The Broken Window

Detective.”
    Sachs had been after young patrolman Ron Pulaski to call her Amelia for years but usually he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
    “You’re on speaker, Pulaski,” Rhyme warned.
    “Yes, sir.”
    And the “sir” bothered Rhyme, but he had no inclination to correct the young man now.
    “How are you?” Pulaski asked.
    “Does it matter?” Rhyme responded. “What’re you doing? Right now. And is it important?”
    “Right now?”
    “I think I just asked that.”
    “Washing dishes. Jenny and I just had Sunday brunch with my brother and his wife. We went to the farmers’ market with the kids. It’s a blast. Do you and Detective Sachs ever get to—?”
    “You’re at home then. And not doing anything.”
    “Well. The dishes.”
    “Leave ’em. Get over here.” Rhyme, a civilian, had no authority to order anybody in the NYPD, even traffic cops, to do anything.
    But Sachs was a detective third-class; while she couldn’t order him to help them, she could formally request a shift in assignment. “We need you, Ron. And we might need you tomorrow too.”
    Ron Pulaski worked regularly with Rhyme, Sachs and Sellitto. Rhyme had been amused to learn that his assignments for the quasi-celeb forensic detective elevated the status of the young officer within the department. He was sure that the supervisor would agree to hand over Pulaski for a few days—as long as he didn’t call Malloy or anyone else downtown and learn that the case wasn’t a case at all.
    Pulaski gave Sachs the name of the commander at the precinct house. Then asked, “Oh, sir? Is LieutenantSellitto working on this one? Should I call and coordinate with him?”
    “No,” blurted both Rhyme and Sachs.
    A brief silence followed, then Pulaski said uncertainly, “Well, then, I guess I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just, can I dry the glasses first? Jenny hates water spots.”

Chapter Five
    Sundays are the best.
    Because most Sundays I’m free to do what I love.
    I collect things.
    Everything you can imagine. If it appeals to me and I can get it into my backpack, or into my trunk, I’ll collect it. I’m not a pack rat like some people might say. Those rodents leave something in place of what they’ve taken. Once I find something, it’s mine. I never let go. Ever.
    Sunday’s my favorite day. Because it’s the day of rest for the masses, the sixteens who call this amazing city home. Men, women, children, lawyers, artists, cyclists, cooks, thieves, wives and lovers (I collect DVDs too), politicians, joggers and curators . . . It’s amazing the number of things that sixteens do for enjoyment.
    They roam like happy antelope through the city and the parks of New Jersey and Long Island and upstate New York.
    And I’m free to hunt them.
    Which is what I’m up to right now, having deflected all the other boring distractions of Sunday: brunch, movies and even an invitation to go play golf. Oh, and worship—always popular with the antelope, provided,of course, that a visit to church is followed by the aforementioned brunch or nine holes of smack-the-ball.
    Hunting . . .
    Right now I’m thinking of my most recent transaction, the memory tucked away in my mental collection—the transaction with young Alice Sanderson, 3895-0967-7524-3630, who was looking fine, very fine. Until the knife, of course.
    Alice 3895 in that nice pink dress, accentuating her breasts, flirting at the hip (I also think of her as 38-26-36, but that’s a joke on my part). Pretty enough, perfume the scent of Asian flowers.
    My plans for her had only partly to do with the Harvey Prescott painting that she was lucky enough to snatch off the market (or unlucky, as it turned out for her). Once I was sure she’d received the delivery, out would come the duct tape and I’d spend the next few hours with her in the bedroom. But she’d ruined it all. Just as I was coming up behind her she turned and gave that nightmare scream. I had no choice but to slice her neck like tomato skin, grab my beautiful Prescott and sneak out—through the window, so to speak.
    No, I can’t stop thinking about pretty-enough Alice 3895, in a skimpy pink dress, her skin floral-scented like a tea house. So, bottom line, I need a woman.
    Strolling along these sidewalks, glancing at the sixteens through my sunglasses. They, on the other hand, don’t really see me. As I intend; I groom myself to be invisible and there’s no place like Manhattan to be invisible.
    I turn corners,