The Broken Window

himself. Or, no, maybe it’s that he kind of walks like him. I’m not sure. Sorry.”
    Sweating heavily in the hot van, Sellitto wiped his face, then leaned forward and said into the mike, “Okay, Professor, Five Twenty-Two’s moving up. Maybe forty feet behind you. He’s in a dark suit, dark tie. He’s carrying a briefcase. His gait profile suggests that he’s armed.” Most cops who’ve worked the street for a few years can recognize the difference in posture and walking patterns when a suspect is carrying a weapon.
    “Gotcha,” commented the laconic officer, who carried two pistols himself and was ambidextrously talented with them.
    “Man,” Sellitto muttered, “I hope this works. Okay, Roland, go ahead with the right turn.”
    “Uhm.”
    Rhyme and Sellitto didn’t believe that 522 would shoot the professor on the street. What would killing him accomplish? Rhyme speculated that the killer’s intent was to abduct Soames, to learn what the police knew, then murder him later or perhaps threaten him and his family to have Soames sabotage the investigation. So the script called for Roland Bell to take a detour out of public view, where 522 would make his move and they’d nail him. Sellitto had found a construction site that would work well. It featured a long sidewalk, cordoned off to the public, that was a shortcut to One Police Plaza. Bell would ignore the Closed sign and head down the sidewalk, where he’d be lost to sight after thirty or forty feet. A team was hiding at the far end to move in when 522 approached.
    The detective made the turn, stepping around the barrier tape and heading up the dusty sidewalk, while the rattle and slam of jackhammers and pile drivers filled the interior of the van from Bell’s sensitive mike.
    “We’ve got you on visual, Roland,” Sellitto said as one of the officers beside him hit a switch and another camera took up surveillance. “You watching, Linc?”
    “No, Lon, Dancing with the Celebrities is on. Jane Fonda and Mickey Rooney are up next.”
    “It’s Dancing with the Stars, Linc.”
    Rhyme’s voice clattered into the van. “Is Five Twenty-Two going to make the turn? Or is he going to balk? . . . Come on, come on. . . .”
    Sellitto moved the mouse and double-clicked. Another image, on a split screen, popped up, from a Search and Surveillance team’s video camera. It depicteda different angle: Bell’s back moving down the sidewalk, away from the camera. The detective was glancing with curiosity at the construction site, as any normal passerby would. A moment later, 522 appeared behind him, keeping his distance, looking around too, though obviously with no interest in the workers; he was scanning for witnesses or the police.
    Then he hesitated, looked around once more. And started to close the distance.
    “Okay, everybody, heads up,” Sellitto called. “He’s moving up on you, Roland. We’re going to lose you on visual in about five seconds so keep an eye out. You copy?”
    “Yep,” said the easy-going officer. As if answering a bartender who’d asked if he wanted a glass with his bottle of Budweiser.

Chapter Thirty-five
    Roland Bell wasn’t quite as calm as he sounded.
    The widower father of two children, a nice house in the burbs and a sweetheart down in the Tarheel State he was getting pretty close to proposing to . . . All those domestic things tended to add up on the negative side when you were asked to be a sitting duck on an undercover set.
    Still, Bell couldn’t help but do his duty—particularly when it came to a perp like this 522, a rapist and killer, a species of criminal that Bell had a particular dislike for. And, truth be told, he didn’t mind the rush from ops like this one.
    “We all find our levels,” his daddy had often said, and once the boy realized that the man wasn’t talking about misplaced tools he embraced that philosophy as a cornerstone of his life.
    His jacket was unbuttoned and his hand poised to draw, aim and let fly with his favorite pistol, an example of Italy’s finest firepower. He was glad Lon Sellitto had stopped his banter. He needed to hear this fellow’s approach, and the slam slam slam of the pile driver was plenty loud. Still, concentrating hard, he heard a scrape of shoes on the sidewalk behind him.
    Make it thirty feet.
    Bell knew the takedown team was in front of him, though he couldn’t see them, or they him, because of a sharp curve in the sidewalk. The plan was for them to