The Broken Window
Something nagged, yet she couldn't quite figure out what.
Like a faint recurring ache somewhere in your body.
Or a man on the street behind you as you near your apartment &hellip; Was he the same one who'd been glancing at you on the subway?
Or a dark dot moving toward your bed but now vanished. A black widow spider?
But then her visitor, sitting on her living room couch, glanced at her and smiled and Alice Sanderson forgot the concern -- if concern it was. Arthur had a good mind and a solid body, sure. But he had a great smile, which counted for a lot more.
"How 'bout some wine?" she asked, walking into her small kitchen.
"Sure. Whatever you've got."
"So, this's pretty fun -- playing hooky on a weekday. Two grown adults. I like it."
"Born to be wild," he joked.
Outside the window, across the street, were rows of painted and natural brownstones. They could also see part of the Manhattan skyline, hazy on this pleasant spring weekday. Air -- fresh enough for the city -- wafted in, carrying the scents of garlic and oregano from an Italian restaurant up the street. It was their favorite type of cuisine -- one of the many common interests they'd discovered since they'd met several weeks ago at a wine tasting in SoHo. In late April, Alice had found herself in the crowd of about forty, listening to a sommelier lecture about the wines of Europe, when she'd heard a man's voice ask about a particular type of Spanish red wine.
She had barked a quiet laugh. She happened to own a case of that very wine (well, part of a case now). It was made by a little-known vineyard. Perhaps not the best Rioja ever produced but the wine offered another bouquet: that of fond memory. She and a French lover had consumed plenty of it during a week in Spain -- a perfect liaison, just the thing for a woman in her late twenties who'd recently broken up with her boyfriend. The vacation fling was passionate, intense and, of course, doomed, which made it all the better.
Alice had leaned forward to see who'd mentioned the wine: a nondescript man in a business suit. After a few glasses of the featured selections she'd grown braver and, juggling a plate of finger food, had made her way across the room and asked him about his interest in the wine.
He'd explained about a trip he'd taken to Spain a few years ago with an ex-girlfriend. How he'd come to enjoy the wine. They'd sat at a table and talked for some time. Arthur, it seemed, liked the same food she did, the same sports. They both jogged and spent an hour each morning in overpriced health clubs. "But," he said, "I wear the cheapest JCPenney shorts and T-shirts I can find. No designer garbage for me &hellip; " Then he'd blushed, realizing he'd possibly insulted her.
But she'd laughed. She took the same approach to workout clothes (in her case, bought at Target when visiting her family in Jersey). She'd quashed the urge to tell him this, though, worried about coming on too strong. They'd played that popular urban dating game: what we have in common. They'd rated restaurants, compared Curb Your Enthusiasm episodes and complained about their shrinks.
A date ensued, then another. Art was funny and courteous. A little stiff, shy at times, reclusive, which she put down to what he described as the breakup from hell -- a long-term girlfriend in the fashion business. And his grueling work schedule -- he was a Manhattan businessman. He had little free time.
Would anything come of it?
He wasn't a boyfriend yet. But there were far worse people to spend time with. And when they'd kissed on their most recent date, she'd felt the low ping that meant, oh, yeah: chemistry. Tonight might or might not reveal exactly how much. She'd noticed that Arthur had furtively -- he thought -- been checking out the tight pink little number she'd bought at Bergdorf's especially for their date. And Alice had made some preparations in the bedroom in case kissing turned into something else.
Sipping strong, sweet coffee in the cafe across the street from the Gray Rock, thirty-nine-year-old Miguel Abrera was flipping through a brochure he'd received in the mail recently. It was yet another in a recent series of unusual occurrences in his life. Most were merely odd or irritating; this one was troubling.
He looked through it yet again. Then closed it and sat back, glancing at his watch. He still had ten minutes before he had to return to the job.
Miguel was a maintenance specialist, as SSD called it, but he told everybody he was a janitor. Whatever the title, the tasks he performed were a janitor's tasks. He did a good job and he liked the work. Why should he be ashamed of what he was called?
He could have taken his break in the building but the free coffee that SSD provided was lousy and they didn't even give you real milk or cream. Besides, he wasn't one for chitchat and preferred enjoying a newspaper and coffee in solitude. (He missed smoking, though. He'd bargained away cigarettes in the emergency room and even though God hadn't kept his side of the deal, Miguel had given up the habit anyway.)
He glanced up to see a fellow employee enter the cafe, Tony Petron, a senior janitor who worked executive row. The men exchanged nods and Miguel was worried that the man would join him. But Petron went to sit in the corner by himself to read e-mail or messages on his cell phone and once again Miguel looked over the flyer, which was addressed to him personally. Then, as he sipped the sweet coffee, he considered the other unusual things that had happened recently.
Like his time sheets. At SSD you simply walked through the turnstile and your ID card told the computer when you entered and when you left. But a couple of times in the past few months his sheets had been off. He always worked a forty-hour week and was always paid for forty hours. But occasionally he'd happened to look at his records and saw that they were wrong. They said he came in earlier than he had, then left earlier. Or he missed a weekday and worked a Saturday. But he never had. He'd talked to his supervisor about it. The man had shrugged. "Software bug maybe. As long as they don't short you, no problemo."
And then there was the issue of his checking-account statement. A month ago, he'd found to his shock that his balance was ten thousand dollars higher than it should be. By the time he'd gone to the branch to have them correct it, though, the balance was accurate. And that had happened three times now. One of the mistaken deposits was for $70,000.
And that wasn't all. Recently he'd had a call from a company about his mortgage application. Only he hadn't applied for a mortgage. He rented his house. He and his wife had hoped to buy something but after she and their young son died in the auto accident he hadn't had the heart to consider a house.
Concerned, he checked his credit report. But no mortgage application was listed. Nothing out of the ordinary, though he noted that his credit rating had been raised -- significantly. That too was odd. Though, of course, he didn't complain about this particular fluke.
But none of those things troubled him as much as this flyer.
Dear Mr. Abrera:
As you are quite aware, at various times in our lives we go through traumatic experiences and suffer difficult losses. It's understandable that at moments like this, people have trouble moving on in life. Sometimes they even have thoughts that the burden is too great and they consider taking impulsive and unfortunate measures.
We, at Survivor Counseling Services, recognize the difficult challenges facing persons like you, who've suffered a serious loss. Our trained staff can help you get through the difficult times with a combination of medical intervention and one-on-one and group counseling to bring you contentment and remind you that life is indeed worth living.
Now, Miguel Abrera had never considered suicide, even at his worst, just after the accident eighteen months ago; taking his own life was inconceivable.
That he received the flyer in the first place was worrying. But two aspects of the situation really unnerved him. The first was that the brochure had been sent to him directly -- not forwarded -- at his new address. No one involved in his counseling or at the hospital where his wife and child died knew that he'd moved a month ago.
The second was the final paragraph:
Now that you've taken that vital first step of reaching out to us, Miguel, we'd like to set up a no-cost evaluation session at your convenience. Don't delay. We can help!
He had never taken any steps to contact the service.
The phone trilled.
Lincoln Rhyme glanced up at a nearby computer screen, where caller ID displayed "44."
At last. This was it.
"Command, answer phone."
"Detective Rhyme," said the impeccable British voice. Longhurst's alto never gave anything away.
"Tell me."
A hesitation. Then: "I'm so sorry."
Rhyme closed his eyes. No, no, no &hellip; Longhurst continued, "We haven't made the official announcement yet but I wanted to tell you before the press reported it."
So the killer had succeeded after all. "He's dead then, Reverend Goodlight?"
"Oh, no, he's fine."
"But -- "
"But Richard Logan got his intended target, Detective."
"He got &hellip; ?" Rhyme's voice faded as the pieces began coming together. The intended target. "Oh, no &hellip; Who was he really after?"
"Danny Krueger, the arms dealer. He's dead, two of his security people too."
"Ah, yes, I see."
Longhurst continued, "Apparently after Danny went straight, some cartels in South Africa, Somalia and Syria felt he was too great a risk to stay alive. A conscience-stricken arms dealer made them nervous. They hired Logan to kill him. But Danny's security network in London was too tight so Logan needed to draw him out into the open."
The reverend had been merely a diversion. The killer himself had planted the rumor that there was a contract out on Goodlight. And he'd forced the British and the Americans to turn to Danny for help to save the reverend.
"And it's worse, I must say," Longhurst went on. "He got all of Danny's files. All his contacts, everybody who's been working for him -- informants, warlords who could be turned, mercenaries, bush pilots, sources of funds. All the potential witnesses will go to ground now. The ones who aren't killed outright, that is. A dozen criminal cases'll have to be dismissed."
"How'd he do it?"
She sighed. "He was masquerading as our French liaison, d'Estourne."
So the fox had been in the henhouse from the beginning.
"I would guess he intercepted the real d'Estourne in France on the way to the Chunnel, killed him and buried the body or dumped it at sea. It was brilliant, I must say. He researched everything about the Frenchman's life and his organization. He spoke perfect French -- and English with a perfect French accent. Even the idioms were spot-on.
"A few hours ago some chap shows up at a building in the London courtyard shooting zone. Logan had hired him to deliver a package. He worked for Tottenham Parcel Express; they wear gray uniforms. Remember the fibers we found? And the killer had requested a particular driver he claimed he'd used before -- who happened to be blond."
"The hair dye."
"Exactly. Dependable fellow, Logan said. Which is why he wanted him in particular. Everyone was so focused on the operation there, tracking this fellow through the shooting zone, looking for accomplices, worried about diversionary bombs, that the people in Birmingham lowered their guard.