The Broken Window

—that she and Pam sometimes watched late at night, fortified with Doritos and peanutbutter, Sachs knew that old boyfriends, like horror movie killers, sometimes have a way of rising from the dead.
    Love makes us weird. . . .
    Pam finished her ice cream and patted her stomach. “I so needed that.” Then she sighed. “How could I be so stupid?”
    In the girl’s ensuing laugh—eerily adult—Amelia Sachs heard what she believed was the final shovel of earth on the grave of the hockey-masked killer.
    They left Baskin-Robbins and walked toward Rhyme’s town house, several blocks away, planning a girls’ night out, along with another friend of Sachs’s, a policewoman she’d known for years. She asked the girl, “Movie or play?”
    “Oh, a play . . . Amelia, when does an off-Broadway play become an off-off-Broadway play?”
    “That’s a good question. We’ll Google it.”
    “And why do they call them Broadway plays when there aren’t any theaters on Broadway?”
    “Yeah. They should be ‘near Broadway’ plays. Or ‘right around the corner from Broadway’ plays.”
    The pair walked along the east-west side street, approaching Central Park West. Sachs was suddenly aware of a pedestrian nearby. Somebody was crossing the street behind them, moving in their general direction, as if following them.
    She felt no alarm, putting the breeze of concern down to the paranoia from the 522 case.
    Relax. The perp’s dead and gone.
    She didn’t bother to look back.
    But Pam did.
    And screamed shrilly, “It’s him, Amelia!”
    “Who?”
    “The guy who broke into your town house. That’s him!”
    Sachs spun around. The man in the blue plaid jacket and baseball cap. He moved toward them fast.
    She slapped her hip, going for her gun.
    Which wasn’t there.
    No, no, no . . .
    Since Peter Gordon had fired the weapon, the Glock was now evidence—as was her knife—and both were at Crime Scene Unit in Queens. She hadn’t had the chance to go downtown and do the paperwork for a replacement.
    Sachs now froze, recognizing him. It was Calvin Geddes, an employee of Privacy Now. She couldn’t make sense of this, and wondered if they’d been wrong. Were Geddes and 522 in on the murders together?
    He was now just yards away. Sachs could do nothing but step between Geddes and Pam. She balled her fists up as the man stepped close and reached into his jacket.

Chapter Fifty-two
    The doorbell rang, and Thom went to answer it.
    Rhyme heard some heated words from the front entryway. A man’s voice, angry. A shout.
    Frowning, he glanced at Ron Pulaski, who had his weapon out of his high-riding holster, and pointed it up, ready to fire. He held it expertly. Amelia Sachs was a good mentor.
    “Thom?” Rhyme called.
    He didn’t answer.
    A moment later a man appeared in the doorway, wearing a baseball cap, jeans and an ugly plaid jacket. He blinked in shock as Pulaski aimed the gun toward him.
    “No! Wait!” the man cried, ducking and lifting a hand.
    Then Thom, Sachs and Pam entered immediately behind him. The policewoman saw the weapon and said, “No, no, Ron. It’s okay. . . . He’s Calvin Geddes.”
    It took Rhyme a moment to recall. Ah, that’s right: with the Privacy Now organization, and the source of the lead about Peter Gordon. “What’s this all about?”
    Sachs said, “He’s the one who broke into my place. It wasn’t Five Twenty-Two.”
    Pam nodded, confirming this.
    Geddes stepped closer to Rhyme and reached into his jacket pocket and extracted some blue-backed documents. “Pursuant to New York State civil procedure laws, I’m serving you this subpoena in connection with Geddes et al. versus Strategic Systems Datacorp, Inc.” He held them out.
    “I got one too, Rhyme.” Sachs held up her own copy.
    “And I’m supposed to do what with those?” Rhyme asked Geddes, who continued to proffer the documents.
    The man frowned, then looked down at the wheelchair, aware of Rhyme’s condition for the first time. “I, well—”
    “He’s my attorney-in-fact.” Rhyme nodded to Thom, who took the papers.
    Geddes began, “I’m—”
    “You mind if we read it?” Rhyme asked acerbically, with a nod toward his aide.
    Thom did so, aloud. It was a subpoena requesting all the paper and computer files, notes and other information that Rhyme had in his possession that related to SSD, its Compliance Division and evidence of SSD’s connections with any governmental body.
    “She told me about