Did you create this back story for Lincoln while writing this book or do you already know everything about your characters? Jeffery Deaver: My fans have been interested in knowing more about Lincoln and his past. Question: Can you explain what the title, The Broken Window, means? In essence, the concept is that rather than increase external forces to stop crime—-like adding police to patrol bad neighborhoods—you spend money improving the bad neighborhoods, such as painting housing projects and fixing broken windows. The increased pride in the place will encourage the residents to do more self-policing and to shun crime.

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Like a faint recurring ache somewhere in your body. Or a man on the street behind you as you near your apartment. A black-widow spider? But then her visitor, sitting on her living room couch, glanced at her and smiled and Alice Sanderson forgot the concern—if concern it was.

Arthur had a good mind and a solid body, sure. But he had a great smile, which counted for a lot more. Two grown adults. I like it. Outside the window, across the street, were rows of painted and natural brownstones. They could also see part of the Manhattan skyline, hazy on this pleasant spring weekday afternoon. Air—fresh enough for the city—wafted in, carrying the scents of garlic and oregano from an Italian restaurant up the street. She had barked a quiet laugh.

She happened to own a case of that very wine well, part of a case now. It was made by a little-known vineyard. Perhaps not the best Rioja ever produced but the wine offered another bouquet: that of fond memory. The vacation fling was passionate, intense and, of course, doomed, which made it all the better. Arthur, it seemed, liked the same food she did, the same sports. They both jogged and spent an hour each morning in overpriced health clubs.

No designer garbage for me. She took the same approach to workout clothes in her case, bought at Target when visiting her family in Jersey. A date ensued, then another. Art was funny and courteous. A little stiff, shy at times, reclusive, which she put down to what he described as the breakup from hell—a long-term girlfriend in the fashion business. And his grueling work schedule—he was a Manhattan businessman. He had little free time. Would anything come of it?

But there were far worse people to spend time with. Tonight might or might not reveal exactly how much. And Alice had made some preparations in the bedroom in case kissing turned into something else. Then the faint uneasiness, the concern about the spider, returned.

What was bothering her? Shaved head and bushy eyebrows, smelling of cigarette smoke and speaking in a thick Eastern European accent. She brought it to him reluctantly and found him in the middle of her living room, staring at her sound system. Alice had watched out the window and noted that nearly ten minutes had passed before he got into the double-parked van and left.

What had he been doing in the apartment building all that time? Thoughts of the delivery man vanished. They touched glasses, these two people who were compatible in all-important areas—politics they contributed virtually the same amount 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. Did you get it?

I own a Harvey Prescott. Some traditional, some not so—single parent, mixed race or gay. They got to the bedroom door. Which was when the black-widow struck. With a jolt Alice now understood what had been bothering her, and it had nothing to do with the rude delivery man.

No, it was Arthur. Slowing now, at the bedroom door. Her hands were sweating. What if all of the many things they had in common were lies? All the restaurants they knew, the travel, the TV shows. All her defenses down. Breathing hard now. Are you crazy?

She tucked the uneasiness away. Calm down. Remember his smiles, his joking. He thinks the way you think. A faint laugh.

Alice stared at the two-by-two-foot canvas, the muted colors, a half-dozen people at a dinner table looking out, some amused, some pensive, some troubled. Her smile vanished. What are you doing? And then she looked into his eyes, which had hardened into dark pinpricks beneath furrowed brows, in a face she hardly recognized at all.


The Broken Window (2008)

We also have Sachs in my opinion being a total nitwit for how she handles an inappropriate relationship with someone she is close to. And I have to say that this book was highly repetitive from beginning to end. I think that Deaver was trying to tell three stories in this one, and they all get pretty lost. The ending I found to be off and just setting things up for the next book in the series. At least I got off my butt and put out a hold request for the first book in the Kathryn Dance series though. No you will have no idea at all what that is about until the end of the book so feel free to skim any references to that, I know I did. Within a few short chapters readers are then made hip to that fact as well.


The Broken Window






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