Jeffery Deaver - The Broken Window

The Broken Window

Lincoln Rhyme Book 8

By Jeffery Deaver

SOMETHING IN COMMON

THURSDAY, MAY 12

Most privacy violations are not going to be caused by the exposureof huge personal secrets but by the publication of many little factsAs with killer bees, one is an annoyance but a swarm can be deadly.

ROBERT OHARROW, JR., No Place to Hide

ISBN-10: 1416549986

ISBN-13: 9781416549987

Publisher: Pocket Star Books

(April 28, 2009)

* * * * *

Something nagged, yet she couldnt 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 apartmentWashe the same one whod been glancing at you on the subway?

Or a dark dot moving toward your bed but now vanished. Ablack widow spider?

But then her visitor, sitting on her living room couch, glancedat her and smiled and Alice Sanderson forgot the concernif concern itwas. 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 smallkitchen.

Sure. Whatever youve got.

So, thiss pretty funplaying hooky on a weekday. Two grownadults. I like it.

Born to be wild, he joked.

Outside the window, across the street, were rows of paintedand natural brownstones. They could also see part of the Manhattanskyline, hazy on this pleasant spring weekday. Airfresh enough for thecitywafted in, carrying the scents of garlic and oregano from an Italianrestaurant up the street. It was their favorite type of cuisineone ofthe many common interests theyd discovered since theyd met severalweeks ago at a wine tasting in SoHo. In late April, Alice had found herselfin the crowd of about forty, listening to a sommelier lecture aboutthe wines of Europe, when shed heard a mans voice ask about a particulartype of Spanish red wine.

She had barked a quiet laugh. She happened to own a case ofthat very wine (well, part of a case now). It was made by a little-knownvineyard. Perhaps not the best Rioja ever produced but the wine offeredanother bouquet: that of fond memory. She and a French lover had consumedplenty of it during a week in Spaina perfect liaison, just the thing fora woman in her late twenties whod 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 whod mentioned the wine: anondescript man in a business suit. After a few glasses of the featuredselections shed grown braver and, juggling a plate of finger food, hadmade her way across the room and asked him about his interest in the wine.

Hed explained about a trip hed taken to Spain a few yearsago with an ex-girlfriend. How hed come to enjoy the wine. Theyd sat ata table and talked for some time. Arthur, it seemed, liked the same foodshe did, the same sports. They both jogged and spent an hour each morningin overpriced health clubs. But, he said, I wear the cheapest JCPenneyshorts and T-shirts I can find. No designer garbage for me Then hed blushed,realizing hed possibly insulted her.

But shed laughed. She took the same approach to workoutclothes (in her case, bought at Target when visiting her family in Jersey).Shed quashed the urge to tell him this, though, worried about comingon too strong. Theyd played that popular urban dating game: what we havein common. Theyd rated restaurants, compared Curb Your Enthusiasmepisodes 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 hedescribed as the breakup from hella long-term girlfriend in the fashionbusiness. And his grueling work schedulehe was a Manhattan businessman.He had little free time.

Would anything come of it?

He wasnt a boyfriend yet. But there were far worse peopleto spend time with. And when theyd kissed on their most recent date,shed felt the low ping that meant, oh, yeah: chemistry. Tonight might ormight not reveal exactly how much. Shed noticed that Arthur had furtivelyhethoughtbeen checking out the tight pink little number shed bought atBergdorfs especially for their date. And Alice had made some preparationsin the bedroom in case kissing turned into something else.

Then the faint uneasiness, the concern about the spider, returned.

What was bothering her?

Alice supposed it was nothing more than a residue of unpleasantnessshed experienced when a deliveryman had dropped off a package earlier.Shaved head and bushy eyebrows, smelling of cigarette smoke and speakingin a thick Eastern European accent. As shed signed the papers, hed lookedher overclearly flirtingand then asked for a glass of water. She broughtit to him reluctantly and found him in the middle of her living room, staringat her sound system.

Shed told him she was expecting company and hed left, frowning,as if angry over a snub. Alice had watched out the window and noted that nearlyten minutes had passed before he got into the double-parked van andleft.

What had he been doing in the apartment building all that time?Checking out

Hey, Earth to Alice

Sorry. She laughed, continued to the couch, then sat nextto Arthur, their knees brushing. Thoughts of the deliveryman vanished.They touched glasses, these two people who were compatible inall-important areaspolitics (they contributed virtually the sameamount to the Dems and gave money during NPR pledge drives), movies, food,traveling. They were both lapsed Protestants.

When their knees touched again, his rubbed seductively.Then Arthur smiled and asked, Oh, that painting you bought, the Prescott?Did you get it?

Her eyes shone as she nodded. Yep. I now own a Harvey Prescott.

Alice Sanderson was not a wealthy woman by Manhattan standardsbut shed invested well and indulged her true passion. Shed followedthe career of Prescott, a painter from Oregon who specialized in photorealisticworks of familiesnot existing people but ones he himself made up. Sometraditional, some not sosingle parent, mixed race or gay. Virtuallynone of his paintings were on the market in her price range but she wason the mailing lists of the galleries that occasionally sold his work.Last month shed learned from one out west that a small early canvas mightbe coming available for $150,000. Sure enough, the owner decided tosell and shed dipped into her investment account to come up with thecash.

That was the delivery shed received today. But the pleasureof owning the piece now diminished again with a flare-up of concern aboutthe driver. She recalled his smell, his lascivious eyes. Alice rose,on the pretense of opening the curtains wider, and looked outside. Nodelivery trucks, no skinheads standing on the street corner and staringup at her apartment. She thought about closing and locking the window,but that seemed too paranoid and would require an explanation.

She returned to Arthur, glanced at her walls and told him shewasnt sure where to hang the painting in her small apartment. A brieffantasy played out: Arthurs staying over one Saturday night and on Sunday,after brunch, helping her find the perfect place for the canvas.

Her voice was filled with pleasure and pride as she said,You want to see it?

You bet.

They rose and she walked toward the bedroom, believing thatshe heard footsteps in the corridor outside. All the other tenants shouldhave been at work, this time of day.

Could it be the deliveryman?

Well, at least she wasnt alone.

They got to the bedroom door.