The Broken Window

lead. Rhyme hoped, though, that if they got the full Colorado State Police report, maybe he could find some evidence that pointed them toward one of the suspects.
    He was staring at the list when Sellitto’s phone rang. He took the call. The criminalist saw the detective stiffen. “What?” he snapped, glancing at Rhyme. “No shit. What’s the story? . . . Call me as soon as you know.”
    He hung up. His lips were pressed together and a frown crossed his face. “Linc, I’m sorry. Your cousin. Somebody moved on him in detention. Tried to kill him.”
    Sachs walked over to Rhyme, rested her hand on his shoulder. He could feel alarm in the gesture.
    “How is he?”
    “The director’ll call me back, Linc. He’s in the emergency clinic there. They don’t know anything yet.”

Chapter Twenty-eight
    “Hey there.”
    Pam Willoughby, ushered into the town house foyer by Thom, was smiling. The girl said hello to the crew there, who greeted her with smiles, despite the terrible news about Arthur Rhyme. Thom asked her how school had gone today.
    “Great. Really good.” Then she lowered her voice and asked, “Amelia, you have a minute?”
    Sachs glanced at Rhyme, who nodded her toward the girl, meaning: There’s nothing we can do about Art until we know more; go ahead.
    She stepped into the hallway with the girl. Funny about young people, Sachs was thinking, you can read everything in their faces. The moods, at least, if not always the reasons behind them. When it came to Pam, Sachs sometimes wished she had more of Kathryn Dance’s skill in reading how the girl felt and what she was thinking. This afternoon, though, she seemed transparently happy.
    “I know you’re busy,” Pam said.
    “No problem.”
    They walked into the parlor across the front foyer of the town house.
    “So?” Sachs smiled conspiratorially.
    “Okay. I did what you said, you know. I just asked Stuart about that other girl.”
    “And?”
    “It’s just they used to go out—before I met him. He even told me about her a while ago. He ran into her on the street. They were just talking is all. She was kind of a clinger, you know. She was that way when they were going out and it’s one of the reasons he didn’t want to see her anymore. And she was holding on to him when Emily saw them—and he was trying to get away. That’s all. Everything’s, like, cool.”
    “Hey, congrats. So the enemy is definitely out of the picture?”
    “Oh, yeah. It has to be true—I mean, he couldn’t date her, because he could lose his job—” Pam’s voice came to an abrupt halt.
    Sachs didn’t need to be an interrogator to realize that the girl had stumbled. “Lose his job? What job?”
    “Well, you know.”
    “Not exactly, Pam. Why would he lose his job?”
    Blushing, she stared at the Oriental rug at their feet. “Like, she’s sort of in his class this year.”
    “He’s a teacher ?”
    “Kind of.”
    “At your high school?”
    “Not this year. He’s at Jefferson. I had him last year. So it’s okay if we—”
    “Wait, Pam. . . .” Sachs was thinking back. “You told me he was in school.”
    “I said I met him at school.”
    “And Poetry Club?”
    “Well—”
    “He was the adviser,” Sachs said, grimacing. “And he coaches soccer. He doesn’t play it.”
    “I didn’t exactly lie.”
    First, Sachs told herself, don’t panic. That’s not going to help anything. “Well, Pam, this is . . .” And what the hell is it? She had so many questions. She asked the first one in her thoughts: “How old is he?”
    “I don’t know. Not that old.” The girl looked up. Her eyes were hard. Sachs had seen her defiant and moody and determined. She’d never seen the girl this way—trapped and defensive, almost feral.
    “Pam?”
    “I guess, maybe, like forty-one or something.”
    The no-panic rule was starting to crumble.
    What the hell should she do? Yes, Amelia Sachs had always wanted children in her life—spurred by memories of the wonderful times she’d spent with her father—but she hadn’t thought much about the tougher job of parenting.
    “Be reasonable” was the guideline here, Sachs told herself. But it was about as effective as “Don’t panic” at the moment. “Well, Pam—”
    “I know what you’re going to say. But it’s not about that. ”
    Sachs wasn’t so sure. Men and women together . . . To some extent it’s always about that. But she couldn’t consider the sexual aspect of the problem. It