The Broken Window

the city (1,357 of them as of yesterday) and that somehow they lucked out with this one. They’re convinced, even without the evidence I was going to plant in his garage, that DeLeon 6832 is the rapist and murderer of Myra 9834 and they’re arresting him right now, or lying in wait for him to return.
    The other explanation is far more troubling. The police have decided that he’s being set up. And they’re lying in wait for me .
    I’m sweating now. This is not good this is not good not good . . .
    But don’t panic. Your treasures are safe, your Closet is safe. Relax.
    Still, whatever’s happened I have to find out. If the police presence here is just a perverse coincidence, having nothing to do with DeLeon 6832 or with me, then I’ll plant the evidence and get the hell back to my Closet.
    But if they’ve found out about me they could find out about the others. Randall 6794 and Rita 2907 and Arthur 3480 . . .
    Cap down a little more over the eyes—the sunglasses pushed high on my nose—I change course completely, circling well around the house, moving through alleys and gardens and backyards. Keeping the three-block perimeter, which they helpfully established as my safety zone by parking the Crown Vic beacons there.
    This takes me in a semicircle to a grassy embankment leading up to the highway. Climbing up it, I’m able to see the tiny backyards and porches of the houses on DeLeon 6832’s block. I begin to count dwellings to find his.
    But I don’t need to. I see clearly a police officer on the roof of a two-story house behind the alley from his place. He has a rifle. A sniper! There’s another, with a pair of binoculars too. And several more, in suits or street clothes, crouching in bushes right next to the structure.
    Then two cops are pointing in my direction. I see that yet another officer is on the top of the house across the street. He’s pointing my way too. And since I’m not six feet three, 230 pounds, with skin dark as ebony, they aren’t waiting for DeLeon 6832. They’ve been waiting for me .
    My hands are beginning to shake. Imagine if I’d blundered right into the middle of that, with the evidence in my backpack.
    A dozen other officers are running to their cars or jogging fast in my direction. Running like wolves. I turn and scrabble up the embankment, breathing hard, panicked. I’m not even to the top when I hear the first of the sirens.
    No, no!
    My treasures, my Closet . . .
    The highway, four lanes total, is crowded, which is good because the sixteens have to drive slowly. I can dodge pretty well, even with my head down; I’m sure nobody gets a good look at my face. Then I vault the barrier and stumble down the other embankment. Mycollecting, and other activities, keep me in good shape and soon I’m sprinting fast toward the closest subway station. I pause only once, to pull on cotton gloves and rip from my backpack the plastic bag containing the evidence I was going to plant, then shove it into a trash can. I can’t be caught with it. I can’t . A half block closer to the subway, I dodge into an alley behind a restaurant. I turn my reversible jacket inside out, swap hats and emerge again, my backpack now stuffed into a shopping bag.
    Finally, I’m at the subway station, and—thank you—I can feel the musty tunnel breath preceding a train as it approaches. Then the thunder of the bulky car, the squeal of metal on metal.
    But before I get to the turnstile I pause. The shock is now gone, but it’s been replaced by the edgy. I understand I can’t leave just yet.
    The significance of the problem crashes down on me. They might not know my identity but they’ve figured out what I was doing.
    Which means they want to take something away from me. My treasures, my Closet . . . everything.
    And that, of course, is unacceptable.
    Making sure I stay clear of the CCTV camera, I casually walk back up the stairs, digging in my bag, as I leave the subway station.
    •   •   •
    “Where?” Rhyme’s voice filled Amelia Sachs’s earphone. “Where the hell is he?”
    “He spotted us, took off.”
    “You’re sure it was him?”
    “Pretty sure. Surveillance saw somebody a few blocks away. Looks like he spotted some of the detectives’cars and changed his route. We saw him watching us, and he ran. We’ve got teams after him.”
    She was in DeLeon Williams’s front yard with Pulaski, Bo Haumann and a half dozen other ESU officers. Some Crime Scene Unit techs