The Broken Window

many ways, gasoline mileage didn’t figure into her love of the environment. “We’re going to get a muscle car.”
    “What’s that?”
    “You’ll find out.” She brandished a list of potential vehicles she’d downloaded from the Internet.
    “You going to get a new one?” the girl asked.
    “Never, ever buy a new car,” Sachs lectured.
    “Why?”
    “Because cars today are just computers with wheels. We don’t want electronics. We want mechanics. You can’t get grease on your hands with computers.”
    “Grease?”
    “You’ll love grease. You’re a grease kind of girl.”
    “You think so?” Pam seemed pleased.
    “You bet. Let’s go. Later, Rhyme.”

Chapter Fifty-three
    The phone trilled.
    Lincoln Rhyme glanced up at a nearby computer screen, where caller ID displayed “44.”
    At last. This was it.
    “Command, answer phone.”
    “Detective Rhyme,” said the impeccable British voice. Longhurst’s alto never gave anything away.
    “Tell me.”
    A hesitation. Then: “I’m so sorry.”
    Rhyme closed his eyes. No, no, no . . .
    Longhurst continued, “We haven’t made the official announcement yet but I wanted to tell you before the press reported it.”
    So the killer had succeeded after all. “He’s dead then, Reverend Goodlight?”
    “Oh, no, he’s fine.”
    “But—”
    “But Richard Logan got his intended target, Detective.”
    “He got . . . ?” Rhyme’s voice faded as the pieces began coming together. The intended target. “Oh, no . . . Who was he really after?”
    “Danny Krueger, the arms dealer. He’s dead, two of his security people too.”
    “Ah, yes, I see.”
    Longhurst continued, “Apparently after Danny went straight, some cartels in South Africa, Somalia and Syria felt he was too great a risk to stay alive. A conscience-stricken arms dealer made them nervous. They hired Logan to kill him. But Danny’s security network in London was too tight so Logan needed to draw him out into the open.”
    The reverend had been merely a diversion. The killer himself had planted the rumor that there was a contract out on Goodlight. And he’d forced the British and the Americans to turn to Danny for help to save the reverend.
    “And it’s worse, I must say,” Longhurst went on. “He got all of Danny’s files. All his contacts, everybody who’s been working for him—informants, warlords who could be turned, mercenaries, bush pilots, sources of funds. All the potential witnesses will go to ground now. The ones who aren’t killed outright, that is. A dozen criminal cases’ll have to be dismissed.”
    “How’d he do it?”
    She sighed. “He was masquerading as our French liaison, d’Estourne.”
    So the fox had been in the henhouse from the beginning.
    “I would guess he intercepted the real d’Estourne in France on the way to the Chunnel, killed him and buried the body or dumped it at sea. It was brilliant, I must say. He researched everything about the Frenchman’s life and his organization. He spoke perfectFrench—and English with a perfect French accent. Even the idioms were spot-on.
    “A few hours ago some chap shows up at a building in the London courtyard shooting zone. Logan had hired him to deliver a package. He worked for Tottenham Parcel Express; they wear gray uniforms. Remember the fibers we found? And the killer had requested a particular driver he claimed he’d used before—who happened to be blond.”
    “The hair dye.”
    “Exactly. Dependable fellow, Logan said. Which is why he wanted him in particular. Everyone was so focused on the operation there, tracking this fellow through the shooting zone, looking for accomplices, worried about diversionary bombs, that the people in Birmingham lowered their guard. The killer just knocked on the door to Danny’s room in the Hotel Du Vin, while most of his security team were down in the champagne bar having a pint. He started shooting—with those dum-dum bullets. The wounds were horrible. Danny and two of his men were killed instantly.”
    Rhyme closed his eyes. “So no fake transit papers.”
    “All a diversion . . . It’s a bloody awful mess, I’m afraid. And the French—they’re not even returning my calls. . . . I don’t even want to think about it.”
    Lincoln Rhyme couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if he’d stuck with the case, searched the scene outside Manchester with the high-def video system. Would he have seen something that revealed the true