The Broken Window (3 page)

As Amelia Sachs smiled and kissed Rhyme on the mouth, the criminalist was aware, in his periphery, of Judy’s body language response. The message was clear and Rhyme wondered what had dismayed her: that she’d made the slip of not asking if he was seeing someone, or that she’d assumed a crip couldn’t have a romantic partner—at least not one as disarmingly attractive as Sachs, who’d been a model before going to the police academy.

He introduced them. Sachs listened with concern to the story of Arthur Rhyme’s arrest, and asked how Judy was coping with the situation. Then: “Do you have children?”

Rhyme realized that while he’d been noting Judy’s faux pas, he’d committed one himself, neglecting to ask about their son, whose name he’d forgotten. And, it turned out, the family had grown. In addition to Arthur Junior, who was in high school, there were two others. “A nine-year-old, Henry. And a daughter, Meadow. She’s six.”

“Meadow?” Sachs asked in surprise, for reasons Rhyme couldn’t deduce.

Judy gave an embarrassed laugh. “
And
we live in Jersey. But it’s got nothing to do with the TV show.

She was born before I’d ever seen it.”

TV show?

Judy broke the brief silence. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I called that officer to get your number.

But first I have to tell you Art doesn’t know I’m here.”

“No?”

“In fact, to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have thought of it on my own. I’ve been so upset, not 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.”

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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 that journey 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. He didn’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.

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“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 trunk! On three.

One… two… go!

You didn’t say three!

“There’s more, isn’t there, Judy? Tell us.” Sachs had seen something in the woman’s eyes, Rhyme supposed.

“I’m just upset. For the kids too. It’s a nightmare for them. The neighbors’re treating us like terrorists.”

“I’m sorry to push but it’s important for us to know all the facts. Please.”

The blush had returned and she was gripping her knees. Rhyme and Sachs had a friend who worked as an agent for the California Bureau of Investigation, Kathryn Dance. She was a kinesics, or body language, expert. Rhyme considered such skills secondary to forensic science but he’d come to respect Dance and had learned something about her specialty. He now could see easily that Judy Rhyme was a
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fountain of stress.

“Go on,” Sachs encouraged.

“It’s just that the police found some other evidence—well, it wasn’t really evidence. Not like clues.

But… it made them think maybe Art and the woman were seeing each other.”

Sachs asked, “What’s your opinion of that?”

“I don’t think he was.”

Rhyme noted the softened verb. Not as adamant a denial as with the murder and theft. She desperately wanted the answer to be no, though she’d probably come to the same conclusion Rhyme just had: that the woman’s being his lover worked in Arthur’s favor. You were more likely to rob a stranger than someone you were sleeping with. Still, as a wife and mother, Judy was crying out for one particular answer.

Then she glanced up, less cautious now about looking at Rhyme, the contraption he sat in and the other devices that defined his life. “Whatever else was going on, he did
not
kill that woman. He couldn’t have.

I
know
it in my soul… Is there anything you can do?”

Rhyme and Sachs shared a look. He said, “I’m sorry, Judy, we’re in the midst of a big case right now.

We’re real close to catching a very dangerous killer. I can’t drop that.”

“I wouldn’t want you to. But, just
something
. I don’t know what else to do.” Her lip was trembling.

He said, “We’ll make some calls, find out what we can. I can’t give you information you couldn’t otherwise get through your lawyer but I’ll tell you honestly what I think about the D.A.’s chance of success.”

“Oh, thank you, Lincoln.”

“Who’s his lawyer?”

She gave them the name and phone number. A high-profile, and -priced, criminal defense attorney Rhyme knew. But he’d be a man with a lot on his plate and more experience with financial than violent crimes.

Sachs asked about the prosecutor.

“Bernhard Grossman. I can get you his number.”

“That’s all right,” Sachs said. “I have it. I’ve worked with him before. He’s reasonable. I assume he offered your husband a plea bargain?”

“He did, and our lawyer wanted to take it. But Art refused. He keeps saying this is just a mistake, it’ll all get straightened out. But that doesn’t always happen, does it? Even if people are innocent they go to jail sometimes, don’t they?”

They do, yes, Rhyme thought, then said, “We’ll make a few phone calls.”

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She rose. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that we let things slide. Inexcusable.” Surprising him, Judy Rhyme strode directly to the wheelchair and bent down, brushing her cheek against his. Rhyme smelled nervous sweat and two distinct scents, perhaps deodorant and hair spray. No perfume. She didn’t seem the perfume type. “Thank you, Lincoln.” She walked to the door and paused. To them both she said,

“Whatever else you find, about that woman and Arthur, it’s all right. All I care about is that he doesn’t go to jail.”

“I’ll do what I can. We’ll give you a call if we find something concrete.”

Sachs saw her out.

When she returned Rhyme said, “Let’s check with the lawyers first.”

“I’m sorry, Rhyme.” He frowned, and she added, “I just mean, it’s got to be hard on
you
.”

“How’s that?”

“Thinking a close relative got busted for murder.”

Rhyme shrugged, one of the few gestures he could manage. “Ted Bundy was somebody’s son. Maybe a cousin too.”

“But still.” Sachs lifted the receiver. Eventually she tracked down the defense lawyer, got his answering service and left a message. Rhyme wondered which hole of which golf course he was on at that moment.

She then got in touch with the assistant district attorney, Grossman, who wasn’t enjoying the day of rest but was in his office downtown. He’d never connected the last name of the perp to the criminalist. “Hey, I’m sorry, Lincoln,” he said sincerely. “But I have to say, it’s a good case. I’m not blowing smoke. I’d tell you if there were gaps. But there aren’t. A jury’s going to nail him. If you can talk him into a plea, you’d be doing him a huge favor. I could probably go down to twelve solid.”

Twelve years, with no parole. It would kill Arthur, Rhyme reflected.

“Appreciate that,” Sachs said.

The A.D.A. added that he had a complicated trial starting tomorrow so he couldn’t spend any more time talking to them now. He’d call later in the week, if they liked.

He did, however, give them the name of the lead detective in the case, Bobby LaGrange.

“I know him,” she said, dialing him at home too. She got his voice mail but when she tried his cell he answered immediately.

“LaGrange.”

The hiss of wind and the sound of slapping water explained what the detective was up to on this clear-sky, warm day.

Sachs identified herself.

“Oh, sure. Howya doin’, Amelia? I’m waiting for a call from a snitch. We’ve got something going down
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in Red Hook anytime now.”

So, not on his fishing boat.

“I may have to hang up fast.”

“Understood. You’re on speaker.”

“Detective, this is Lincoln Rhyme.”

A hesitation. “Oh. Yeah.” A call from Lincoln Rhyme got people’s full attention pretty fast.

Rhyme explained about his cousin.

“Wait…‘Rhyme.’ You know, I thought it was a funny name. I mean, unusual. But I never put it together.

And he never said anything about you. Not in any of the interviews. Your cousin. Man, I’m sorry.”

“Detective, I don’t want to interfere with the case. But I said I’d call and find out what the story is. It’s gone to the A.D.A., I know. Just talked to him.”

“I gotta say the collar was righteous. I’ve run homicides for five years and short of somebody from Patrol witnessing a gang clip, this was the cleanest wrap I’ve seen.”

“What’s the story? Art’s wife only gave me the bones.”

In the stiff voice that cops fall into when recounting details of a crime—stripped of emotion: “Your cousin left work early. He went to the apartment of a woman named Alice Sanderson, down in the Village. She’d gotten off work early too. We aren’t sure how long he was there but sometime around six she was knifed to death and a painting was stolen.”

“Rare, I understand?”

“Yeah. But not like Van Gogh.”

“Who was the artist?”

“Somebody named Prescott. Oh, and we found some direct-mail things, flyers, you know, that a couple of galleries’d sent your cousin about Prescott. That didn’t look so good.”

“Tell me more about May twelfth,” Rhyme said.

“At about six a witness heard screams and a few minutes later saw a man carrying a painting out to a light blue Mercedes parked on the street. It left the scene fast. The wit only got the first three letters on the tag—couldn’t tell the state but we ran everything in the metro area. Narrowed the list down and interviewed the owners. One was your cousin. My partner and me went out to Jersey to talk to him, had a trooper with us, for protocol, you know. We saw what looked like blood on the back door and in the backseat. A bloody washcloth was under the seat. It matched a set of linens in the vic’s apartment.”

“And DNA was positive?”

“Her blood, yeah.”

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“The witness identified him in a lineup?”

“Naw, was anonymous. Called from a pay phone and wouldn’t give their name. Didn’t want to get involved. But we didn’t need any wits. Crime Scene had a field day. They lifted a shoeprint from the vic’s entryway—same kind of shoe your cousin wore—and got some good trace.”