The Broken Window

about illegal immigrants, how terrified they’d looked.
    What was happening to his wife at the moment? Would she be stuck for days or weeks in some kind of bureaucratic purgatory? Pulaski wanted to scream.
    Calm down. Handle it smart. Amelia Sachs always told him that.
    Handle it smart.
    Finally, thank you, Lord, Pulaski saw Mark Whitcomb walking quickly toward him, the expression one of urgent concern. He wasn’t sure exactly what the man could do to help but he hoped that the Compliance Department, with its connections to the government, could pull strings with Homeland Security and get his wife and child released, at least until the matter was officially resolved.
    Whitcomb, breathless, came up to him. “Have you found out anything else?”
    “I called about ten minutes ago. They’re inside now. I didn’t say anything. I wanted to wait for you.”
    “You okay?”
    “No. I’m pretty frantic here, Mark. Thanks for this.”
    “Sure,” the Compliance officer said earnestly. “It’ll be okay, Ron. Don’t worry. I think I can do something.” Then he looked up into Pulaski’s eyes; the SSD Compliance officer was just slightly taller than Andrew Sterling. “Only . . . it’s pretty important for you to get Jenny out of there, right?”
    “Oh, yeah, Mark. This’s just a nightmare.”
    “Okay. Come this way.” He led Pulaski around the corner of the building, then into an alley. “I’ve got a favor to ask, Ron,” Whitcomb whispered.
    “Whatever I can do.”
    “Really?” The man’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, calm. And his eyes had a sharpness that Pulaski hadn’t seen before. As if he’d dropped an act and was now being himself. “You know, sometimes, Ron, we have to do things that we don’t think are right. But in the end it’s for the best.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “To help your wife out you might have to do something you might think isn’t so good.”
    The officer said nothing, his thoughts whirling. Where was this going?
    “Ron, I need you to make this case go away.”
    “Case?”
    “The murder investigation.”
    “Go away? I don’t get it.”
    “Stop the case.” Whitcomb looked around and whispered, “Sabotage it. Destroy the evidence. Give them some false leads. Point them anywhere but at SSD.”
    “I don’t understand, Mark. Are you joking?”
    “No, Ron. I’m real serious. This case’s got to stop and you can do it.”
    “I can’t.”
    “Oh, yes, you can. If you want Jenny out of there.” A nod toward the detention center.
    No, no . . . this was 522. Whitcomb was the killer! He’d used the passcodes of his boss, Sam Brockton, to get access to innerCircle.
    Instinctively Pulaski started for his gun.
    But Whitcomb drew first, a black pistol appearing in his hand. “No, Ron. That’s not going to get us anywhere.” Whitcomb reached into the holster and pulled Pulaski’s Glock out by the grip, slipped it into his waistband.
    How could he have misjudged this so badly? Was it the head injury? Or was he just stupid? Whitcomb’s friendship had been feigned, which hurt as much as it shocked. Bringing him the coffee, defending him to Cassel and Gillespie, suggesting they get together socially, helping with the time sheets . . . it was all a tactic to get close to the cop and use him.
    “It’s all a goddamn lie, isn’t it, Mark? You didn’t grow up in Queens at all, did you? And you don’t have a brother who’s a cop?”
    “No to both.” Whitcomb’s face was dark. “I tried to reason with you, Ron. But you wouldn’t work with me. Goddamnit! You could have. Now look what you’ve made me do.”
    The killer pushed Pulaski farther into the alley.

Chapter Forty-one
    Amelia Sachs was in the city, cruising through traffic, frustrated at the noisy, tepid response of the Japanese engine.
    It sounded like an ice maker. And had just about as much horsepower.
    She’d called Rhyme twice but both times the line went right to voice mail. This rarely happened; Lincoln Rhyme obviously wasn’t away from home very much. And something odd was going on at the Big Building: Lon Sellitto’s phone was out of order. And neither he nor Ron Pulaski was answering his mobile.
    Was 522 behind this too?
    All the more reason to move fast in following up on the lead she’d discovered at her town house. It was a solid one, she believed. Maybe it was the final clue, the one missing piece of the puzzle they needed to bring this case to its conclusion.
    Now she saw