Glenn said evenly, "His name is Ron Pulaski. You do work with him, don't you?"
Oh, no.
The rookie . . .
Pulaski dead, and his wife in the bureaucratic hell of detention with her baby. What would she do?
"Tell me what happened!"
Glenn glanced behind him and gestured two other men into the room, a gray-haired man in a dark suit and a younger, shorter one, dressed similarly, but with a large bandage on his nose. The inspector introduced Samuel Brockton and Mark Whitcomb, employees of SSD. Brockton, Rhyme noted, was on the suspect list, though apparently he had an alibi for the rape/murder. Whitcomb, it turned out, was his assistant in the Compliance Department.
"Tell me about Pulaski!"
Inspector Glenn continued. "I'm afraid--" His phone rang and he took the call. Glenn glanced at Brockton and Whitcomb as he spoke in hushed tones. Finally he disconnected.
"Tell me what's happened to Ron Pulaski. I want to know now!"
The doorbell rang and Thom and Mel Cooper ushered more people into Rhyme's lab. One was a burly man with an FBI agent identification badge around his neck and the other was Ron Pulaski, who was in handcuffs.
Brockton pointed to a chair and the FBI agent deposited the young officer there. Pulaski was obviously shaken, and dusty and rumpled, flecked with blood, but otherwise unhurt, it seemed. Whitcomb too sat and gingerly touched his nose. He didn't look at anyone.
Samuel Brockton showed him his ID. "I'm an agent with the Compliance Division of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. Mark's my assistant. Your officer attacked a federal agent."
"Who was threatening me at gunpoint without identifying himself. After he'd--"
Compliance Division? Rhyme had never heard of it. But within the complex warren of Homeland Security, organizations came and went like unsuccessful Detroit cars.
"I thought you were with SSD?"
"We have offices at SSD but we're federal government employees."
And what the hell had Pulaski been up to? Relief now ebbing, while irritation flowed.
The rookie started to continue but Brockton silenced him. Rhyme, though, said sternly to the gray-suited man, "No, let him talk."
Brockton debated. His eyes revealed a patient confidence that suggested Pulaski, or anyone else, could say whatever he wanted and it wouldn't affect Brockton in the least. He nodded.
The rookie told Rhyme about meeting Whitcomb, in hopes of getting Jenny released from INS detention. The man asked him to sabotage the 522 investigation, then pulled a gun and threatened him when he refused. Pulaski had struck Whitcomb in the face with his backup gun and they'd fought.
Rhyme snapped to Brockton and Glenn, "Why're you interfering with our case?"
Brockton now seemed to notice that Rhyme was disabled, then disregarded the fact immediately. He said in a calm baritone, "We tried it the subtle way. If Officer Pulaski had agreed we wouldn't have to crack the whip. . . . This case has caused a lot of headaches for a lot of people. I was supposed to be meeting with Congress and Justice all week. Had to cancel everything and hightail it back up here to see what the hell was going on. . . . All right, this is off the record. Everybody?"
Rhyme muttered agreement, and Cooper and Pulaski concurred.
"The Compliance Division does threat analysis and provides security to private companies that might be targets of terrorists. Big players in the country's infrastructure. Oil companies, airlines, banks. Data miners, like SSD. We have agents on site."
Sachs had said Brockton spent a lot of time in Washington. That explained why.
"Then why lie about it, why say you're SSD employees?" Pulaski blurted. Rhyme had never seen the young man angry. He sure was now.
"We need to keep a low profile," Brockton explained. "You can see why pipelines and drug companies and food processors would be great targets for terrorists. Well, think what someone could do with the information that SSD has. The economy would be crippled if their computers were brought down. Or what if assassins learned details of executives' or politicians' whereabouts and other personal information from innerCircle?"
"Did you have Lon Sellitto's drug test report changed?"
"No, this suspect of yours--Five Twenty-Two--must've done that," Inspector Glenn said. "And had Officer Pulaski's wife arrested."
"Why do you want the investigation stopped?" Pulaski blurted. "Don't you see how dangerous this man is?" He was speaking to Mark Whitcomb but the Compliance assistant continued to examine the floor and remained silent.
"Our profile is that he's an outlier," Glenn explained.
"A what?"
"An anomaly. He's a nonrecurring event," Brockton explained. "SSD has run an analysis of the situation. The profiling and predictive modeling told us that a sociopath like this will hit a saturation point any time now. He'll stop what he's doing. He'll simply go away."
"But he hasn't, now has he?"
"Not yet," Brockton said. "But he will. The programs're never wrong."
"They'll be wrong if one more person dies."
"We have to be realistic. It's a balance. We can't let anybody know how valuable SSD is as a terrorist target. And we can't let anybody know about the Compliance Division of DHS. We have to keep SSD and Compliance off the grid as much as possible. A murder investigation puts them both on it in a very big way."
Glenn added, "You want to follow up conventional leads, Lincoln, go ahead. Forensics, wits, fine. But you'll have to keep SSD out of it. That press conference was a huge mistake."
"We talked to Ron Scott in the mayor's office, we talked to Joe Malloy. They okayed it."
"Well, they didn't check with the right people. It's jeopardized our relationship with SSD. Andrew Sterling doesn't have to provide us with computer support, you know."
He sounded like the shoe-company president, terrified of upsetting Sterling and SSD.
Brockton added, "Okay, now, the party line is that your killer didn't get his information from SSD. Actually, that's the only line."
"Do you understand that Joseph Malloy is dead because of SSD and innerCircle?"
Glenn's face tightened. He sighed. "I'm sorry about that. Very sorry. But he was killed in the course of an investigation. Tragic. But that's the nature of being a cop."
The party line . . . the only line . . .
"So," Brockton said, "SSD is no longer part of the investigation. Understood?"
A chill nod.
Glenn gestured to the FBI agent. "You can let him go now."
The man uncuffed Pulaski, who stood, rubbing his wrists.
Rhyme said, "Get Lon Sellitto reinstated. And have Pulaski's wife released."
Glenn looked at Brockton, who shook his head. "Doing that at this point in time would be an admission that maybe data-mined information and SSD were involved in the crimes. We'll have to let those things go for the time being."
"That is bullshit. You know Lon Sellitto's never done any drugs in his life."
Glenn said, "And the inquiry will clear him. We'll let the matter run its course."
"No, goddamnit! According to the information the killer put into the system--he's already guilty. Just like Jenny Pulaski. All this is on their record!"
The inspector said calmly, "This is how we'll have to leave it for now."
The federal agents and Glenn walked to the door.
"Oh, Mark," Pulaski called. Whitcomb turned back. "Sorry."
The federal officer blinked in surprise at the apology and touched his bandaged nose. Then Pulaski continued, "That it was just your nose I broke. Fuck you, Judas."
Well, the rookie's got some backbone after all.
After they'd left, Pulaski called his wife but couldn't get through. He angrily snapped his phone shut. "I'll tell you, Lincoln, I don't care what they say, I'm not just packing up."
"Don't worry. We'll keep right on going. Hey, they can't fire me--I'm a civilian. They can only fire you and Mel."
"Well, I--" Cooper was frowning.
"Relax, Mel. I do have a sense of humor, despite what everybody thinks. Nobody'll find out--as long as the rookie here doesn't beat up any more federal agents. Okay, this Robert Carpenter, the SSD customer. I want him. Now."
Chapter Forty-two
So I'm "522."
I've been wondering why They picked that number. Myra 9834 wasn't my five hundred twenty-second victim (what a lovely thought!). None of the victims' addresses contained the number. . . . Wait. The date. Of course. She was killed last Sunday--the twenty-second day of the fifth month--and that's when They started after me.
So to Them I'm a number. Just like They're numbers to me. I feel flattered. I'm in my Closet now, having completed most of my research. It's after work, people are heading home, out to dinner, off to see friends. But that's the great thing about data; they never sleep, and my soldiers can call in an air strike on anyone's life at any hour I choose, in any location.
At the moment the Prescott family and I are spending a few moments together before the attacks begin. The police will soon be guarding the houses of my enemies and their families. . . . But they don't understand the nature of my weapons. Poor Joseph Malloy gave me plenty to work with.
For instance, this Detective Lorenzo--that is, Lon--Sellitto (he's taken great pains to conceal his real first name) is suspended but more awaits. That unfortunate incident a few years ago in which the perp was shot and killed during an arrest . . . new evidence will arise revealing that the suspect did not in fact have a gun--the witness was lying. The dead boy's mother will hear about that. And I'll send a few racist letters in his name to some right-wing Web sites. Then get the Reverend Al involved--that'll be the death knell. Poor Lon may actually do time.
And I've been checking Sellitto's tethered individuals. I'll dream up something for his teenage son by his first wife. A few drug charges, maybe. Like father, like son. Nice appeal to it.
That Polish fellow, Pulaski, well, he'll eventually be able to convince Homeland Security that his wife isn't a terrorist or an illegal. But won't they both be surprised when his child's birth records disappear and another couple, whose newborn vanished from the hospital a year ago, happens to learn that their missing boy might be Pulaski's? If nothing else the little guy'll be in foster-care limbo over the months it'll take to sort things out. That'll damage him forever. (I know this only too well.)
And then we come to Amelia 7303 and this Lincoln Rhyme. Well, just because I'm in a bad mood, Rose Sachs, who's scheduled for cardiac surgery next month, will lose her insurance due to--well, I think I'll make it past instances of fraud. And Amelia 7303's probably pissed off about her car but wait till she gets the really bad news: her careless consumer debt. Maybe $200,000 or so. With a nearly usurious rate of interest.
But those are simply appetizers. I've learned that a former boyfriend of hers was convicted of hijacking, assault, larceny and extortion. Some new witnesses will send anonymous e-mails that she was involved, too, and that there's hidden loot in her mother's garage, which I'll plant there before I call Internal Affairs.
She'll beat the charges--statute of limitations--but the publicity will ruin her reputation. Thank you, freedom of the press. God bless America. . . .
Death is one type of transaction guaranteed to slow your pursuers down, but the nonlethal tactics can be just as effective and are, to me, far more elegant.
And as for this Lincoln Rhyme . . . Well, that's an interesting situation. Of course, I made the mistake of selecting his cousin in the first place. But, in fairness, I checked all of Arthur 3480's tethered individuals and didn't find any hits for his cousin. Which is curious. They're related by blood, yet they've had no contact in a decade.
I've made the mistake of stinging the beast awake. He's the best adversary I've ever been up against. He stopped me on the way to DeLeon 6832's house; he actually caught me in the act, which no one has ever done. And, according to Malloy's breathless account, he's getting closer all the time.
But, of course, I have a plan for this too. I don't have the benefit of innerCircle at the moment--have to be careful now--but journalists' articles and other sources of data are sufficiently illuminating. The problem, of course, is how to destroy the life of someone like Rhyme, whose physical life is largely destroyed anyway. Finally a solution occurs to me: If he's so dependent I'll destroy someone he's tethered to. Rhyme's caregiver, Thom Reston, will be my next target. If the young man dies--in a particularly unpleasant way--I doubt Rhyme will ever recover from that. The investigation will wither; no one else will pursue it the way he's been doing.
I'll get Thom into the trunk of my car and we'll head to another warehouse. There, I'll take my time with the Krusius Brothers razor. I'll record the whole session on tape and e-mail that to Rhyme. Being the hardworking criminalist that he seems to be, he'll have to view the gruesome tape carefully to look for clues. He'll have to watch it over and over again.
I guarantee it will ruin him for the case, if not destroy him altogether.
I go into room three of my Closet and find one of my video cams. Batteries are nearby. And in room two I collect the Krusius in its old box. There's still a brown wash of dried blood on the blade. Nancy 3470. Two years ago. (The court has just turned down the final appeal of her murderer, Jason 4971, the grounds for reversal being fabricated evidence, a claim that even his attorney probably found pathetic.)
The razor is dull. I remember meeting some resistance from Nancy 3470's ribs; she thrashed around more than I expected. No matter. A little work with one of my eight grinding wheels, then a leather strop and I'll be in business.
*
Now, the adrenaline from the hunt was flooding through Amelia Sachs.
The evidence in her garden had led her on a convoluted trail but she had a gut feeling--excuse me, Rhyme--that this present mission would be productive. She parked Pam's car along the city street and hurried to the address of the next person on her list of a half dozen, one of whom she desperately hoped would give her the final clue to 522's identity.
Two had been unsuccessful. Would the third one be the answer? Driving around town like this was a sort of macabre scavenger hunt, she reflected.
It was evening now and Sachs checked the address under a streetlight, found the town house and walked up the few steps to the front door. She was reaching for the bell when something began to nag.
She paused.
Was it the paranoia she'd been feeling all day? A sense of being watched?
Sachs glanced around fast--at the few men and women on the street; at the windows of the residences and small shops nearby. . . . But nobody seemed threatening. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to her.
She began to press the buzzer again but lowered her hand.
Something was off. . . .
What?
Then she understood. It wasn't that she was being watched; it was a scent that troubled her. And with a jolt she knew what it was: mold. She was smelling mold, the scent coming from the very town house where she now stood.
Just a coincidence?
Sachs silently walked down the stairs and around to the side of the place into the cobblestoned alley. The building was very large--narrow from the front but quite deep. She moved farther into the alley and eased up to a window. Which was covered with newspaper. Scanning the side of the building; yes, they were all covered over. She recalled Terry Dobyns's words: And the windows will be painted black or taped over. He has to keep the outside world away. . . .
She'd come here merely to get information--this couldn't be 522's place; the clues didn't add up. But she knew now that they'd been wrong; there was no doubt this was the killer's home.
She reached for her phone but suddenly heard a scuttling on the alley cobblestones behind her. Eyes wide, forsaking the phone for the gun, she turned fast. But before her hand made it to the Glock's grip, she was tackled hard. She slammed into the side of the town house. Stunned, she dropped to her knees.
Glancing up, gasping, she saw the
hard dots of eyes in the killer's face, saw the stained blade of the razor he held as it began its journey to her throat.
Chapter Forty-three "Command, call Sachs."
But the phone went to voice mail.
"Damnit, where is she? Find her. . . . Pulaski?" Rhyme wheeled his chair around to face the young man, who was on the phone. "What's the story with Carpenter?"
He held up a hand. Then hung up. "I finally got his assistant. Carpenter left work early, had some errands. He should be home by now."
"I want somebody over there. Now."
Mel Cooper tried paging Sachs and, when there was no response, said, "Nothing." He made a few other calls and reported, "Nope. No luck."
"Did Five Twenty-Two get her service dropped, like the electricity?"
"No, they say the accounts're active. It's just that the devices are disabled--broken or the batteries removed."
"What? Are they sure?" The dread within him began to expand.
The doorbell rang and Thom went to answer it.
Lon Sellitto, his shirt half untucked and face sweaty, strode into the room. "They can't do anything about the suspension. It's automatic. Even if I take another test they have to keep it active until IA investigates. Fucking computers. I had somebody call PublicSure. They're quote 'looking into it,' which you know what that means." He glanced at Pulaski. "What happened with your wife?"
"Still in detention."
"Jesus."
"And it gets worse." Rhyme told Sellitto about Brockton, Whitcomb and Glenn and the Compliance Division of Homeland Security.
"Shit. Never heard of it."
"And they want us to hold off on the investigation, at least as far as SSD's involved. But we've got another problem. Amelia's missing."
"What?" Sellitto barked.
"Looks that way. I don't know where she was going after she went to her town house. She never called. . . . Oh, Christ, the power was out, the phones were off. Check voice mail. Maybe she called."
Cooper dialed the number. And they learned that Sachs had called. But she'd said only that she was following up on a lead and said nothing more. She asked that Rhyme call her and she'd explain.
Rhyme jammed his eyes closed in frustration.
A lead . . .
To where? One of their suspects. He gazed at the chart.
Andrew Sterling, President, Chief Executive Officer Alibi--on Long Island, verified. Confirmed by son Sean Cassel, Director of Sales and Marketing No alibi