The Broken Window Page 15

  It was time for the competition.

  Henry would throw out a science question and the first to answer it would win a point. The top three players would receive prizes picked by Henry and meticulously wrapped by Paula.

  Tensions were palpable--they always were when Henry was in charge--and people competed seriously. Lincoln's father could be counted on to nail more than a few chemistry questions. If the topic involved numbers his mother, a part-time math teacher, answered some before Henry had even finished asking. The front runners throughout the contest, though, were the cousins--Robert, Marie, Lincoln and Arthur--and Marie's fiance.

  Toward the end, nearly 8 P.M., the contestants were literally on the edge of their chairs. The rankings changed with every question. Palms were sweaty. With only minutes remaining on timekeeper Paula's clock, Lincoln answered three questions in a row and nosed ahead for the first-place win. Marie was second, Arthur third.

  Amid the clapping, Lincoln took a theatrical bow and accepted the top prize from his uncle. He still remembered his surprise as he unwrapped the dark green paper: a clear plastic box containing a one-inch cube of concrete. It wasn't a joke prize, though. What Lincoln held was a piece of Stagg Field at the University of Chicago, where the first atomic chain reaction had occurred, under the direction of his cousin's namesake, Arthur Compton, and Enrico Fermi. Henry had apparently acquired one of the pieces when the stadium was torn down in the 1950s. Lincoln had been very touched by the historic prize and suddenly glad he'd played seriously. He still had the rock somewhere, tucked away in a cardboard box in the basement.

  But Lincoln had no time to admire his award.

  Because that night he had a late date with Adrianna.

  Like his family, unexpectedly thrust into his thoughts today, the beautiful, red-haired gymnast had figured in his memories too.

  Adrianna Waleska--pronounced with a soft V, echoing her second-generation Gdansk roots--worked in the college counselor's office in Lincoln's high school. Early in his senior year, delivering some applications to her, he'd spotted Stranger in a Strange Land on her desk, the Heinlein novel well-thumbed. They'd spent the next hour discussing the book, agreeing often, arguing some, with the result that Lincoln realized he'd missed his chemistry class. No matter. Priorities were priorities.

  She was tall, lean, had invisible braces and an appealing figure under her fuzzy sweaters and flared jeans. Her smile ranged from ebullient to seductive. They were soon dating, the first foray into serious romance for both of them. They'd attend each other's sports meets, go to the Thorne Rooms at the Art Institute, the jazz clubs in Old Town and, occasionally, visit the backseat of her Chevy Monza, which was hardly any backseat at all and therefore just the ticket. Adrianna lived a short run from his house, by Lincoln's track-and-field standards, but that would never do--can't show up sweaty--so he'd borrow the family car when he could and head over to see her.

  They'd spend hours talking. As with Uncle Henry, he and Adie engaged.

  Obstacles existed, yes. He was leaving next year for college in Boston; she, for San Diego to study biology and work in the zoo. But those were mere complications and Lincoln Rhyme, then as now, would not accept complications as excuses.

  Afterward--after the accident, and after he and Blaine divorced--Rhyme often wondered what would have happened if he and Adrianna had stayed together and pursued what they'd started. That Christmas Eve night, in fact, he'd come very close to proposing. He'd considered offering her not a ring but, as he'd cleverly rehearsed, "a different kind of rock"--his uncle's prize from the science trivia contest.

  But he'd balked, thanks to the weather. As they'd sat, clutching each other on a bench, the snow had begun to tumble suicidally from the silent Midwest sky and in minutes their hair and coats were covered with a damp white blanket. She'd just made it back to her house and Lincoln to his before the roads were blocked. He lay in bed that night, the plastic box containing the concrete beside him, and practiced a proposal speech.

  Which was never delivered. Events intruded in their lives, sending them on different paths, seemingly minute events, though small in the way of invisible atoms tricked to fission in a chilly sports stadium, changing the world forever.

  Everything would've been different. . . .

  Rhyme now caught a glimpse of Sachs brushing her long red hair. He watched her for some moments, glad she'd be staying tonight--more pleased than usual. Rhyme and Sachs weren't inseparable. They were staunchly independent people, preferring often to spend time apart. But tonight he wanted her here. Enjoying the presence of her body next to his, the sensation--in those few places he was able to feel--all the more intense for its rarity.

  His love for her was one of the motivators for his exercise regimen, working on a computerized treadmill and Electrologic bike. If medical science crept past that finishing line--allowing him to walk again--his muscles were going to be ready. He was also considering a new operation that might improve his condition until that day arrived. Experimental, and controversial, it was known as peripheral nerve rerouting, a technique that had been talked about--and occasionally tried--for years without many positive results. But recently foreign doctors had been performing the operation with some success, despite the reservation of the American medical community. The procedure involved surgically connecting nerves above the site of the injury to nerves below it. A detour around a washed-out bridge, in effect.

  The successes were mostly in bodies less severely damaged than Rhyme's but the results were remarkable: return of bladder control, movement of limbs, even walking. The latter would not be the result in Rhyme's case but discussions with a Japanese doctor who'd pioneered the procedure and with a colleague at an Ivy League university teaching hospital gave some hope of improvement. Possibly sensation and movement in his arms, hands and bladder.

  Sex too.

  Paralyzed men, even quads, are perfectly capable of having sex. If the stimulus is mental--seeing a man or woman who appeals to us--then, no, the message doesn't make it past the site of the damaged spinal cord. But the body is a brilliant mechanism and there's a magic loop of nerve that operates on its own, below the injury. A little local stimulus, and even the most severely disabled men can often make love.

  The bathroom light clicked out and he watched her silhouette join him and climb into what she'd announced long ago was the most comfortable bed in the world.

  "I--" he began, and his voice was immediately muffled by her mouth as she kissed him hard.

  "What did you say?" she whispered, moving her lips along his chin, then to his neck.

  He'd forgotten. "I forgot."

  He gripped her ear with his lips and was then aware of the blankets being pulled down. This took some effort on her part; Thom made up the bed like a soldier afraid of his drill sergeant. But soon he could see that the blankets were bunched up at the foot. Sachs's T-shirt had joined them.

  She kissed him again. He kissed her back hard.

  Which is when her phone rang.

  "Uh-uh," she whispered. "I didn't hear that." After four rings, blessed voice mail took over. But a moment later it rang again.

  "Could be your mother," Rhyme pointed out.

  Rose Sachs had been undergoing some treatments for a cardiac problem. The prognosis was good but she'd had some recent setbacks.

  Sachs grunted and flipped it open, bathing both of their bodies in a blue light. Looking at caller ID, she said, "Pam. I better take it."

  "Of course."

  "Hey, there. What's up?"

  As the one-sided conversation continued, Rhyme deduced that something was wrong.

  "Okay . . . Sure . . . But I'm at Lincoln's. You want to come over here?" She glanced at Rhyme, who was nodding agreement. "Okay, honey. We'll be awake, sure." She snapped the phone shut.

  "What is it?"

  "I don't know. She wouldn't say. She just said Dan and Enid had two emergency placements tonight. So all the older kids had to room together. She had to get out. And s
he doesn't want to be at my place alone."

  "It's fine with me. You know that."

  Sachs lay back down and her mouth explored energetically. She whispered, "I did the math. She's got to pack a bag, get her car out of the garage . . . it'll take her a good forty-five minutes to be here. We've got a little time."

  She leaned forward and kissed him again.

  Just as the doorbell rang jarringly and the intercom clattered, "Mr. Rhyme? Amelia? Hi, it's Pam. Can you buzz me in?"

  Rhyme laughed. "Or she might've called from the front steps."

  *

  They sat in one of the upstairs bedrooms, Pam and Sachs.

  The room was the girl's for whenever she wished to stay. A stuffed animal or two sat neglected on the shelf (when your mother and stepfather are running from the FBI, toys don't figure much in your childhood) but she had several hundred books and CDs. Thanks to Thom there always were plenty of clean sweats and T-shirts and socks. A Sirius satellite radio set and a disk player. Her running shoes too; Pam loved to speed along the 1.6-mile path surrounding the Central Park reservoir. She ran from love of running and she ran from hungry need.

  The girl now sat on the bed, carefully painting gold polish on her toenails, cotton balls separating the canvases. Her mother had forbidden this, as well as makeup ("out of respect for Christ," however that was supposed to work), and once sprung from the far-right underground she took up small, comforting additions to her persona, like this, some ruddy hair tint and the three ear piercings. Sachs was relieved she didn't go overboard; if anybody had a reason to slingshot herself into the weird, it was Pamela Willoughby.

  Sachs was lounging in a chair, feet up, her own toenails bare. A breeze carried into the small room the complicated mix of spring scents from Central Park: mulch, earth, dew-damp foliage, vehicle exhaust. She sipped her hot chocolate. "Ouch. Blow on it first."

  Pam whistled into her cup and tasted it. "It's good. Yeah, hot." She returned to her nails. In contrast to her visage earlier in the day, the girl's face was troubled.

  "You know what those are called?" Sachs was pointing.

  "Feet? Toes?"

  "No, the bottoms?"

  "Sure. The bottoms of feet and the bottoms of toes." They laughed.

  "Plantars. And they have prints too, just like fingerprints. Lincoln convicted somebody once because the perp kicked somebody unconscious with his bare foot. But he missed once and whacked the door. Left a print on it."

  "That's cool. He should write another book."

  "I'm after him to," Sachs said. "So what's up?"

  "Stuart."

  "Go on."

  "Maybe I shouldn't've come. It's stupid."

  "Come on. I'm a cop, remember. I'll sweat it out of you."

  "Just, Emily called and it was weird her calling on Sunday, like, she never does, and I'm thinking, okay, something's going on. And it's like she really doesn't want to say anything but then she does. And she said she saw Stuart today with somebody else. This girl from school. After the soccer game. Only he told me he was going right home."

  "Well, what are the facts? Were they just talking? Nothing wrong with that."

  "She said she wasn't sure but it, you know, kind of looked like he was hugging her. And then when he saw somebody looking at him, he kind of walked away real fast with her. Like he was trying to hide." The toenail project came to a stop, halfway done. "I really, really like him. It'd suck if he didn't want to see me anymore."

  Sachs and Pam had been to a counselor together--and, with Pam's agreement, Sachs had spoken to the woman alone. Pam would be undergoing a lengthy period of post-traumatic stress, not only from her lengthy captivity with a sociopath parent but from a particular episode in which her stepfather had nearly sacrificed her life while trying to murder police officers. Incidents like this one with Stuart Everett, small to most people, were amplified in the girl's mind and could have devastating effects. Sachs had been told not to add to her fears but not to downplay them either. To look at each one carefully and try to analyze it.

  "Have you guys talked about seeing other people?"

  "He said . . . well, a month ago he said he wasn't. I'm not either. I told him that."

  "Any other intelligence?" Sachs asked.

  "Intelligence?"

  "I mean, have any of your other friends said anything?"

  "No."

  "Do you know any of his friends?"

  "Kind of. But not like I could ask them anything about it. That'd be way uncool."

  Sachs smiled. "So spies aren't going to work. Well, what you should do is just ask him. Point-blank."

  "You think?"

  "I think."

  "What if he says he is seeing her?"

  "Then you should be thankful he's honest with you. That's a good sign. And then you convince him to dump the bimbo." They laughed. "What you do is say that you just want to date one person." The startup mother in Sachs added quickly, "We're not talking about getting married, not moving in. Just dating."

  Pam nodded quickly. "Oh, absolutely."

  Relieved, Sachs continued, "And he's the one you want to see. But you expect the same thing from him. You have something important, you relate to each other, you can talk, you've got a connection and you don't see that very much."

  "Like you and Mr. Rhyme."

  "Yeah, like that. But if he doesn't want it, then okay."

  "No, it's not." Pam frowned.

  "No, I'm just telling you what you say. But then tell him you're going to be dating other people too. He can't have it both ways."

  "I guess. But what if he says fine?" Her face was dark at the thought.

  A laugh. Sachs shook her head. "Yep, it's a bummer when they call your bluff. But I don't think he will."

  "All right. I'm going to see him tomorrow after class. I'll talk to him."

  "Call me. Let me know." Sachs rose, lifted away the polish and capped it. "Get some sleep. It's late."

  "But my nails. I'm not finished."

  "Don't wear open-toed."

  "Amelia?"

  She paused at the doorway.

  "Are you and Mr. Rhyme going to get married?"

  Sachs smiled and closed the door.

  III

  THE FORTUNE TELLER

  MONDAY, MAY 23

  With uncanny accuracy, computers predict behavior by sifting through mountains of data about customers collected by businesses. Called predictive analytics, this automated crystal ball gazing has become a $2.3 billion industry in the United States and is on track to reach $3 billion by 2008.

  --CHICAGO TRIBUNE

  Chapter Eighteen

  They're pretty big. . . .

  Amelia Sachs sat in Strategic Systems Datacorp's sky-high lobby and reflected that the shoe company president's description of SSD's data mining operation was, well, pretty understated.

  The Midtown building was thirty stories high, a gray spiky monolith, the sides smooth granite flashing with mica. The windows were narrow slits, which was surprising given the stunning views of the city from this location and elevation. She was familiar with the building, dubbed the Gray Rock, but had never known who owned it.

  She and Ron Pulaski--no longer in play clothes but wearing a navy suit and navy uniform, respectively--sat facing a massive wall on which were printed the locations of the SSD offices around the world, among them London, Buenos Aires, Mumbai, Singapore, Beijing, Dubai, Sydney and Tokyo.

  Pretty big . . .

  Above the list of satellite offices was the company logo: the window in the watchtower.

  Her gut twisted slightly as she recalled the windows in the abandoned building across the street from Robert Jorgensen's residence hotel. She recalled Lincoln Rhyme's words about the incident with the federal agent in Brooklyn.

  He knew exactly where you were. Which means he was watching. Be careful, Sachs. . . .

  Looking around the lobby, she saw a half dozen businesspeople waiting here, many of them uneasy, it seemed, and she recalled t
he shoe company president and his concern about losing SSD's services. She then saw, almost en masse, their heads swivel, looking past the receptionist. They were watching a short man, youthful, enter the lobby and walk directly toward Sachs and Pulaski over the black-and-white rugs. His posture was perfect and his stride long. The sandy-haired man nodded and smiled, offering a fast greeting--by name--to nearly everybody here.

  A presidential candidate. That was Sachs's first impression.

  But he didn't stop until he came to the officers. "Good morning. I'm Andrew Sterling."

  "Detective Sachs. This is Officer Pulaski."

  Sterling was shorter than Sachs by several inches but he seemed quite fit and had broad shoulders. His immaculate white shirt featured a starched collar and cuffs. His arms seemed muscular; the jacket was tight-fitting. No jewelry. Crinkles radiated from the corners of his green eyes when that easy smile crossed his face.

  "Let's go to my office."

  The head of such a big company . . . yet he'd come to them, rather than having an underling escort them to his throne room.

  Sterling walked easily down the wide, quiet halls. He greeted every employee, sometimes asking questions about their weekends. They ate up his smiles at reports of an enjoyable weekend and his frowns at word of ill relatives or canceled games. There were dozens of them, and he made a personal comment to each.

  "Hello, Tony," he said to a janitor, who was emptying the contents of shredded documents into a large plastic bag. "Did you see the game?"

  "No, Andrew, I missed it. Had too much to do."

  "Maybe we should start three-day weekends," Sterling joked.

  "I'd vote for that, Andrew."

  And they continued down the hall.

  Sachs didn't think she knew as many in the NYPD as Sterling said hello to in their five-minute walk.

  The decor of the company was minimal: some small, tasteful photographs and sketches--none in color--overwhelmed by the spotless white walls. The furniture, also black or white, was simple--expensive Ikea. It was a statement of some kind, she guessed, but she found it bleak.

  As they walked, she ran through what she'd learned last night, after saying good night to Pam. The man's bio, patched together from the Web, was sparse. He was an intensely reclusive man--a Howard Hughes, not a Bill Gates. His early life was a mystery. She'd found no references at all to his childhood, or his parents. A few sketchy pieces in the press had put him on the radar at age seventeen, when he'd had his first jobs, mostly in sales, working door-to-door and telemarketing, moving up to bigger, more expensive products. Finally computers. For a kid with "7/8 of a bachelor's degree from a night school," Sterling told the press, he found himself a successful salesman. He'd gone back to college, finishing the last one-eighth of the degree and completing a master's in computer science and engineering in short order. The stories were all very Horatio Alger and included only details that boosted his savvy and status as a businessman.