The Broken Window Read Online Free PDF Page A

.”
    “How’s that?”
    “Thinking a close relative got busted for murder.”
    Rhyme shrugged, one of the few gestures he could manage. “Ted Bundy was somebody’s son. Maybe a cousin too.”
    “But still.” Sachs lifted the receiver. Eventually she tracked down the defense lawyer, got his answering service and left a message. Rhyme wondered which hole of which golf course he was on at that moment.
    She then got in touch with the assistant district attorney, Grossman, who wasn’t enjoying the day of rest but was in his office downtown. He’d never connected the last name of the perp to the criminalist. “Hey, I’m sorry, Lincoln,” he said sincerely. “But I have to say, it’s a good case. I’m not blowing smoke. I’d tell you if there were gaps. But there aren’t. A jury’s going to nail him. If you can talk him into a plea, you’d be doing him a huge favor. I could probably go down to twelve solid.”
    Twelve years, with no parole. It would kill Arthur, Rhyme reflected.
    “Appreciate that,” Sachs said.
    The A.D.A. added that he had a complicated trial starting tomorrow so he couldn’t spend any more time talking to them now. He’d call later in the week, if they liked.
    He did, however, give them the name of the lead detective in the case, Bobby LaGrange.
    “I know him,” she said, dialing him at home too. She got his voice mail but when she tried his cell he answered immediately.
    “LaGrange.”
    The hiss of wind and the sound of slapping water explained what the detective was up to on this clear-sky, warm day.
    Sachs identified herself.
    “Oh, sure. Howya doin’, Amelia? I’m waiting for a call from a snitch. We’ve got something going down in Red Hook anytime now.”
    So, not on his fishing boat.
    “I may have to hang up fast.”
    “Understood. You’re on speaker.”
    “Detective, this is Lincoln Rhyme.”
    A hesitation. “Oh. Yeah.” A call from Lincoln Rhyme got people’s full attention pretty fast.
    Rhyme explained about his cousin.
    “Wait . . . ‘Rhyme.’ You know, I thought it was a funny name. I mean, unusual. But I never put it together. And he never said anything about you. Not in any of the interviews. Your cousin. Man, I’m sorry.”
    “Detective, I don’t want to interfere with the case. But I said I’d call and find out what the story is. It’s gone to the A.D.A., I know. Just talked to him.”
    “I gotta say the collar was righteous. I’ve run homicides for five years and short of somebody from Patrol witnessing a gang clip, this was the cleanest wrap I’ve seen.”
    “What’s the story? Art’s wife only gave me the bones.”
    In the stiff voice that cops fall into when recounting details of a crime—stripped of emotion: “Your cousinleft work early. He went to the apartment of a woman named Alice Sanderson, down in the Village. She’d gotten off work early too. We aren’t sure how long he was there but sometime around six she was knifed to death and a painting was stolen.”
    “Rare, I understand?”
    “Yeah. But not like Van Gogh.”
    “Who was the artist?”
    “Somebody named Prescott. Oh, and we found some direct-mail things, flyers, you know, that a couple of galleries’d sent your cousin about Prescott. That didn’t look so good.”
    “Tell me more about May twelfth,” Rhyme said.
    “At about six a witness heard screams and a few minutes later saw a man carrying a painting out to a light blue Mercedes parked on the street. It left the scene fast. The wit only got the first three letters on the tag—couldn’t tell the state but we ran everything in the metro area. Narrowed the list down and interviewed the owners. One was your cousin. My partner and me went out to Jersey to talk to him, had a trooper with us, for protocol, you know. We saw what looked like blood on the back door and in the backseat. A bloody washcloth was under the seat. It matched a set of linens in the vic’s apartment.”
    “And DNA was positive?”
    “Her