transaction with Myra Weinburg, 9834-4452-6740-3418, a sixteen I’ve had my eye on for a while.
Myra 9834, I know you very well. The data have told me everything. (Ah, that debate again: data…
plural or singular? Data
has told
or data
have told
?
Merriam-Webster’s
assures us either is correct. By myself, I tend to be purist: data plural. But in public I try hard to treat the word as singular, like most of society, and hope I don’t slip up. Language is a river; it goes where it will and if you swim against that
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current you get noticed. And that, of course, is the last thing in the world I want.) Now, the data on Myra 9834: She lives on Waverly Place, Greenwich Village, in a building the owner wants to sell as co-op units via an eviction plan. (
I
know this, though the poor tenants don’t yet, and judging from incomes and credit histories, most of them are totally screwed.) The beautiful, exotic, dark-haired Myra 9834 is a graduate of NYU and has worked in New York for several years at an advertising agency. Her mother’s still alive, but her father’s dead. Hit and run, the John Doe warrant still outstanding after all these years. Police don’t pull out the stops for crimes like that.