The Broken Window

what are you to me, Stuart? You can’t be everything. And I’m not willing to take less than that.” Keep your voice steady, she told herself. “If you get a divorce I’ll be with you. . . . Will you?”
    Now the seductive eyes lowered. “Yes.” A whisper.
    “Now?”
    “I can’t just now. It’s complicated.”
    “No, Stuart. It’s really, really simple.” She rose. “If I don’t see you again, have a nice life.” She began walking away quickly, heading for Amelia’s town house, which was nearby.
    Okay, maybe Amelia wouldn’t cry. But Pam could no longer hold the tears back. She walked straight down the sidewalk, eyes streaming, and—afraid she’d weaken—not daring to look back, not daring to think about what she’d done.
    Though she did have one thought about the encounter, which she supposed someday she’d consider pretty funny: What a sucky parting line that was. Wish I’d come up with something better.

Chapter Thirty-eight
    Mel Cooper was frowning.
    “The warehouse? Where Joe was killed? Some publisher rents it to store paper there for recycling, though it hasn’t been used actively for months. But what’s strange is that the ownership’s not clear.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “I’ve run all the corporate documents. It’s leased to a chain of three companies and owned by a Delaware corporation—and that ’s owned by a couple of New York corporations. The ultimate ownership seems to be in Malaysia.”
    But 522 had known about it and that it was safe to torture a victim there. How? Because he’s the man who knows everything.
    The phone in the lab trilled and Rhyme glanced at caller ID. We’ve had such bad news in the 522 case, please let this be good. “Inspector Longhurst.”
    “Detective Rhyme, just to update you. It’s looking rather productive here.” Her voice betrayed a rare excitement. She explained that d’Estourne, the team’s French security service agent, had sped to Birmingham and contacted some Algerians in a Muslim communityin West Bromwich, outside the city. He’d learned that an American had commissioned a passport and transit papers to North Africa, traveling on to Singapore. He’d given them a large down payment and they promised the documents would be ready tomorrow evening. As soon as he picked them up he was heading for London to finish the job.
    “Good,” Rhyme said, chuckling. “That means Logan’s already there, don’t you think? In London.”
    “Quite certain of it,” Longhurst agreed. “Trying the shot tomorrow when our double meets the MI5 people at the shooting zone.”
    “Exactly.”
    So Richard Logan had ordered the papers, and paid a large price for them, to keep the team focused on Birmingham, while he hurried to London to complete his mission to kill the Reverend Goodlight.
    “What do Danny Krueger’s people say?”
    “That a boat will be waiting on the south coast to spirit him away to France.”
    Spirit him away. Rhyme loved it. Cops don’t talk that way over here.
    He thought again about the safe house near Manchester. And the break-in at Goodlight’s NGO in London. Was there anything Rhyme might’ve seen if he had walked the grid at either of those locales via the high-definition video? Some tiny clue that they’d missed that might give them a clearer idea of exactly where and when the killer was going to strike? If so, the evidence was gone now. He’d just have to hope they’d made the right deductions.
    “What do you have in place?”
    “Ten officers around the shooting zone. All plainclothed or in camouflage.” She added that Danny Krueger, along with the French security man and another tactical team, were making themselves “subtly visible” in Birmingham. Longhurst had also added an extra protection detail where the reverend was actually hiding; they had no evidence that the killer had learned the location but she didn’t want to take any chances.
    “We’ll know something soon, Detective.”
    Just as they disconnected, his computer dinged.
    “mr Rhyme?”
    The words appeared on the screen in front of him. A small window had opened. It was a webcam view of Amelia Sachs’s living room. He could see Pam at the keyboard, instant messaging him.
    He spoke to her through his voice-recognition system. “Hello Pam owe are you dew in?”
    Goddamn computer. Maybe he should have their digital guru, Rodney Szarnek, install a new system.
    But she deduced the message just fine.
    “Good,” she typed. “How