The Broken Window

“Sure,” the Compliance officer said earnestly. “It’ll be okay, Ron. Don’t worry. I think I can do something.” Then he looked up into Pulaski’s eyes; the SSD Compliance officer was just slightly taller than Andrew Sterling. “Only…it’s pretty important for you to get Jenny out of there, right?”

“Oh, yeah, Mark. This’s just a nightmare.”

“Okay. Come this way.” He led Pulaski around the corner of the building, then into an alley. “I’ve got a favor to ask, Ron,” Whitcomb whispered.

“Whatever I can do.”

“Really?” The man’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, calm. And his eyes had a sharpness that Pulaski hadn’t seen before. As if he’d dropped an act and was now being himself. “You know, sometimes, Ron, we have to do things that we don’t think are right. But in the end it’s for the best.”

“What do you mean?”

“To help your wife out you might have to do something you might think isn’t so good.”

The officer said nothing, his thoughts whirling. Where was this going?

“Ron, I need you to make this case go away.”

“Case?”

“The murder investigation.”

“Go away? I don’t get it.”

“Stop the case.” Whitcomb looked around and whispered, “Sabotage it. Destroy the evidence. Give them some false leads. Point them anywhere but at SSD.”

“I don’t understand, Mark. Are you joking?”

“No, Ron. I’m real serious. This case’s got to stop and you can do it.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, yes, you can. If you want Jenny out of there.” A nod toward the detention center.

No, no…this was 522. Whitcomb was the killer! He’d used the passcodes of his boss, Sam Brockton, to get access to innerCircle.

Instinctively Pulaski started for his gun.

But Whitcomb drew first, a black pistol appearing in his hand. “No, Ron. That’s not going to get us anywhere.” Whitcomb reached into the holster and pulled Pulaski’s Glock out by the grip, slipped it into his waistband.

How could he have misjudged this so badly? Was it the head injury? Or was he just stupid? Whitcomb’s friendship had been feigned, which hurt as much as it shocked. Bringing him the coffee, defending him to Cassel and Gillespie, suggesting they get together socially, helping with the time sheets…it was all a tactic to get close to the cop and use him.

“It’s all a goddamn lie, isn’t it, Mark? You didn’t grow up in Queens at all, did you? And you don’t have a brother who’s a cop?”

“No to both.” Whitcomb’s face was dark. “I tried to reason with you, Ron. But you wouldn’t work with me. Goddamnit! You could have. Now look what you’ve made me do.”

The killer pushed Pulaski farther into the alley.

Chapter Forty-one

Amelia Sachs was in the city, cruising through traffic, frustrated at the noisy, tepid response of the Japanese engine.

It sounded like an ice maker. And had just about as much horsepower.

She’d called Rhyme twice but both times the line went right to voice mail. This rarely happened; Lincoln Rhyme obviously wasn’t away from home very much. And something odd was going on at the Big Building: Lon Sellitto’s phone was out of order. And neither he nor Ron Pulaski was answering his mobile.

Was 522 behind this too?

All the more reason to move fast in following up on the lead she’d discovered at her town house. It was a solid one, she believed. Maybe it was the final clue, the one missing piece of the puzzle they needed to bring this case to its conclusion.

Now she saw her destination, not far away. Mindful of what had happened to the Camaro, and not wanting to jeopardize Pam’s car too-if 522 had been behind the repossession, as she suspected-Sachs cruised around the block until she found the rarest of all phenomena in Manhattan: a legal, unoccupied parking space.

How ’bout that?

Maybe it was a good sign.

“Why are you doing this?” Ron Pulaski whispered to Mark Whitcomb as they stood in a deserted Queens alleyway.

But the killer ignored him. “Listen to me.”

“We were friends, I thought.”

“Well, everybody thinks a lot of things that turn out not to be true. That’s life.” Whitcomb cleared his throat. He seemed edgy, uncomfortable. Pulaski remembered Sachs saying that the killer was feeling the pressure of their pursuit, which made him careless. It also made him more dangerous.

Pulaski was breathing hard.

Whitcomb looked around again, fast, then back at the young officer. He kept the gun steady and it was clear he knew how to use it. “Are you fucking listening to me?”

“Goddamnit. I’m listening.”

“I don’t want this investigation to go any further. It’s time for it to stop.”

“Stop? I’m in Patrol. How can I stop anything?”

“I was telling you: Sabotage it. Lose some evidence. Send people in the wrong direction.”

“I won’t do that,” the young officer muttered defiantly.

Whitcomb shook his head, looking almost disgusted. “Yes, you will. You can make this easy or hard, Ron.”

“What about my wife? Can you get her out of there?”

“I can do anything I want.”

The man who knows everything…