The Broken Window

gun, had been a homicide detective when Rhyme was a rookie. The testy old guy was familiar with nearly every murder that had been committed in New York City—and many nearby—during his lengthy tenure. At an age when he should have been visiting his grandchildren, Flintlock was working Sundays. Rhyme wasn’t surprised.
    “I laid it all out for him and he came back with two cases that might fit our profile right off the top of his head. One was a theft of rare coins, worth about fifty G. The other a rape.”
    “Rape?” This added a deeper, and much more disturbing, element to the case.
    “Yep. In both of them an anonymous witness called to report the crime and gave some information that was instrumental in ID’ing the perp—like the wit calling about your cousin’s car.”
    “Both male callers, of course.”
    “Right. And the city offered a reward but neither of them came forward.”
    “What about the evidence?”
    “Flintlock didn’t remember it too clearly. But he did say that the trace and circumstantial connections were right on. Just what happened to your cousin—five or six types of associated class evidence at the scene and in the perps’ houses. And in both cases the victims’ blood was found on a rag or article of clothing in the suspects’ residence.”
    “And I’ll bet there weren’t any fluid matches in the rape case.” Most rapists are convicted because they leave behind traces of the Three S’s—semen, saliva or sweat.
    “Nope. None.”
    “And the anonymous callers—did they leave partial license plate numbers?”
    She glanced at her notes. “Yeah, how did you know?”
    “Because our perp needed to buy some time. If he left the whole tag number, the cops’d head right to the fall guy’s house and he wouldn’t have time to plant the evidence there.” The killer had thought out everything. “And the suspects denied everything?”
    “Yep. Totally. Rolled the dice with the jury and lost.”
    “No, no, no, this’s all too coincidental,” Rhyme muttered. “I want to see—”
    “I asked somebody to pull the files from the disposed cases archives.”
    He laughed. One step ahead of him, as often. He recalled when they’d first met, years ago, Sachs a disillusioned patrol officer ready to give up her career in policing, Rhyme ready to give up more than that. How far they’d both come since then.
    Rhyme spoke into his stalk mike. “Command, call Sellitto.” He was excited now. He could feel that unique buzz—the thrill of a budding hunt. Answer the damn phone, he thought angrily, and for once he wasn’t thinking about England.
    “Hey, Linc.” Sellitto’s Brooklyn-inflected voice filled the room. “What’s—”
    “Listen. There’s a problem.”
    “I’m kinda busy here.” Rhyme’s former partner, Lieutenant Detective Lon Sellitto, hadn’t been in the best of moods himself lately. A big task force case he’d worked on had just tanked. Vladimir Dienko, the thug of a Russian mob boss from Brighton Beach, had been indicted last year for racketeering and murder. Rhyme had assisted with some of the forensics. To everyone’s shock the case against Dienko and three of his associates had been dismissed, just last Friday, after witnesses had stonewalled or vanished. Sellitto and agents from the Bureau had been working all weekend, trying to track down new witnesses and informants.
    “I’ll make it fast.” He explained what he and Sachs had found about his cousin and the rape and coin-theft cases.
    “ Two other cases? Friggin’ weird. What’s your cousin say?”
    “Haven’t talked to him yet. But he denies everything. I want to have this looked into.”
    “ ‘Looked into.’ The fuck’s that mean?”
    “I don’t think Arthur did it.”
    “He’s your cousin. Of course you don’t think he did it. But whatta you have concrete?”
    “Nothing yet. That’s why I want your help. I need some people.”
    “I’m up to my ass in the Dienko situation in Brighton Beach. Which, I gotta say, you’d be helping on except, no, you’re too busy sipping fucking tea with the Brits.”
    “This could be big, Lon. Two other cases that stink of planted evidence? I’ll bet there are more. I know how much you love your clichés, Lon. Doesn’t ‘getting away with murder’ move you?”
    “You can throw all the clauses you want at me, Linc, I’m busy.”
    “That’s a phrase, Lon. A clause has a subject and predicate.”
    “What-fucking-ever. I’m trying to