The Broken Window Page 8

  Utter, helpless fear.

  "No, no, no, no." Gasping, struggling to breathe. He'd stopped taking his meds months ago, believing he was better.

  Now, watching the detectives fan out around the house, DeLeon Williams thought blindly: Get the hell out, run!

  He had to distance himself. To show that Janeece had no connection to him, to save her and her son--two people he truly loved--he'd vanish. The man slipped the chain on the front door, the deadbolt too, and ran upstairs for a bag, tossed into it whatever he thought of. Nothing made sense: shave cream but no razors, underwear but no shirts, shoes but no socks.

  And he took one other thing from the closet.

  His military pistol, a Colt .45. The weapon was unloaded--he wouldn't think of shooting anyone--but he could use it to bluff his way past the police, or hijack a car if he had to.

  All he could think was: Run! Go!

  Williams took a last look at the picture of Janeece and him together, with her son, on a trip to Six Flags. He started to cry again, then wiped his eyes, slung the bag over his shoulder and, kneading the grip of the heavy pistol, started down the stairs.

  Chapter Ten

  "The forward sniper's in position?"

  Bo Haumann, former drill sergeant and now head of the city's Emergency Service Unit--NYPD's SWAT team--gestured at a building that provided a perfect shooting location, covering the tiny backyard of the detached house where DeLeon Williams was living.

  "Yes, sir," an officer standing nearby said. "And Johnny's got the back covered."

  "Good."

  A graying man, crew cut and tough as leather, Haumann ordered the two ESU takedown teams into position. "And stay out of sight."

  Haumann had been in his own backyard not far from here, coaxing last year's charcoal to ignite, when a call came in about a rape/murder and a solid lead to the suspect. He turned over the incendiary mission to his son, donned his gear and sped out, thanking the good Lord that he hadn't popped that first beer. Haumann would drive after he'd had a couple of brews, but he never fired a weapon within eight hours of imbibing.

  And there was now a chance, on this fine Sunday, that they would see some gunplay.

  His radio crackled and through the headset earpiece he heard, "S and S One to Base, K." A Search and Surveillance team was across the street, along with the second sniper.

  "Base. Go ahead, K."

  "Getting some thermals. Somebody could be inside. No audible."

  Could be, Haumann thought, irritated. He'd seen the budget for the equipment. It ought to be able to say for sure if somebody was inside--if not report their goddamn shoe size and whether they'd flossed that morning.

  "Check again."

  After what seemed like forever, he heard, "S and S One. Okay, we've got only one person inside. And a visual through a window. It's definitely DeLeon Williams, from the DMV pic you passed out, K."

  "Good. Out."

  Haumann called the two tactical teams, which were moving into position around the house now, remaining nearly invisible. "Now, we didn't have much time for a briefing. But listen up. This perp is a rapist and a killer. We want him alive but he's too dangerous to let get away. If he makes any hostile gesture, you're green-lighted."

  "B leader. Roger that. Be advised, we're in position. Alley and streets to the north are covered and back door, K."

  "A leader to Base. Roger the green light. We're in position on front door, and covering all streets to the south and east."

  "Snipers," Haumann radioed. "You copy the green light?"

  "Roger." They added that they were locked and loaded. (The phrase was a pet peeve of Haumann's, since it was unique to the old M-1 army rifle, with which you had to lock the bolt back and load a clip of bullets through the top; you didn't have to lock a modern rifle to load it. But now wasn't the time for lectures.)

  Haumann unsnapped the thong on his Glock and slipped into the alley behind the house, where he was joined by yet more officers, whose plans on this idyllic spring Sunday, like his, had changed so fast and dramatically.

  At that moment a voice clattered into his earpiece, "S and S Two to Base. I think we've got something."

  *

  On his knees DeLeon Williams carefully looked through a crack in the door--an actual crack in the wood that he'd been meaning to fix--and could see that the officers were no longer there.

  No, he corrected himself, they're no longer visible. Big difference. He saw a glint of metal or glass in the bushes. Maybe from one of those weird elves or deer lawn ornaments the neighbor collected.

  Or it might be a cop with a gun.

  Lugging the bag, he crawled to the back of the house. Another peek. This time, risking a look through the window, struggling hard to control the panic.

  The backyard and the alley beyond were empty.

  But once again he corrected: seemed to be empty.

  He felt another shiver of PTSD panic and an urge to race out the door, pull the gun and charge down the alley, threatening anybody he saw, screaming for them to stand back.

  Impulsively, his mind whirling, he reached for the knob.

  No . . .

  Be smart.

  He sat back, head against the wall, working to slow his breathing.

  After a moment he calmed and decided to try something else. In the basement was a window that led into the tiny side yard. Across eight feet of anemic grass a similar window opened into his neighbor's basement. The Wongs were away for the weekend--he was watering their plants for them--and Williams figured he could sneak inside, then upstairs and through their back door. If he was lucky the police wouldn't be covering the side yard. Then he'd take the alley up to the main street and jog to the subway.

  The plan wasn't great but it gave him more of a chance than just waiting here. Tears again. And panic.

  Stop it, soldier. Come on.

  He rose and staggered down the stairs into the basement.

  Just get the hell out. The cops'd be at the front door at any minute, kicking it in.

  He unlatched the window and climbed up and out. Starting to crawl toward the Wongs' basement window, he glanced to his right. He froze.

  Oh, Jesus Lord . . .

  Police, a male and a female detective, holding guns in their right hands, were crouching in the narrow side yard. They weren't looking his way, but staring out, toward the back door and the alley.

  The panic again slammed hard. He'd pull out the Colt and threaten them. Make them sit down, cuff themselves and throw away their radios. He hated to do it; that would be a real crime. But he didn't have any choice. They were obviously convinced he'd done something terrible. Yes, he'd get their guns and flee. Maybe they had an unmarked car nearby. He'd take their keys.

  Was somebody covering them, somebody he couldn't see? A sniper maybe?

  Well, he'd just have to take that chance.

  He quietly set the bag down and began to reach for the gun.

  Which was when the woman detective turned his way. Williams gasped. I'm dead, he thought.

  Janeece, I love you. . . .

  But the woman glanced at a piece of paper and then squinted as she looked him over. "DeLeon Williams?"

  His voice gurgled. "I--" He nodded, shoulders falling. He could only stare at her pretty face, her red hair in a ponytail, her cold eyes.

  She held up the badge that was hanging around her neck. "We're police officers. How'd you get out of your house?" Then she noted the window and nodded. "Mr. Williams, we're in the middle of an operation here. Could you go back inside? You'll be safer there."

  "I--" Panic was shattering his voice. "I--"

  "Now," she said insistently. "We'll be with you as soon as everything's resolved. Be quiet. Don't try to leave again. Please."

  "Sure. I . . . Sure."

  He left the bag and started to ease through the window.

  She said into her radio, "This's Sachs. I'd expand the perimeter, Bo. He's going to be real cautious."

  What the hell
was going on? Williams didn't waste time speculating. He awkwardly climbed back into the basement and walked upstairs. Once there he headed straight into the bathroom. He lifted the lid off the back of the toilet and dropped the gun in. He walked to the window, going to peek out once more. But then paused and ran back to the toilet just in time to be painfully sick.

  *

  A curious thing to say, given this fine day--and given what I've been up to with Myra 9834--but I miss being in the office.

  First, I enjoy working, always have. And I enjoy the atmosphere, the camaraderie with the sixteens around you, almost like a family.

  Then there's the feeling of being productive. Being involved in fast-paced New York business. ("Cutting edge" one hears, and that's something I do hate, the corporate-speak--a phrase that is itself corporate-speak. No, the great leaders--FDR, Truman, Caesar, Hitler--didn't need to wrap themselves in the cloak of simple-minded rhetoric.)

  Most important, of course, is how my job helps me with my hobby. No, it's more than that. It's vital.

  My particular situation is good, very good. I can usually get away when I want to. With some juggling of commitments I can find time during the week to pursue my passion. And given who I am in public--my professional face, you could say--it would be very unlikely for someone to suspect that I'm a very different person at heart. To put it mildly.

  I'm often at work on weekends too, and that's one of my favorite times--if, of course, I'm not engaging in a transaction with a beautiful girl like Myra 9834 or acquiring a painting or comic books or coins or a rare piece of china. Even when there are few other sixteens present at the office, on a holiday, Saturday or Sunday, the halls hum with the white noise of wheels moving society slowly forward--into a bold new world.

  Ah, here's an antiques store. I pause to look into the window. There are some pictures and souvenir plates, cups and posters that appeal to me. Sadly I won't be able to return here to shop because it's too close to DeLeon 6832's house. The odds of anyone making a connection between me and the "rapist" are quite minimal, but . . . why take chances? (I only shop in stores or scavenge. eBay is fun to look at, but buying something online? You'd have to be mad.) For the time being cash is still good. But soon it'll be tagged, like everything else. RFIDs in the bills. It's already done in some countries. The bank will know which $20 bill was dispensed to you from which ATM or bank. And they'll know you spent it on coke or a bra for your mistress or as a down payment to a hit man. We should go back to gold, I sometimes think.

  Off. The. Grid.

  Ah, poor DeLeon 6832. I know his face, from the driver's license picture, a benign gaze at the civil-servant camera. I can imagine his expression when the police knock on his door and display the warrant for his arrest on rape and murder charges. I can see too the horrified look he'll give to his girlfriend, Janeece 9810, and her ten-year-old son if they're home when it happens. Wonder if he's a crier.

  I'm three blocks away. And--

  Ah, wait . . . Here's something unusual.

  Two new Crown Victorias parked on this tree-filled side street. Statistically it's unlikely that this sort of car, in such pristine shape, would be seen in this neighborhood. Two identical cars are particularly unlikely, and factor in that they're parked in tandem, with no flecks of leaves or pollen, unlike the others. They've arrived recently.

  And, yes, a casual look inside, normal passerby curiosity, reveals that they're police cars.

  Not predicted procedure for a domestic dispute or break-in. Yes, statistically those infractions occur pretty frequently in this part of Brooklyn, but rarely, the data show, at this time of day--before the six-packs appear. And you'd probably never see hidden unmarkeds, only blue-and-white squad cars in full view. Let's think. They're three blocks away from DeLeon 6832. . . . Have to consider this. It wouldn't be inconceivable for their commander to tell the officers, "He's a rapist. He's dangerous. We're going to go in in ten minutes. Park the car three blocks away and get back here. Pronto."

  I casually glance down the closest alley. Okay, getting worse. Parked there in the shade is an NYPD ESU truck. Emergency Service. They often back up police arrests of people like DeLeon 6832. But how did they get here so soon? I dialed 911 only a half hour ago. (That's always a risk but if you call too long after a transaction, the cops might wonder why you were only now reporting screams or that you'd seen a suspicious man earlier.)

  Now, there are two explanations for the police's presence. The most logical is that after my anonymous call they did a database search of every beige Dodge over five years old in 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. My collecting, 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 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 and seen 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.