The Broken Window

downtown. Sorry, forgot to pick it up. Thanks. Lunch is on me. . . . And what do the data show? Why, that you were slaving away at work, while in reality you were wiping your razor clean as you stood over someone’s cooling body during those hours in question. That nobody actually saw you at your desk is irrelevant. Here are my time sheets, Officer. . . . We trust data, we don’t trust the human eye. There are a dozen more tricks I’ve perfected.
    And now I have to rely on one of the more extreme measures.
    Ahead of me now Miguel 5465 pauses and glances into a bar. I know for a fact that he drinks rarely and if he goes in for a cerveza it will throw off the timing a bit but that won’t ruin my plans for this evening. He forgoes the drink, though, and continues along the street, head cocked to the side. I actually feel sorry that he didn’t give in and indulge, considering he has less than an hour to live.

Chapter Twenty-nine
    Finally somebody from the detention center called Lon Sellitto.
    He nodded as he listened. “Thanks.” He disconnected. “Arthur’s going to be okay. He’s hurt but not bad.”
    “Thank God,” Sachs whispered.
    “What happened?” Rhyme asked.
    “Nobody can figure it out. The perp’s Antwon Johnson, doing fed time for kidnapping and state lines. They moved him to the Tombs for trial on related state charges. He just kind of snapped, looks like, tried to make it look like Arthur hanged himself. Johnson denied it at first, then claimed Arthur wanted to die, asked him to help.”
    “The guards found him in time?”
    “No. Weird. Another prisoner went after Johnson. Mick Gallenta, two-timer in for meth and smack. He was half Johnson’s size, took him on, knocked him out and got Arthur down from the wall. Nearly started a riot.”
    The phone rang and Rhyme noticed a 201 area code.
    Judy Rhyme.
    He took the call.
    “Did you hear, Lincoln?” Her voice was unsteady.
    “I did. Yes.”
    “Why would somebody do that? Why?”
    “Jail’s jail. It’s a different world.”
    “But it’s just a holding cell, Lincoln. It’s detention. I could understand if he were in prison with convicted murderers. But most of those people are awaiting trial, aren’t they?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Why would somebody risk his own case by trying to kill another prisoner there?”
    “I don’t know, Judy. It doesn’t make sense. Have you talked to him?”
    “They let him make a call. He can’t speak very well. His throat was damaged. But it’s not too bad. They’re keeping him in for a day or two.”
    “Good,” Rhyme said. “Listen, Judy, I wanted more information before I called but . . . I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to show that Arthur’s innocent. It looks like there’s someone else behind it. He killed another victim yesterday and I think we can tie him to the murder of the Sanderson woman.”
    “No! Really? Who the hell is it, Lincoln?” No longer treading on ice, no longer carefully choosing words and worried about offending. Judy Rhyme had grown tough in the last twenty-four hours.
    “That’s what we’re trying to find out now.” He glanced at Sachs then turned back to the speakerphone. “And it doesn’t look as if he had any connection with the victim. No connection at all.”
    “You . . . ?” Her voice faded. “Are you sure about that?”
    Sachs identified herself and said, “That’s right, Judy.”
    They could hear her inhaling. “Should I call the lawyer?”
    “There’s nothing he can do. As things stand now, Arthur’s still under arrest.”
    “Can I call Art and tell him?”
    Rhyme hesitated. “Yes, sure.”
    “He asked about you, Lincoln. In the clinic.”
    “Did he?”
    He sensed Amelia Sachs was looking at him.
    “Yes. He said whatever came of it, thank you for helping.”
    Everything would’ve been different . . . .
    “I should go, Judy. We have a lot to do. We’ll let you know what we find.”
    “Thank you, Lincoln. And everybody there. God bless you.”
    A hesitation. “Good-bye, Judy.”
    Rhyme didn’t bother with the voice command. He disconnected with his right index finger. He had better control with the ring finger of his left hand but the right moved fast as a snake.
    •   •   •
    Miguel 5465 is a survivor of tragedy and a dependable employee. He regularly visits his sister and her husband on Long Island. He wires Western Union money to his mother and sister in Mexico. He’s a moral man. Once, a year