The Broken Window

and uniformed patrolmen were searching the escape route for evidence and canvassing for witnesses.
    “Any sign he has a car?”
    “Don’t know. He was on foot when we saw him.”
    “Christ. Well, let me know when you find something.”
    “I’ll—”
    Click.
    She grimaced at Pulaski, who was holding his Handi Talkie up to his ear, listening to the pursuit. Haumann was monitoring it too. The progress, from what she could hear, didn’t seem fruitful. Nobody on the highway had seen him or was willing to admit it, if they had. Sachs turned to the house and saw a very concerned, and very confused, DeLeon Williams looking out through a curtained window.
    Saving the man from being yet another fall guy of 522 had involved both happenstance and good police work.
    And they had Ron Pulaski to thank for it. The young officer in the brash Hawaiian shirt had done what Rhyme had requested: immediately gone to One Police Plaza and started looking for other cases that matched 522’s modus operandi. He found none but as he was talking to a Homicide detective the unit got a report from Central about an anonymous phone call. A man had heard screams from a loft near SoHo andseen a black man fleeing in an old beige Dodge. A patrolman had responded and found that a young woman, Myra Weinburg, had been raped and murdered.
    Pulaski was struck by the anonymous call, echoing the earlier cases, and immediately called Rhyme. The criminalist figured that if 522 was in fact behind the crime he was probably sticking to his plan: he would plant evidence blaming a fall guy and they needed to find which of the more than 1,300 older beige Dodges was the one 522 might pick. Sure, maybe the man wasn’t 522 but even if not, they had the chance to collar a rapist and killer.
    At Rhyme’s instruction, Mel Cooper cross-matched Department of Motor Vehicles records with criminal records and came up with seven African-American men who had convictions for crimes more serious than traffic violations. One, though, was the most likely: an assault charge against a woman. DeLeon Williams was a perfect choice as a fall guy.
    Happenstance and police work.
    To authorize a tactical takedown, a lieutenant or higher was required. Captain Joe Malloy still had no clue about the clandestine 522 operation, so Rhyme called Sellitto, who grumbled but agreed to call Bo Haumann and authorize an ESU op.
    Amelia Sachs had joined Pulaski and the team at Williams’s house, where they’d learned from Search and Surveillance that only Williams was inside, not 522. There, they deployed to take the killer when he arrived to plant the evidence. The plan was tricky, improvised on the fly—and obviously hadn’t worked, though they’d saved an innocent man from being arrestedfor rape and murder and perhaps had discovered some good evidence to lead to the perp.
    “Anything?” she asked Haumann, who’d been conferring with some of his officers.
    “Nope.”
    Then his radio clattered again and Sachs heard the loud transmission. “Unit One, we’re on the other side of the highway. Looks like he’s rabbited clean. He must’ve made it to the subway.”
    “Shit,” she muttered.
    Haumann grimaced but said nothing.
    The officer continued, “But we’ve followed the route he probably took. It’s possible he ditched some evidence in a trash can on the way.”
    “That’s something,” she said. “Where?” She jotted the address the officer recited. “Tell them to secure the area. I’ll be there in ten.” Sachs then walked up the steps and knocked on the door. DeLeon Williams answered, and she said, “Sorry I haven’t had a chance to explain. A man we were trying to catch was headed to your house.”
    “Mine?”
    “We think so. But he got away.” She explained about Myra Weinburg.
    “Oh, no—she’s dead?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “I’m sorry, real sorry.”
    “Did you know her?”
    “No, never heard of her.”
    “We think the perp might’ve been trying to blame you for the crime.”
    “Me? Why?”
    “We have no idea. After we investigate a little more we may want to interview you.”
    “Sure thing.” He gave her his home and mobile numbers. Then frowned. “Can I ask? You seem pretty certain I didn’t do it. How’d you know I was innocent?”
    “Your car and garage. Officers searched them and didn’t find any evidence from the murder scene. The killer, we’re pretty sure, was going to plant some things there to implicate you. Of course, if we’d