The Broken Window

getting any sleep, not thinking straight. But I was talking to Art a few days ago in the detention center and he said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, but don’t call Lincoln. It’s a case of mistaken identity or something. We’ll get it straightened out. Promise me you won’t.’ He didn’t want to burden you. . . . You know how Art is. Just so kind, always thinking of everybody else.”
    Rhyme nodded.
    “But the more I got to thinking about it, the more sense it made. I wouldn’t ask you to pull strings or do anything that wasn’t right, but I thought maybe you could just make a call or two. Tell me what you thought.”
    Rhyme could imagine how that would go over at the Big Building. As a forensic consultant for the NYPD, his job was getting to the truth, wherever thatjourney led, but the brass definitely preferred him to help convict, not exonerate, defendants.
    “I went through some of your clippings—”
    “Clippings?”
    “Art keeps family scrapbooks. He has clippings about your cases from the newspapers. Dozens. You’ve done some amazing things.”
    Rhyme said, “Oh, I’m just a civil servant.”
    Finally Judy delivered some unvarnished emotion: a smile, as she looked into his eyes. “Art said he never believed your modesty for a minute.”
    “Is that right?”
    “But only because you never believed it either.”
    Sachs chuckled.
    Rhyme snorted a laugh that he thought would pass for sincere. Then he grew serious. “I don’t know how much I can do. But tell me what happened.”
    “It was a week ago Thursday, the twelfth. Art always takes off early every Thursday. He goes for a long run in a state park on the way home. He loves to run.”
    Rhyme recalled dozens of times when the two boys, born within months of each other, would race along sidewalks or through the green-yellow fields near their Midwestern homes, grasshoppers fleeing, gnats sticking to their sweaty skin when they stopped for breath. Art always seemed to be in better shape but Lincoln had made his school’s varsity track team; his cousin hadn’t been interested in trying out.
    Rhyme pushed aside the memories and concentrated on what Judy was saying.
    “He left work about three-thirty and went for his run, then came home about seven, seven-thirty. Hedidn’t seem any different, wasn’t acting odd. He took a shower. We had dinner. But the next day the police came to the house, two from New York and a New Jersey trooper. They asked him questions and looked through the car. They found some blood, I don’t know . . .” Her voice conveyed traces of the shock she would have felt on that difficult morning. “They searched the house and took away some things. And then they came back and arrested him. For murder.” She had trouble saying the word.
    “What was he supposed to have done exactly?” Sachs asked.
    “They claimed he killed a woman and stole a rare painting from her.” She scoffed bitterly. “Stole a painting? What on earth for? And murder? Why, Arthur never hurt a single soul in his life. He isn’t capable of it.”
    “The blood that was found? Have they run a DNA test?”
    “Well, yes, they did. And it seemed to match the victim. But those tests can be wrong, can’t they?”
    “Sometimes,” Rhyme said, thinking, Very, very rarely.
    “Or the real killer could have planted the blood.”
    “This painting,” Sachs asked, “did Arthur have any particular interest in it?”
    Judy played with thick black and white plastic bracelets on her left wrist. “The thing is, yes, he used to own one by the same artist. He liked it. But he had to sell it when he lost his job.”
    “Where was the painting found?”
    “It wasn’t.”
    “But how did they know it was taken?”
    “Somebody, a witness, said they saw a man carrying it from the woman’s apartment to the car around the time she was killed. Oh, it’s all just a terrible mix-up. Coincidences . . . That’s what it has to be, just a weird series of coincidences.” Her voice cracked.
    “Did he know her?”
    “At first Art said he didn’t but then, well, he thought they might’ve met. At an art gallery he goes to sometimes. But he said he never talked to her that he can remember.” Her eyes now took in the whiteboard containing the schematic of the plan to capture Logan in England.
    Rhyme was remembering other times he and Arthur had spent together.
    Race you to that tree. . . . No, you wimp . . . the maple way over there. Touch the