The Broken Window

nature of the killer’s plan? Would he have decided that the Birmingham evidence too was planted? Or was there something that might haveled him to conclude that the person who’d rented the room—the man he was so desperate to catch—was masquerading as the French security agent?
    Was there something he might have seen at the NGO office break-in in London?
    “And the name Richard Logan?” Rhyme asked.
    “Wasn’t his, apparently. A complete alias. He stole somebody’s identity. It’s surprisingly easy to do, apparently.”
    “So I’ve heard,” Rhyme said bitterly.
    Longhurst continued, “One rather odd thing, though, Detective. That bag that was to be delivered in the shooting zone by the Tottenham chap? Inside was—”
    “—a package addressed to me.”
    “Why, yes.”
    “Was it a watch or clock, by any chance?” Rhyme asked.
    Longhurst barked an incredulous laugh. “A rather posh table clock, Victorian. How on earth did you possibly know?”
    “Just a hunch.”
    “Our explosives people checked it. It’s quite safe.”
    “No, it wouldn’t be an IED. . . . Inspector, please seal it in plastic and ship it over here overnight. And I’d like to see your case report when it’s finished.”
    “Of course.”
    “And my partner—”
    “Detective Sachs.”
    “That’s right. She’ll want to video interview everybody involved.”
    “I’ll put together a dramatis personae.”
    Despite his anger and dismay, Rhyme had to smile at the expression. He loved the Brits.
    “It’s been a privilege to work with you, Detective.”
    “And with you too, Inspector.” He disconnected, sighed.
    A Victorian clock.
    Rhyme looked at the mantelpiece, on which was displayed a Breguet pocket watch, old and quite valuable, a gift from the very same killer. The watch had been delivered here just after the man had escaped from Rhyme on a cold, cold day in December not so long ago.
    “Thom. Scotch. Please.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “There’s nothing wrong. It’s not breakfast time and I want some scotch. I passed my physical with flying colors and the last time I looked you weren’t a Bible-thumping, teetotaling Baptist. Why the hell do you think there’s something wrong?”
    “Because you said ‘please.’ ”
    “Very funny. Quite the wit today.”
    “I try.” But he frowned as he studied Rhyme and read something in his expression. “Maybe a double?” he asked softly.
    “A double would be lovely,” Rhyme said, lapsing into Brit English.
    The aide poured a large tumblerful of Glenmorangie and arranged the straw near his mouth.
    “Join me?”
    Thom blinked. Then he laughed. “Maybe later.” It was the first time, Rhyme believed, that he’d ever offered his aide a drink.
    The criminalist sipped the smoky liquor, staring at the pocket watch. He thought of the note the killer had included with the timepiece. Rhyme had long ago memorized it.
    The pocket watch is a Breguet. It is the favorite of the many timepieces I have come across in the past year. It was made in the early 1800s and features a ruby cylinder escapement, perpetual calendar and parachute anti-shock device. I hope you appreciate the phases-of-the-moon window, in light of our recent adventures together. There are few specimens like this watch in the world. I give it to you as a present, out of respect. In my years at this profession, no one has ever stopped me from finishing a job; you’re as good as they get. (I would say you’re as good as I, but that is not quite true; you did not, after all, catch me.)
    Keep the Breguet wound (but gently); it will be counting out the minutes until we meet again.
    Some advice—If I were you, I would make every one of those seconds count.
    You’re good, Rhyme spoke silently to the killer.
    But I’m good too. Next time, we finish our game.
    Then his thoughts were interrupted. Rhyme squinted, looking away from the watch and focusing out the window. Something had caught his eye.
    A man in casual clothing was dawdling on the sidewalkacross the street. Rhyme maneuvered his TDX to the window and looked out. He sipped more whisky. The man stood beside a dark overpainted bench in front of the stone wall bordering Central Park. He was staring at the town house, hands in his pockets. Apparently he couldn’t see that he was being observed from inside the town house’s large window.
    It was his cousin, Arthur Rhyme.
    The man started forward, nearly crossing the street. But then he stopped. He walked