The Broken Window

with” fibers found in the suspect’s house, allowing the jury to infer he was at the scene.
    “What was your take on whether or not he knew her?” Sachs asked.
    “He claimed he didn’t, but we found two notes she’d written. One at her office and one at home. One was ‘Art—drinks.’ The other just said ‘Arthur.’ Nothing else. Oh, and we found his name in her phonebook.”
    “His number?” Rhyme was frowning.
    “No. Prepaid mobile. No record.”
    “So you figure they were more than friends?”
    “Crossed our minds. Why else only give her a prepaid number and not his home or office?” He gave a laugh. “Apparently she didn’t care. You’d be surprised what people accept without asking questions.”
    Not that surprised, Rhyme thought.
    “And the phone?”
    “Toast. Never found it.”
    “And you think he killed her because she was pressuring him to leave the wife?”
    “That’s what the prosecutor’ll argue. Something like that.”
    Rhyme compared what he knew of his cousin, whom he hadn’t seen in more than a decade, against this information; he could neither confirm nor deny the allegation.
    Sachs asked, “Anybody else have a motive?”
    “Nope. Family and friends said she dated some, but real casual. No terrible breakups. I was even wondering if the wife did it—Judy—but she was accounted for at the time.”
    “Did Arthur have any alibi?”
    “None. Claims he went for a run but nobody could confirm seeing him. Clinton State Park. Big place. Pretty deserted.”
    “I’m curious,” Sachs said, “what his demeanor was during interrogation?”
    LaGrange laughed. “Funny you bring that up—the weirdest part of the whole case. He looked like he was dazed. Just blown away by seeing us there. I’ve collared a lot of people in my day, some of ’em pros. Connected guys, I mean. And he was, hands down, the best at playing the innocent-me game. Great actor. You remember that about him, Detective Rhyme?”
    The criminalist didn’t reply. “What happened to the painting?”
    A pause. “That’s the other thing. Never recovered. Wasn’t in his house or garage, but the crime-scene folks found dirt in the backseat of the car and his garage.It matched the dirt in the state park where he went jogging every night near his house. We figured he buried it somewhere.”
    “One question, Detective,” Rhyme said.
    A pause at the other end of the line, during which a voice spoke indecipherable words and the wind howled again. “Go on.”
    “Can I see the file?”
    “The file?” Not really a question. Just stalling to consider. “It’s a solid case. We ran it by the book.”
    Sachs said, “We don’t doubt that for a minute. The thing is, though, we understand he’s rejected a plea.”
    “Oh. You want to talk him into one? Yeah, I get it. That’s the best thing for him. Well, all I have is copies, the A.D.A.’s got everything else and the evidence. But I can get you the reports. A day or two okay?”
    Rhyme shook his head. Sachs said to the detective, “If you could talk to Records and okay it I’ll go down there and pick up the file myself.”
    The wind filled the speakers again, then stopped abruptly. LaGrange must have moved into shelter.
    “Yeah, okay, I’ll give ’em a call now.”
    “Thanks.”
    “No problem. Good luck.”
    After they’d disconnected, Rhyme gave a brief smile. “That was a nice touch. The plea bargain thing.”
    “You gotta know your audience,” Sachs said and slung her purse over her shoulder, heading out of the door.

Chapter Four
    Sachs returned from her trip to Police Plaza a lot faster than if she’d taken public transportation—or paid attention to stoplights. Rhyme knew that she’d slapped a flashing light on the dash of her car, a 1969 Camaro SS, which she’d had painted fiery red a few years ago to match Rhyme’s preferred shade for his wheelchairs. Like a teenager, she still looked for any excuse to fire up the massive engine and sear rubber off the tires.
    “Copied everything,” she said, carrying a thick folder into the room. She winced as she set it on an examining table.
    “You okay?”
    Amelia Sachs suffered from arthritis, she had all her life, and popped glucosamine, chondroitin and Advil or Naprosyn like jelly beans but she rarely acknowledged the condition, fearful that the brass might stick her behind a desk on a medical if they found out. Even when she and Rhyme were alone she downplayed the pain. But today she admitted,