The Broken Window

before.
    Naturally it hadn’t, since whatever was going on had been ginned up by 522, Rhyme understood.
    “Detective, really, you don’t have to act—”
    “Do I fucking look like I’m acting?”
    “Well, according to the suspension order, you took a drug test last week. The results just came in, showing significant levels of narcotics in your system. Heroin, cocaine and psychedelics.”
    “I took the drug test, like everybody in my department. It can’t show up positive because I don’t do any fucking drugs. I have never done any fucking drugs. And . . . Oh, shit,” the big man spat out, grimacing. He jabbed a finger at the SSD brochure. “They’ve got drug-screening and background-check companies. He got into the system somehow and screwed up my file. The results were faked.”
    “That would be very difficult to accomplish.”
    “Well, it got accomplished.”
    “And you or your attorney can bring up that defense at the hearing. Again, we really just need yourshield and your weapon. And here’s the paperwork on that. Now, I hope there’s not going to be a problem. You don’t want to add to your difficulties, do you?”
    “Shit.” The big, rumpled man handed over his gun—an old-style revolver—and the shield. “Gimme the fucking paperwork.” Sellitto snatched it out of the hand of the younger one, as the older wrote out a receipt and handed it to him, as well. He then unloaded the gun and placed it and the bullets in a thick envelope.
    “Thank you, Detective. Have a good day.”
    After they were gone, Sellitto flipped open his phone and called the head of IA. The man was out and he left a message. Then he called his own office. The assistant he shared with several other detectives in Major Cases had apparently heard the news.
    “I know it’s bullshit. They what? . . . Oh, great. I’ll call you when I find out what’s going on.” He snapped the phone closed so hard Rhyme wondered if he’d broken it. He raised an eyebrow. “They just confiscated everything in my desk.”
    Pulaski asked, “How the hell do you fight somebody like this?”
    It was then that Rodney Szarnek called on Sellitto’s mobile. He set it to speakerphone. “What’s wrong with the landline there?”
    “The prick got the electricity shut off. We’re working on it. What’s up?”
    “The list of SSD customers, from the CD. We found something. One customer downloaded pages of data about all victims and fall guys the day before each killing.”
    “Who is it?”
    “His name’s Robert Carpenter.”
    Rhyme said, “Okay. Good. What’s his story?”
    “All I have is what’s on the spreadsheet. He’s got his own company in Midtown. Associated Warehousing.”
    Warehousing? Rhyme was thinking of the place where Joe Malloy was murdered. Was there a connection?
    “Have an address?”
    The tech specialist recited it.
    After disconnecting, Rhyme noted Pulaski was frowning. The young officer said, “I think we saw him at SSD.”
    “Who?”
    “Carpenter. When we were there yesterday. A big, bald guy. He was in a meeting with Sterling. He didn’t seem happy.”
    “Happy? What does that mean?”
    “I don’t know. Just an impression.”
    “Not helpful.” Rhyme said, “Mel, check this Carpenter out.”
    Cooper called downtown on his mobile. He spoke for a few minutes, moving closer to the window for the light, then jotted notes. He disconnected. “You don’t seem to like the word ‘interesting,’ Lincoln, but it is. I’ve got the NCIC and department database results. Robert Carpenter. Lives on the Upper East Side. Single. And, get this, he’s got a record. Some credit card fraud and bad-check busts. Did six months in Waterbury. And he was arrested in a corporate extortion scheme. Those charges were dropped but he went nuts when they came to pick him up, tried to swing at the agent. They dropped those charges when he agreed to go into ED counseling.”
    “Emotionally disturbed?” Rhyme nodded. “And his company’s in the warehousing business. Just the line of work for a hoarder. . . . Okay, Pulaski, find out where this Carpenter was when Amelia’s town house got broken into.”
    “Yes, sir.” Pulaski was lifting his phone from its holster when the unit trilled. He glanced at caller ID. He answered. “Hi, hon—What? . . . Hey, Jenny, calm down. . . .”
    Oh, no . . . Lincoln Rhyme knew that 522 had attacked on yet another front.
    “ What ? Where are you? . . . Take it easy,