The Broken Window

box and the disk insidecarefully. It rolled on the conveyor to the other side of the metal detector.
    Pulaski started forward but a third guard stopped him. “Sorry, sir, please empty your pockets and put everything metal on there.”
    “I’m a police officer,” he said, trying to sound amused.
    The guard replied, “Your department has agreed to abide by our security guidelines, since we’re government contractors. The rules apply to everybody. You can call your supervisor to check, if you’d like.”
    Pulaski was trapped.
    Martin continued to watch him closely.
    “Everything on the belt, please.”
    Think, come on, Pulaski raged to himself. Figure something out.
    Think!
    Bluff your way through this.
    I can’t. I’m not smart enough.
    Yes, you are. What would Amelia Sachs do? Lincoln Rhyme?
    He turned away, knelt down and spent several moments carefully unlacing his shoes, slowly pulling them off. Standing, he placed the polished shoes on the belt and added his weapons, ammo, cuffs, radio, coins, phone and pens to a plastic tray.
    Pulaski started through the metal detector and it went off with a squeal as the unit sensed the hard drive.
    “You have anything else on you?”
    Swallowing, shaking his head, he patted his pockets. “Nope.”
    “We’ll have to wand you.”
    Pulaski stepped out. The second guard passed the wand over his body and stopped at the officer’s chest. The device gave a huge squeal.
    The patrolman laughed. “Oh, sorry.” He undid a button on his shirt and displayed the bulletproof vest. “Metal heart plate. Forgot about it. Stops everything but a full-metal-jacket rifle slug.”
    “Probably not a Desert Eagle,” the guard said.
    “Now here’s my opinion: A fifty-caliber handgun is just not natural,” Pulaski joked, finally drawing smiles from the guards. He started to remove the shirt.
    “That’s all right. I don’t think we need to make you strip, Officer.”
    With shaking hands Pulaski buttoned his shirt, right over the spot where the drive rested—between his undershirt and the vest; he’d stuffed it there when he’d bent down to unlace his shoes.
    He gathered up his gear.
    Martin, who’d bypassed the metal detector, guided him through another door. They were in the main lobby, a large, stark area in gray marble, etched with a huge version of the watchtower and window logo.
    “Have a good day, Officer Pulaski,” Martin said, turning back.
    Pulaski continued to the massive glass doors, trying to control the shaking of his hands. He was noticing for the first time the bank of TV cameras monitoring the lobby. His impression was of vultures, sitting serenely on the wall, waiting for wounded prey to gasp and fall.

Chapter Twenty-seven
    Even hearing Judy’s voice, taking tearful comfort in its familiarity, Arthur Rhyme couldn’t stop thinking about the tattooed white guy, the sizzling meth freak, Mick.
    The guy kept talking to himself, he slipped his hands inside his pants every five minutes or so, and he seemed to turn his eyes to Arthur almost as frequently.
    “Honey? Are you there?”
    “Sorry.”
    “I have to tell you something,” Judy said.
    About the lawyer, about the money, about the children. Whatever it was, it would be too much for him. Arthur Rhyme was close to exploding.
    “Go ahead,” he whispered, resigned.
    “I went to see Lincoln.”
    “You what?”
    “I had to. . . . You don’t seem to believe the lawyer, Art. This isn’t going to just fix itself.”
    “But . . . I told you not to call him.”
    “Well, there’s a family involved here, Art. It’s not just what you want. There’s me and the children. We should’ve done it before.”
    “I don’t want him involved. No, call him back and tell him thanks but it’s fine.”
    “Fine?” Judy Rhyme blurted. “Are you crazy?”
    He sometimes believed she was stronger than he was—probably smarter too. She’d been furious when he’d stormed out of Princeton after being passed over for the professorship. She’d said he was behaving like a child having a tantrum. He wished he’d listened to her.
    Judy blurted, “You’ve got this idea that John Grisham is going to show up in court at the last minute and save you. But that’s not going to happen. Jesus, Art, you ought to be grateful I’m doing something .”
    “I am,” he said quickly, his words darting out like squirrels. “It’s just—”
    “Just what? This is a man who nearly died, was paralyzed over his whole body and