He was just reaching into his pocket for his cell phone when he felt something touch his back. Insistent and purposeful. A pistol.
No, no . . .
His heart galloped.
Then came the voice, calm. "Do not turn around, Captain. If you turn around, you'll see my face and that means you'll die. You understand?" He sounded educated, surprising Malloy for some reason.
"Wait."
"Do you understand?"
"Yes. Don't--"
"At the next corner you're going to turn to the right into that alley and keep going."
"But--"
"I don't have a silencer on the gun. But the muzzle is close enough to your body that nobody will know where the sound came from and I'll be gone before you hit the ground. And the bullet will go through you and with these crowds I'm sure it will hit somebody else. You don't want that."
"Who are you?"
"You know who I am."
Joseph Malloy had made a lifelong career in law enforcement, and after his wife was killed by a drug-crazed burglar the profession became more than a career; it was an obsession. Maybe he was brass, an administrator now, but he still had the instincts he'd honed on the streets of Midtown South precinct years ago. He understood instantly. "Five Twenty-Two."
"What?"
Calm. Stay calm. If you're calm you're in control. "You're the man who killed that woman on Sunday and the groundskeeper in the cemetery last night."
"What do you mean, 'Five Twenty-Two'?"
"What the department's calling you internally. An unknown subject, UNSUB, number Five Twenty-Two." Give him some facts. Make him relax too. Carry on a conversation.
The killer gave a brief laugh. "A number? That's interesting. Now, turn to the right."
Well, if he wanted you dead, you'd be dead. He just needs to know something, or he's kidnapping you for leverage. Relax. He's obviously not going to kill you--he doesn't want you to see his face. Okay, Lon Sellitto said they were calling him the man who knew everything? Well, get some information about him that you can use.
Maybe you can talk your way out.
Maybe you can lower his guard and get close enough to kill him with your bare hands.
Joe Malloy was perfectly capable of this, both mentally and physically.
After a brief walk 522 ordered him to stop in the alley. He put a stocking cap over Malloy's head and pulled it down over his eyes. Good. A huge relief. As long as I don't see him, I'll live. Then his hands were taped and he was frisked. A firm hand on his shoulder, he was led forward and eased into a car trunk.
A drive in the stifling heat, the uncomfortable space, legs tucked up. A compact car. Okay, noted. No burning oil. And good suspension. Noted. No smell of leather. Noted. Malloy tried to keep track of the directions they turned but that was impossible. He paid attention to the sounds: traffic noises, a jackhammer. Nothing unique there. And seagulls and a boat horn. Well, how's that going to help pinpoint where you are? Manhattan is an island. Get something useful! . . . Wait--the car has a noisy power-steering belt. That's helpful. Tuck it away.
Twenty minutes later they came to a stop. He heard the rumble of a garage door closing, a big one, squeaky joints or wheels. Malloy gave a brief cry as the trunk popped, startling him. Musty but cool air embraced him. He gasped hard, sucking oxygen into his lungs through the damp wool of the cap.
"Out we go."
"There are some things I'd like to talk to you about. I'm a captain--"
"I know who you are."
"I have a lot of power in the department." Malloy was pleased. His voice was steady. He was sounding reasonable. "We can work something out."
"Come on over here." Five Twenty-Two helped him over the smooth floor.
Then he was seated.
"I'm sure you have grievances. But I can help you. Tell me why you're doing this, committing these crimes."
Silence. What would happen next? Would he have a chance to fight physically? Malloy wondered. Or would he have to continue to work his way into the man's mind? By now he'd be missed. Sellitto and Rhyme might have figured out what happened.
Then he heard a noise.
What was it?
Several clicks, followed by a tinny electronic voice. The killer was testing a tape recorder, it seemed.
Then another: the clink of metal against metal, like tools being gathered up.
And finally the disturbing screech of metal on concrete as the killer scooted his chair so close to Malloy's that their knees touched.
Chapter Thirty-six
A bounty hunter.
They'd caught a goddamn bounty hunter.
Well, as the man corrected, a "bond recovery specialist."
"How the fuck did that happen?" was Lincoln Rhyme's question.
"We're checking," Lon Sellitto said, standing dusty and hot beside the construction site where the man who'd been following Roland Bell sat in cuffs.
He wasn't exactly under arrest. In fact, he hadn't done anything wrong at all; he was licensed to carry a pistol and was merely trying to effect a citizen's arrest of a man he believed to be a wanted criminal. But Sellitto was pissed off and ordered him cuffed.
Roland Bell himself was on the phone, trying to find out if 522 had been spotted elsewhere in the area. But so far no one on the takedown teams had seen anyone fitting the scant profile of the killer. "Might as well be in Timbuktu," Bell drawled to Sellitto and folded up his phone.
"Look--" began the bounty hunter from his curb perch.
"Shut up," the heavy detective barked for the third or fourth time. He returned to his conversation with Rhyme. "He follows Roland, moves in and looks like he's going to take him out. But seems he's just serving a warrant. He thought Roland was somebody named William Franklin. They look alike, Franklin and Roland. Lives in Brooklyn and missed a trial date on an assault with a deadly, and firearm possession. The bond company's been after him for six months."
"Five Twenty-Two set it all up, you know. He found this Franklin in the system and sent the bondsman after him to keep us distracted."
"I know, Linc."
"Anybody see anything helpful? Somebody staking us out?"
"Nope. Roland just checked with all the teams."
Silence. Then Rhyme asked, "How did he know it was a trap?"
Though that wasn't the most important issue. There was really only one question they wanted the answer to and that was "What the hell is he really up to?"
*
Do They think I'm stupid?
Did They think I wouldn't be suspicious?
They know about knowledge service providers at this point. About predicting how sixteens will act, based on past behavior and the behavior of others. This concept has been a part of my life for a long, long time. It should be part of everyone's. How will your next-door neighbor react if you do X? How will he react if you do Y? How will a woman behave when you're accompanying her to a car while you're laughing? When you're silent and fishing in your pocket for something?
I've studied Their transactions from the moment They became interested in me. I sorted them, analyzed Them. They've been brilliant at times--for instance, that trap of theirs: letting SSD employees and customers know about the investigation and waiting for me to peek at NYPD files on the Myra 9834 case. I almost did, came within an ENTER keystroke of searching but just had a feeling something was wrong. I know now I was right.
And the press conference? Ah, that transaction smelled off from the beginning. Hardly fit predictable and established patterns of behavior. I mean, for the police and the city to meet journalists at that time of night? And the particular assemblage up on the podium certainly didn't ring true.
Of course, maybe it was legit--even the best fuzzy logic and predictive behavior algorithms get it wrong occasionally. But it was in my interest to check further. I couldn't, even casually, talk to any of Them directly.
So instead, I did what I do best.
I looked into the closets, gazed through my secret
window at the silent data. I learned more about the folks up there on the podium during the press conference: the deputy mayor, Ron Scott, and Captain Joseph Malloy--the man supervising the investigation against me.
And the third person, the professor. Carlton Soames, Ph.D.
Except . . . Well, he wasn't.
He was a cop decoy.
A search engine request did turn up hits for Professor Soames on the Carnegie Mellon Web site, and on his own site as well. His C.V. was also tucked away conveniently into various other sites.
But it took me only a few seconds to open up the coding of those documents and examine the metadata. Everything about the phony prof had been written and uploaded yesterday.
Do They think I'm stupid?
If I'd had time I could have learned exactly who the cop was. I could have gone to the TV network's Web site archive, found the press conference, frozen an image of the man's face and done a biometric scan. I'd compare that image to DMV records in the area and police and FBI personnel photos to come up with the man's real identity.
But that would have been a lot of work, and unnecessary. I didn't care who he was. All I needed was to distract the police and give myself time to locate Captain Malloy, the one who would be a veritable database of information about the operation.
I easily found an outstanding warrant for a man bearing a rough resemblance to the cop playing Carlton Soames--a white male in his thirties. Simple matter then to call the bail bondsman, claiming to be an acquaintance of the fugitive and reporting that I'd spotted him at the Water Street Hotel. I described what he was wearing and hung up fast.
Meanwhile I waited at the parking garage near Police Plaza where Captain Malloy parks his low-end Lexus (its oil change and wheel rotation long overdue, the dealer's data report) every morning between 7:48 and 9:02 A.M.
I engaged the enemy at exactly 8:35.
There followed the abduction, the drive to the warehouse on the West Side, and the judicious use of forged metal to execute a memory dump from the admirably courageous database. I'm feeling the inexplicable, more-than-sexual satisfaction of knowing I've completed a collection: the identities of all the sixteens who are after me, some of the people tethered to Them and how They're running the case.
Some information was particularly revealing. (The name Rhyme, for instance. That's the key as to why I'm in this fix, I now understand.)
My soldiers will soon be on their way, marching into Poland, marching into the Rhineland. . . .
And, as I'd hoped, I got something for that collection of mine, one of my favorites, by the way. I should wait until I'm back in my Closet but I can't resist. I fish for the tape recorder and I hit REWIND then PLAY.
A happy coincidence: I find the exact spot where Captain Malloy's screams hit a crescendo. It chills even me.
*
He awoke from an uneasy sleep filled with bumpy nightmares. His throat hurt from the garrote, inside and out, though the stinging was worse in his mouth--from the dryness.
Arthur Rhyme glanced around at the dingy, windowless hospital room. Well, a cell in an infirmary inside the Tombs. No different from his own cell or that terrible common room where he'd almost been murdered.
A male nurse or orderly came into the room, examined an empty bed and wrote something down.
"Excuse me," Arthur rasped. "Can I see a doctor?"
The man looked his way--a large African American. Arthur felt a surge of panic, thinking this was Antwon Johnson, who'd stolen a uniform and snuck in here to finish what he'd started. . . .
But, no, it was somebody else. Still, the eyes were just as cold and they spent no more time regarding Arthur Rhyme than they would glancing at a spill on the floor. He left without a word.
A half hour passed, Arthur dipping into and out of waking.
Then the door opened again and he glanced up, startled, as another patient was brought in. He'd had appendicitis, Arthur deduced. The operation was over and he was recovering. An orderly got him into bed. He handed the man a glass. "Don' drink it. Rinse 'n' spit."
The man drank.
"No, I'm tellin' you--"
He threw up.
"Fuck." The orderly tossed a handful of paper towels at him and left.
Arthur's fellow patient fell asleep, clutching the towels.
It was then that Arthur looked out the window in the door. Two men stood outside, one Latino, one black. The latter squinted, staring directly at him, then whispered something to the other, who briefly looked too.
Something about their posture and expressions told Arthur their interest wasn't mere curiosity--seeing the con who'd been saved by Mick, the tweaker.
No, they were memorizing his face. Why?
Did they want to kill him too?
Another surge of panic. Was it only a matter of time until they were successful?
He closed his eyes but then decided he shouldn't sleep. He didn't dare. They'd move on him when he was asleep, they'd move on him if he closed his eyes, they'd move on him if he didn't pay complete attention to everything, everyone, every minute.
And now his agony was complete. Judy had said that Lincoln might have found something that could prove his innocence. She didn't know what, and so Arthur had no way to judge if his cousin was simply being optimistic, or if he'd discovered some concrete proof that he'd been wrongly arrested. He was furious at this ambiguous hope. Before he'd talked to Judy, Arthur Rhyme had resigned himself to a living hell and an impending death.
I'm doin' you a favor, man. Fuck, you'd do yourself in a month or two anyway. . . . Now jus' stop fightin' it. . . .
But now, realizing that freedom might be attainable, resignation blossomed into panic. He saw in front of him some hope that could be taken away.
His heart began its manic thudding again.
He grabbed the call button. Pushed it once. Then again.
No response. A moment later another pair of eyes appeared in the window. But they weren't a doctor's. Was it one of the cons he'd seen before? He couldn't tell. The man was looking directly at him.
Struggling to control the fear that trickled down his spine like electricity, he pressed the call button again, then held it down.
Still no response.
The eyes in the window blinked once, then vanished.
Chapter Thirty-seven "Metadata."
On speakerphone Rodney Szarnek, in the NYPD computer lab, was explaining to Lincoln Rhyme how 522 most likely had learned that the "expert" was in fact an undercover cop.
Sachs, standing nearby, with her arms crossed and fingers picking at her sleeve, reminded him of what she'd learned from Calvin Geddes of Privacy Now. "That's data about data. Embedded in documents."
"Right," Szarnek confirmed, hearing her comment. "He probably saw that we'd created the C.V. last night."
"Shit," Rhyme murmured. Well, you can't think of everything. Then: But you have to when you're up against the man who knows everything. And now the plan, which potentially could have netted him, had been wasted. The second time they'd failed.
And worse, they'd tipped their hand. Just like they'd learned about his suicide ploy, he'd learned how they operated and had a defense against future tactics.
Knowledge is power. . . .
Szarnek added, "I had somebody at Carnegie Mellon trace the addresses of everyone who was in their site this morning. A half dozen hits originated in the city but they were from public terminals, no trace of the users. Two were from proxies in Europe, and I know the servers. They won't cooperate."
Naturally.
"Now we've got some information from the empty-space files Ron got from SSD. It's taking some time. They were . . ." He apparently decided to avoid the technical explanation and said, ". . . pretty scrambled. But we've got fragments coming together. Looks like somebody did assemble dossiers and download them. We've got a nym--that's a screen name or code name. 'Runnerboy.' That's all so far."
"Any idea who? An employee, customer, hacker?"
&n
bsp; "Nope. I called a friend in the Bureau and checked their database for known nyms and e-mail addresses. They found about eight hundred Runnerboys. None in the metro area, though. We'll know more later."
Rhyme had Thom write the name Runnerboy on the list of suspects. "We'll check with SSD. See if that's a name anybody recognizes."
"And the customer files on the CD?"
"I've got somebody going through it manually. The code I wrote only got us so far. There're too many variables--different consumer products, Metro fare cards, E-ZPasses. Most of the companies downloaded certain information from the victims but statistically nobody's jumping out as a suspect yet."
"All right."
He disconnected.
"We tried, Rhyme," Sachs said.
Tried . . . He offered a lifted eyebrow, a gesture that meant absolutely nothing.
The phone buzzed and "Sellitto" popped up on caller ID.
"Command, answer. . . . Lon, any--"
"Linc."
Something was wrong. The tone, through the speakerphone, was hollow, the voice shaky.
"Another vic?"
Sellitto cleared his throat. "He got one of us."
Alarmed, glancing at Sachs, who was involuntarily leaning forward toward the phone, her arms unfolding. "Who? Tell us."
"Joe Malloy."
"No," whispered Sachs.
Rhyme's eyes closed and his head eased into the wheelchair's headrest. "Sure, of course. That was the setup, Lon. He had it all planned." His voice lowered. "How bad was it?"
"What do you mean?" asked Sachs.
In a soft voice, Rhyme said, "He didn't just kill Malloy, did he?"
Sellitto's quivering voice was wrenching. "No, Linc, he didn't."
"Tell me!" Sachs said bluntly. "What are you talking about?"
Rhyme looked at her eyes, wide with the horror that they both felt. "He set up the whole thing because he wanted information. He tortured Joe to get it."
"Oh, God."
"Right, Lon?"
The big detective sighed. He coughed. "Yeah, got to say it was pretty bad. He used some tools. And from the amount of blood Joe held out for a long time. The prick finished him off with a gunshot."
Sachs's face was red with anger. She kneaded the grip of her Glock. Through clenched jaws she asked, "Did Joe have kids?"
Rhyme recalled that the captain's wife had been killed a few years ago.
Sellitto answered, "A daughter in California. I made the call already."