Authors: Jeffery Deaver
I’m sweating now. This is not good this is not good not good…
But don’t panic. Your treasures are safe, your Closet is safe. Relax.
Still, whatever’s happened I
have
to find out. If the police presence here is just a perverse coincidence, having nothing to do with DeLeon 6832 or with me, then I’ll plant the evidence and get the hell back to my Closet.
But if they’ve found out about me they could find out about the others. Randall 6794 and Rita 2907 and Arthur 3480…
Cap down a little more over the eyes—the sunglasses pushed high on my nose—I change course completely, circling well around the house, moving through alleys and gardens and backyards. Keeping the three-block perimeter, which they helpfully established as my safety zone by parking the Crown Vic beacons there.
This takes me in a semicircle to a grassy embankment leading up to the highway. Climbing up it, I’m able to see the tiny backyards and porches of the houses on DeLeon 6832’s block. I begin to count dwellings to find his.
But I don’t need to. I see clearly a police officer on the roof of a two-story house behind the alley from his place. He has a rifle. A sniper! There’s another, with a pair of binoculars too. And several more, in suits or street clothes, crouching in bushes right next to the structure.
Then two cops are pointing in my direction. I see that yet
another
officer was on the top of the house across the street. He’s pointing my way too. And since I’m not six feet three, 230 pounds, with skin dark as ebony, they
aren’t
waiting for DeLeon 6832. They’ve been waiting for
me
.
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My hands are beginning to shake. Imagine if I’d blundered right into the middle of that, with the evidence in my backpack.
A dozen other officers are running to their cars or jogging fast in my direction. Running like wolves. I turn and scrabble up the embankment, breathing hard, panicked. I’m not even to the top when I hear the first of the sirens.
No, no!
My treasures, my Closet…
The highway, four lanes total, is crowded, which is good because the sixteens have to drive slowly. I can dodge pretty well, even with my head down; I’m sure nobody gets a good look at my face. Then I vault the barrier and stumble down the other embankment. My collecting, and other activities, keep me in good shape and soon I’m sprinting fast toward the closest subway station. I pause only once, to pull on cotton gloves and rip from my backpack the plastic bag containing the evidence I was going to plant, then shove it into a trash can. I can’t be caught with it. I
can’t
. A half block closer to the subway, I dodge into an alley behind a restaurant. I turn my reversible jacket inside out, swap hats and emerge again, my backpack now stuffed into a shopping bag.
Finally, I’m at the subway station, and—thank you—I can feel the musty tunnel breath preceding a train as it approaches. Then the thunder of the bulky car, the squeal of metal on metal.
But before I get to the turnstile I pause. The shock is now gone, but it’s been replaced by the edgy. I understand I can’t leave just yet.
The significance of the problem crashes down on me. They might not know my identity but they’ve figured out what I was doing.
Which means they want to take something away from me. My treasures, my Closet… everything.
And that, of course, is unacceptable.
Making sure I stay clear of the CCTV camera, I casually walk back up the stairs, digging in my bag, as I leave the subway station.
“Where?” Rhyme’s voice filled Amelia Sachs’s earphone. “Where the hell is he?”
“He spotted us, took off.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“Pretty sure. Surveillance saw somebody a few blocks away. Looks like he spotted some of the detectives’ cars and changed his route. We saw him watching us, and he ran. We’ve got teams after him.”
She was in DeLeon Williams’s front yard with Pulaski, Bo Haumann and a half dozen other ESU
officers. Some Crime Scene Unit techs and uniformed patrolmen were searching the escape route for evidence and canvassing for witnesses.
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“Any sign he has a car?”
“Don’t know. He was on foot when we saw him.”
“Christ. Well, let me know when you find something.”
“I’ll—”
Click.
She grimaced at Pulaski, who was holding his Handi Talkie up to his ear, listening to the pursuit.
Haumann was monitoring it too. The progress, from what she could hear, didn’t seem fruitful. Nobody on the highway had seen him or was willing to admit it, if they had. Sachs turned to the house and saw a very concerned, and very confused, DeLeon Williams looking out through a curtained window.
Saving the man from being yet another fall guy of 522 had involved both happenstance and good police work.
And they had Ron Pulaski to thank for it. The young officer in the brash Hawaiian shirt had done what Rhyme had requested: immediately gone to One Police Plaza and started looking for other cases that matched 522’s modus operandi. He found none but as he was talking to a Homicide detective the unit got a report from Central about an anonymous phone call. A man had heard screams from a loft near SoHo and seen a black man fleeing in an old beige Dodge. A patrolman had responded and found that a young woman, Myra Weinburg, had been raped and murdered.
Pulaski was struck by the anonymous call, echoing the earlier cases, and immediately called Rhyme. The criminalist figured that if 522 was in fact behind the crime he was probably sticking to his plan: he would plant evidence blaming a fall guy and they needed to find which of the more than 1,300 older beige Dodges was the one 522 might pick. Sure, maybe the man wasn’t 522 but even if not, they had the chance to collar a rapist and killer.
At Rhyme’s instruction, Mel Cooper cross-matched Department of Motor Vehicle records with criminal records and came up with seven African-American men who had convictions for crimes more serious than traffic violations. One, though, was the most likely: an assault charge against a woman. DeLeon Williams was a perfect choice as a fall guy.
Happenstance and police work.
To authorize a tactical takedown, a lieutenant or higher was required. Captain Joe Malloy still had no clue about the clandestine 522 operation, so Rhyme called Sellitto, who grumbled but agreed to call Bo Haumann and authorize an ESU op.
Amelia Sachs had joined Pulaski and the team at Williams’s house, where they’d learned from Search and Surveillance that only Williams was inside, not 522. There, they deployed to take the killer when he arrived to plant the evidence. The plan was tricky, improvised on the fly—and obviously hadn’t worked, though they’d saved an innocent man from being arrested for rape and murder and perhaps had discovered some good evidence to lead to the perp.
“Anything?” she asked Haumann, who’d been conferring with some of his officers.
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“Nope.”
Then his radio clattered again and Sachs heard the loud transmission. “Unit One, we’re on the other side of the highway. Looks like he’s rabbited clean. He must’ve made it to the subway.”
“Shit,” she muttered.
Haumann grimaced but said nothing.
The officer continued, “But we’ve followed the route he probably took. It’s possible he ditched some evidence in a trash can on the way.”
“That’s something,” she said. “Where?” She jotted the address the officer recited. “Tell them to secure the area. I’ll be there in ten.” Sachs then walked up the steps and knocked on the door. DeLeon Williams answered, and she said, “Sorry I haven’t had a chance to explain. A man we were trying to catch was headed to your house.”
“Mine?”
“We think so. But he got away.” She explained about Myra Weinburg.
“Oh, no—she’s dead?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I’m sorry, real sorry.”
“Did you know her?”
“No, never heard of her.”
“We think the perp might’ve been trying to blame you for the crime.”
“Me? Why?”
“We have no idea. After we investigate a little more we may want to interview you.”
“Sure thing.” He gave her his home and mobile numbers. Then frowned. “Can I ask? You seem pretty certain I didn’t do it. How’d you know I was innocent?”
“Your car and garage. Officers searched them and didn’t find any evidence from the murder scene. The killer, we’re pretty sure, was going to plant some things there to implicate you. Of course, if we’d gotten here
after
he’d done that, you’d’ve had a problem.”
Sachs added, “Oh, one more thing, Mr. Williams?”
“What’s that, Detective?”
“Just some trivia you might be interested in. Do you know owning an unregistered handgun in New York City is a very serious crime?”
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“I think I heard that somewhere.”
“And some more trivia is that there’s an amnesty program at your local precinct. No questions asked if you turn in a weapon… Okay, you take care. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”
“I’ll try.”
I’m watching the policewoman as she searches the trash can where I dumped the evidence. I was dismayed at first but then I realized I shouldn’t have been. If They were smart enough to figure out about me, They’re smart enough to find the trash.
I doubt They got a good look at me but I’m being very careful. Of course, I’m not at the scene itself; I’m in a restaurant across the street, forcing down a hamburger and sipping water. The police have this outfit called the “Anti-crime” detail, which has always struck me as absurd. As if other details are pro-crime. Anti-crime officers wear street clothes and they circulate at crime scenes to find witnesses and, occasionally, even the perps, who have returned. Most criminals do so because they’re stupid or behave irrationally. But I’m here for two specific reasons. First, because I’ve realized I have a problem. I can’t live with it so I need a solution. And you can’t solve a problem without knowledge. I’ve already learned a few things.
For instance, I know some of the people who are after me. Like this redheaded policewoman in a white plastic jumpsuit concentrating on the crime scene the way I concentrate on my data.
I see her step out of the area, surrounded by yellow tape, with several bags. She sets these in gray plastic boxes and strips off the white suit. Despite the lingering horror from the disaster of this afternoon, I feel that twinge inside as I see her tight jeans, the satisfaction from my transaction with Myra 9834 earlier today wearing off.
As the police head back to their cars she makes a phone call.
I pay the bill and walk nonchalantly out the door, acting like any other patron on this fine late-afternoon Sunday.
Off. The. Grid.
Oh, the second reason I’m here?
Very simple. To protect my treasures, to protect my life, which means doing whatever’s necessary to make Them go away.
“What’d Five Twenty-Two leave in that trash can?” Rhyme was speaking into the hands-free phone.
“There’s not much. We’re sure it’s his stuff, though. Bloody paper towel and some wet blood in plastic bags—so he could leave some in Williams’ car or garage. I’ve already sent a sample to the lab for a preliminary DNA match. Computer printout of the vic’s picture. Roll of duct tape—Home Depot house
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brand. And a running shoe. It looked new.”
“Just one?”
“Yep. The right.”
“Maybe he stole it from Williams’ place to leave a print at the scene. Anybody get a look at him?”
“A sniper and two guys from the S and S team. But he wasn’t very close. Probably white or light-skinned ethnic, medium build. Tan cap and sunglasses, backpack. No age, no hair color.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep.”
“Well, get the evidence here stat. Then I want you to walk the grid at the Weinburg rape scene. They’re preserving it till you get there.”
“I’ve got another lead, Rhyme.”
“You do? What’s that?”
“We found a Post-it note stuck to the bottom of the plastic bag with the evidence in it. Five Twenty-Two wanted to ditch the bag; I’m not sure he wanted to pitch out the note.”
“What is it?”
“A room number of a residence hotel, Upper East Side, Manhattan. I want to check it out.”
“You think it’s Five Twenty-Two’s?”
“No, I called the front desk and they say the tenant’s been in the room all day. Somebody named Robert Jorgensen.”
“Well, we need the rape scene searched, Sachs.”
“Send Ron. He can handle it.”
“I’d rather you ran it.”
“I really think we need to see if there’s any connection between this Jorgensen and Five Twenty-Two.
And fast.”
He couldn’t dispute her point. Besides, both of them had ridden Pulaski hard in teaching him how to walk the grid—Rhyme’s coined expression for searching a crime scene, a reference to looking over the area according to the grid pattern, the most comprehensive way of discovering evidence.
Rhyme, feeling both like a boss and a parent, knew that the kid would have to run his first homicide scene solo sooner or later. “All right,” he grumbled. “Let’s hope this Post-it lead pays off.” He couldn’t help adding, “And isn’t a complete waste of time.”
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She laughed. “Don’t we always hope that, Rhyme?”
“And tell Pulaski not to screw up.”
They disconnected and Rhyme told Cooper the evidence was on its way.
Staring at the evidence charts, he muttered, “He got away.”
He ordered Thom to put the sparse description of 522 on the whiteboard.
Probably white or light-skinned…
How helpful is
that
?
Amelia Sachs was in the front seat of her parked Camaro, the door open. Late-afternoon spring air was wafting into the car, which smelled of old leather and oil. She was jotting notes for her crime-scene report. She always did this as soon as possible after searching a scene. It was amazing what one could forget in a short period of time. Colors changed, left became right, doors and windows moved from one wall to another or vanished altogether.
She paused, distracted once again by the odd facts of the case. How had the killer managed to come so close to blaming an innocent man for an appalling rape and murder? She’d never run into a perp like this; planting evidence to mislead the police wasn’t unusual but this guy was a genius at pointing them in the wrong direction.