The Broken Window

screen—probably a security camera showing the image of the visitor. He frowned.
    The killer debated. He glanced at her and carefully folded the razor, then slipped it into his back pocket.
    He walked to the closet door and stepped through it. She heard the click of the latch behind him. Once more her hand began to worm closer to her pocket and the tiny bit of metal inside.
    •   •   •
    “Lincoln.”
    Bo Haumann’s voice was distant.
    Rhyme whispered, “Tell me.”
    “It wasn’t her.”
    “What?”
    “The hits—from that computer program—they were right. But it wasn’t Amelia.” He explained that she gave her friend, Pam Willoughby, her credit card to buy groceries in hopes they could have dinner that night and talk about some “personal stuff.” “That’s what the system read, I guess. She went to a store, did some window-shopping and then she stopped here—it’s a friend’s house. They were doing their homework.”
    Rhyme’s eyes closed. “Okay, thanks, Bo. You can stand down. All we can do is wait.”
    “I’m sorry, Lincoln,” Ron Pulaski said.
    A nod.
    His eyes strayed to the mantel, where sat a picture of Sachs wearing a black crash helmet, in the cage of a NASCAR Ford. Beside it was a photo of them together, Rhyme in his chair, Sachs hugging him.
    He couldn’t look at it. His eyes strayed to the whiteboards.
----
    UNSUB 522 PROFILE
    • Male
    • Probably nonsmoker
    • Probably no wife/children
    • Probably white or light-skinned ethnic
    • Medium build
    • Strong—able to strangle victims
    • Access to voice-disguise equipment
    • Computer literate; knows OurWorld. Other social-networking sites?
    • Takes trophies from victims
    • Eats snack food/hot sauce
    • Wears size-11 Skechers work shoe
    • Hoarder. Suffers from OCD
    • Will have a “secret” life and a “façade” life
    • Public personality will be opposite of his real self
    • Residence: won’t rent, will have two separate living areas, one normal and one secret
    • Windows will be covered or painted
    • Will become violent when collecting or trove are threatened
    NONPLANTED EVIDENCE
    • Old cardboard
    • Hair from doll, BASF B35 nylon 6
    • Tobacco from Tareyton cigarette
    • Old tobacco, not Tareyton, but brand unknown
    • Evidence of Stachybotrys Chartarum mold
    • Snack food/cayenne pepper
    • Dust, from World Trade Center attack, possibly indicating residence/job downtown Manhattan
    • Rope fiber containing:
      • Cyclamate diet soda (old or foreign)
      • Naphthalene (mothballs, old or foreign)
    • Leopard lily plant leaves (interior plant)
    • Trace from two different legal pads, yellow colored
    • Treadmark from size-11 Skechers work shoe
    • Houseplant leaves: ficus and Aglaonema—Chinese evergreen
    • Coffee-mate
    Where are you, Sachs? Where are you?
    He stared at the charts, hypnotically, willing them to speak. But these scanty facts offered no more insights to Rhyme than had the innerCircle data to the SSD computer.
    Sorry, no prediction can be made at this time. . . .

Chapter Forty-eight
    A neighbor.
    My visitor is a neighbor who lives up the block at number 697 West Ninety-first Street. He’d just gotten home from work. A package was supposedly dropped off but it wasn’t there. The store thinks it might have been delivered to 679, my address. A misread of the numbers.
    I frown and explain that nothing’s been delivered. He should check with the store again. I want to cut his throat for interrupting my tryst with Amelia 7303 but, of course, I smile sympathetically.
    He’s sorry he’s bothered me. Have a good day you too glad they’ve finished that street work aren’t you. . . .
    And now I’m back to thinking about my Amelia 7303. But, closing the front door, I feel the jolt of panic. I’ve suddenly realized that I took everything from her—phone and weapons and MACE and knife—except the handcuff key. It must be in her pocket.
    This neighbor has distracted me. I know where he lives and he’ll pay for it. But now I hurry back toward my Closet, pulling the razor from my pocket. Hurry!What’s she doing inside? Is she making a call to tell Them where to find her?
    She’s trying to take it all away from me! I hate her. I hate her so much. . . .
    •   •   •
    The only progress Amelia Sachs had made in Gordon’s absence was to control the panic.
    She’d tried desperately to reach the key but her legs and arms remained frozen in the