The Broken Window

criminalist snapped. “What I’d like to know is why.”
    “We weren’t running the GC,” Mel Cooper said defensively. He looked out the window, as if checking to see if the rest of the neighborhood grid had gone down too, but since it was not yet dusk there were no ConEd references to tell the story.
    “We can’t afford to be offline now. Goddamnit. Get it taken care of!”
    Rhyme, Sellitto, Pulaski and Cooper remained in the silent, dim room, while Thom walked into the hall and, on his cell phone, made a call. He was soon talking with somebody at the electric company. “Impossible. I pay the bills online. Every month. Never missed one. I have receipts. . . . Well, they’re in the computer and I can’t go online because there’s no electricity, now can I? . . . Canceled checks, yes, but once again, how can I fax them to you if there’s no electricity? . . . I don’t know where there’s a Kinko’s, no.”
    “It’s him, you know,” Rhyme said to the others.
    “Five Twenty-Two? He got your power shut off?”
    “Yep. He found out about me and where I live. Malloy must’ve told him this is our command post.”
    The silence was eerie. The first thing Rhyme thought of was how completely vulnerable he was. The devices that he relied on were useless now and he had no way to communicate, no way to lock or unlock the doors or use the ESU. If the blackout continued and Thom couldn’t recharge his wheelchair’s battery he’d be immobilized completely.
    He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so vulnerable. Even having others around didn’t allay the concern; 522 was a threat to anybody, anywhere.
    He was also wondering: Is the blackout a diversion, or the prelude to an attack?
    “Keep an eye out, everybody,” he announced. “He could be moving in on us.”
    Pulaski glanced out the window. Cooper too.
    Sellitto pulled out his cell phone and called someone downtown. He explained the situation. He rolled his eyes—Sellitto was never one for stoic faces—then ended the conversation with: “Well, I don’t care. Whatever it takes. This asshole’s a killer. And we can’t do a thing to find him without any fucking electricity. . . . Thanks.”
    “Thom, any luck?”
    “No,” came the aide’s abrupt reply.
    “Shit.” Rhyme then reflected on something. “Lon, call Roland Bell. I think we need protection. Five Twenty-Two went after Pam, he went after Amelia.” The criminalist nodded at a dark monitor. “He knows about us. I want officers on Amelia’s mother’s place. Pam’sfoster home. Pulaski’s house, Mel’s mother’s place. Your house too, Lon.”
    “You think it’s that much of a risk?” the big detective asked. Then shook his head. “What the hell am I saying? Sure, it is.” He got the information—addresses and phone numbers—then called Bell and had him arrange for officers. After hanging up he said, “It’ll take a few hours but he’ll get it done.”
    A loud knock on the door shattered the silence. Still clutching the phone, Thom started for it.
    “Wait!” Rhyme shouted.
    The aide paused.
    “Pulaski, go with him.” Rhyme nodded at the pistol on his hip.
    “Sure.”
    They walked into the hallway. Then Rhyme heard a muted conversation and a moment later two men in suits, with trim hair and unsmiling faces, walked into the town house, looking around curiously—first at Rhyme’s body, then at the rest of the lab, surprised either at the amount of scientific equipment or the absence of lights, or both, most likely.
    “We’re looking for a Lieutenant Sellitto. We were told he’d be here.”
    “That’s me. Who’re you?”
    Shields were displayed and ranks and names given—they were two NYPD detective sergeants. And they were with Internal Affairs.
    “Lieutenant,” the older of the two said, “we’re here to take possession of your shield and weapon. I have to tell you that the results were confirmed.”
    “I’m sorry. What’re you talking about?”
    “You’re officially suspended. You’re not being arrested at this time. But we recommend you talk to an attorney—either your own or one from the PBA.”
    “The hell is going on?”
    The younger officer frowned. “The drug test.”
    “What?”
    “You don’t have to deny anything to us. We just do the fieldwork, pick up shields and weapons and inform suspects of their suspension.”
    “What fucking test?”
    The older looked at the younger. This apparently had never happened