Saturday, 4:00 p.m., to Saturday, 10:15 p.m. 12 page

The psychologist paced in front of the wall chart, glancing up at it occasionally as he listened to the detective’s rumbling voice.

He held up a finger, interrupting Sellitto. “The victims, the victims ... They’ve all been found underground. Buried, in a basement, in the stockyard tunnel.”

“Right,” Rhyme confirmed.

“Go on.”

Sellitto continued, explaining about the rescue of Monelle Gerger.

“Fine, all right,” Dobyns said absently. Then braked to a halt and turned to the wall again. He spread his legs and, hands on hips, gazed at the sparse facts about Unsub 823. “Tell me more about this idea of yours, Lincoln. That he likes old things.”

“I don’t know what to make of it. So far his clues have something to do with historical New York. Building materials from the turn of the century, the stockyards, the steam system.”

Dobyns stepped forward suddenly and tapped the profile. “Hanna. Tell me about Hanna.”

“Amelia?” Rhyme asked.

She told Dobyns how the unsub had referred to Monelle Gerger as Hanna for no apparent reason. “She said he seemed to like saying the name. And speaking to her in German.”

“And he took a bit of a chance to ’nap her, didn’t he?” Dobyns noted. “The cab, at the airport—that was safe for him. But hiding in a laundry room ... He must’ve been real motivated to snatch somebody German.”

Dobyns twined some ruddy hair around a lengthy finger and flopped down in one of the squeaky rattan chairs, stretched his feet out in front of him.

“Okay, try this on for size. The underground ... that’s the key. It tells me he’s somebody who’s hiding something and when I hear that I start thinking hysteria.”

“He’s not acting hysterical,” Sellitto said. “He’s pretty damn calm and calculating.”

“Not hysteria in that sense. It’s a category of mental disorders. The condition manifests when something traumatic happens in a patient’s life and the subconscious converts that trauma into something else. It’s an attempt to protect the patient. With traditional conversion hysteria you see physical symptoms—nausea, pain, paralysis. But I think here we’re dealing with a related problem. Dissociation—that’s what we call it when the reaction to the trauma affects the mind, not the physical body. Hysterical amnesia, fugue states. And multiple personalities.”

“Jekyll and Hyde?” Mel-Cooper played straight man this time, beating Banks to the punch.

“Well, I don’t think he’s got true multiple personalities,” Dobyns continued. “That’s a very rare diagnosis and the classic mult pers is young and has a lower IQ than your boy.” He nodded at the profile chart. “He’s slick and he’s smart. Clearly an organized offender.” Dobyns stared out the window for a moment. “This is interesting, Lincoln. I think your unsub pulls on his other personality when it suits him—when he wants to kill—and that’s important.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons. First, it tells us something about his main personality. He’s someone who’s been trained—maybe at his job, maybe his upbringing—to help people, not hurt them. A priest, a counselor, politician, social worker. And, two, I think it means he’s found himself a blueprint. If you can find out what it is, maybe you can get a lead to him.”

“What kind of blueprint?”

“He may have wanted to kill for a long time. But he didn’t act until he found himself a role model. Maybe from a book or movie. Or somebody he actually knows. It’s someone he can identify with, someone whose own crimes in effect give him permission to kill. Now, I’m going out on a limb here—”

“Climb,” Rhyme said. “Climb.”

“His obsession with history tells me that his personality is a character from the past.”

“Real life?”

“That I couldn’t say. Maybe fictional, maybe not. Hanna, whoever she is, figures in the story somewhere. Germany too. Or German Americans.”

“Any idea what might’ve set him off?”

“Freud felt it was caused by—what else?—sexual conflict at the Oedipal stage. Nowadays, the consensus is that developmental glitches’re only one cause—any trauma can trigger it. And it doesn’t have to be a single event. It could be a personality flaw, a long series of personal or professional disappointments. Hard to say.” His eyes glowed as they gazed at the profile. “But I sure hope you bag him alive, Lincoln. I’d love the chance to get him on the couch for a few hours.”

“Thom, are you writing this down?”

“Yes, bwana.”

“But one question,” Rhyme began.

Dobyns whirled around. “I’d say it’s the question, Lincoln: Why is he leaving the clues? Right?”

“Yep. Why the clues?”

“Think about what he’s done. ... He’s talking to you. Not rambling incoherently like Son of Sam or the Zodiac killer. He’s not schizophrenic. He’s communicating—in your language. The language of forensics. Why?” More pacing, eyes flipping over the chart. “All I can think of is that he wants to share the guilt. See, it’s hard for him to kill. It becomes easier if he makes us accomplices. If we don’t save the vics in time their deaths are partly our fault.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it?” Rhyme asked. “It means he’ll keep giving us clues that are solvable. Otherwise, if the puzzle’s too hard, he’s not sharing the burden.”

“Well, that’s true,” Dobyns said, smiling no longer. “But there’s another factor at work too.”

Sellitto supplied the answer. “Serial activity escalates.”

“Right,” Dobyns confirmed.

“How can he strike more often?” Banks muttered. “Every three hours isn’t fast enough?”

“Oh, he’ll find a way,” the psychologist continued. “Most likely, he’ll start targeting multiple victims.” The psychologist’s eyes narrowed. “Say, you all right, Lincoln?”

There were beads of sweat on the criminalist’s forehead and he’d been squinting his eyes hard. “Just tired. A lot of excitement for an old crip.”

“One last thing. The profile of the victims’s vital in serial crimes. But here we’ve got different sexes, ages and economic classes. All white but he’s been preying in a predominantly white pool so that’s not statistically significant. With what we know so far we can’t figure out why he’s taken these particular people. If you can, you might just get ahead of him.”

“Thanks, Terry,” Rhyme say. “Stick around for a while.”

“Sure, Lincoln. If you’d like.”

Then Rhyme ordered, “Let’s look at the PE from the stockyard scene. What’ve we got? The underwear?”

Mel Cooper assembled the bags that Sachs had brought back from the scene. He glanced at the one containing the underwear. “Katrina Fashion’s D’Amore line,” he announced. “One hundred percent cotton, elastic band. Cloth made in the U.S. They were cut and sewn in Taiwan.”

“You can tell that just by looking at them?” Sachs asked, incredulous.

“Naw, I was reading,” he answered, pointing at the label.

“Oh.”

The cops laughed.

“He’s telling us he’s got another woman then?” Sachs asked.

“Probably,” Rhyme said.

Cooper opened the bag. “Don’t know what the liquid is. I’ll do a Chromatograph.”

Rhyme asked Thom to hold up the scrap of paper with the phases of the moon on it. He studied it closely. A scrap like this was wonderful individuated evidence. You could fit it to the sheet it’d been torn from and link the two as closely as fingerprints. The problem here of course was that they had no original piece of paper. He wondered if they’d ever find it. The unsub might have destroyed it once he’d torn this bit out. Yet Lincoln Rhyme preferred to think not. He liked to picture it somewhere. Just waiting to be found. The way he always pictured source evidence: the automobile the paint chip had scraped off of, the finger that had lost the nail, the gun barrel that had discharged the rifled slug found in the victim’s body. These sources—always close to the unsub—took on personalities of their own in Rhyme’s mind. They could be imperious or cruel.

Or mysterious.

Phases of the moon.

Rhyme asked Dobyns if their unsub could be driven to act cyclically.

“No. The moon isn’t in a major phase right now. We’re four days past new.”

“So the moons mean something else.”

“If they’re even moons in the first place,” Sachs said. Pleased with herself, and rightly so, Rhyme thought. He said, “Good point, Amelia. Maybe he’s talking about circles. About ink. About paper. About geometry. The planetarium ...”

Rhyme realized that she was staring at him. Maybe just realizing now that he’d shaved and his hair was combed, his clothes changed.

And what was her mood now? he wondered. Angry at him, or disengaged? He couldn’t tell. At the moment Amelia Sachs was as cryptic as Unsub 823.

The beeping of the fax machine sounded in the hallway. Thom went to get it and returned a moment later with two sheets of paper.

“It’s from Emma Rollins,” he announced. He held the sheets up for Rhyme to see.

“Our grocery scanner survey. Eleven stores in Manhattan sold veal shanks to customers buying fewer than five items in the last two days.” He started to write on the poster then glanced at Rhyme. “The names of the stores?”

“Of course. We’ll need them for cross-referencing later.”

Thom wrote them down on the profile chart.

B’way & 82nd,ShopRiteB’way & 96th,Anderson FoodsGreenwich & Bank,ShopRite2nd Ave., 72nd-73rd,Grocery WorldBattery Park City,J&G’s Emporium1709 2nd Ave.,Anderson Foods34th & Lex.,Food Warehouse8th Ave. & 24th,ShopRiteHouston & Lafayette,ShopRite6th Ave. & Houston,J&G’s EmporiumGreenwich & Franklin,Grocery World
“That narrows it down,” Sachs said, “to the entire city.”

“Patience,” said restless Lincoln Rhyme.

Mel Cooper was examining the straw that Sachs had found. “Nothing unique here.” He tossed it aside.

“Is it new?” Rhyme asked. If it was they might cross-reference stores that had sold brooms and veal shanks on the same day.

But Cooper said, “Thought of that. It’s six months old or older.” He began shaking the trace evidence in the German girl’s clothing out over a piece of newsprint.

“Several things here,” he said, poring over the sheet. “Dirt.”

“Enough for a density-gradient?”

“Nope. Just dust really. Probably from the scene.”

Cooper looked over the rest of the effluence he’d brushed off the bloodstained clothing.

“Brick dust. Why’s there so much brick?”

“From the rats I shot. The wall was brick.”

“You shot them? At the scene?” Rhyme winced.

Sachs said defensively, “Well, yes. They were all over her.”

He was angry but he let it go. Adding just, “All kinds of contaminants from gunfire. Lead, arsenic, carbon, silver.”

“And here ... another bit of reddish leather. From the glove. And ... We’ve got another fiber. A different one.”

Criminalists love fibers. This was a tiny gray tuft barely visible to the naked eye.

“Excellent,” Rhyme announced. “And what else?”

“And here’s the photo of the scene,” Sachs said, “and the fingerprints. The one from her throat and from where he picked up the glove.” She held them up.

“Good,” Rhyme said, looking them over carefully.

There was a sheen of reluctant triumph on her face—the rush of winning, which is the flip side of hating yourself for being unprofessional.

Rhyme was studying the Polaroids of the prints when he heard footsteps on the stairs and Jim Polling arrived. He entered the room, did a double-take at the spiffed-up Lincoln Rhyme and strode to Sellitto.

“I was just at the scene,” he said. “You saved the vic. Great job, guys.” He nodded toward Sachs to show the noun included her too. “But the prick’s ’napped another one?”

“Or’s about to,” Rhyme muttered, gazing at the prints.

“We’re working on the clues right now,” Banks said.

“Jim, I’ve been trying to track you down,” Sellitto said. “I tried the mayor’s office.”

“I was with the chief. Had to fucking beg for some extra searchers. Got another fifty men pulled off UN security detail.”

“Captain, there’s something we got to talk about. We gotta problem. Something happened at the last scene ...”

A voice as yet unheard from boomed through the room, “Problem? Who got a problem? We don’t got no problems here, do we? None ay-tall.”

Rhyme looked up at the tall, thin man in the doorway. He was jet black and wore a ridiculous green suit and shoes that shone like brown mirrors. Rhyme’s heart plummeted. “Dellray.”

“Lincoln Rhyme. New York’s own Ironside. Hey, Lon. And Jim Polling, how’s it hangin’, buddy?”

Behind Dellray were a half-dozen other men and a woman. Rhyme knew in a heartbeat why the federal agents were here. Dellray scanned the officers in the room, his attention alighting momentarily on Sachs then flying away.

“What do you want?” Polling asked.

Dellray said, “Haven’t you guessed, gemmuns. You’re outa business. We closin’ you up. Yessir. Just like a bookie.”

SEVENTEEN

ONE OF US.

That’s how Dellray was looking at Lincoln Rhyme as he walked around the bed. Some people did this. Paralysis was a club and they crashed the party with jokes, nods, winks. You know I love you, man, ’cause I’m makin’ funna you.

Lincoln Rhyme had learned that this attitude got tiring very, very quickly.

“Lookit that,” Dellray said, poking at the Clinitron, “That’s something outa Star Trek. Commander Riker, get your ass in the shuttle.”

“Go away, Dellray,” Polling said. “It’s our case.”

“And how’s dis here patient doing, Dr. Crusher?”

The captain was stepping forward, a rooster the lanky FBI agent towered over. “Dellray, you listening? Go away.”

“Man, I’ma get me one of those, Rhyme. Lay my ass down in it, watcha game. Seriously, Lincoln, how you doin’? Been a few years.”

“Did they knock?” Rhyme asked Thom.

“No, they didn’t knock.”

“You didn’t knock,” Rhyme said. “So may I suggest that you leave?”

“Gotta warrant,” Dellray murmured, flicking papers in his breast pocket.

Amelia Sachs’s right index fingernail worried her thumb, which was on the verge of bleeding.

Dellray looked around the room. He was clearly impressed at their impromptu lab but strangled the feeling fast. “We’re taking over. Sorry.”

In twenty years of policing, Rhyme had never seen a peremptory takeover like this.

UNSUB 823

Appearance

Residence

Vehicle

Other

•Caucasian male, slight build

•Dark clothing

• Aftershave; to cover up other scent?

• Old gloves, reddish kidskin

• Ski mask? Navy blue?

• Gloves are dark

• Prob. has safe house

• Located near:

B’way & 82nd,

ShopRite

B’way & 96th,

Anderson Foods

Greenwich & Bank,

ShopRite

2nd Ave., 72nd-73rd,

Grocery World

Battery Park City,

J&G’s Emporium

1709 2nd Ave.,

Anderson Foods

34th & Lex.,

Food Warehouse

8th Ave. & 24th,

ShopRite

Houston & Lafayette,

ShopRite

6th Ave. & Houston,

J&G’s Emporium

Greenwich & Franklin,

Grocery World

• Yellow Cab

• Recent model sedan

• Lt. gray, silver, beige

• knows CS proc.

• possibly has record

• knows FR prints

• gun = .32 Colt

• Ties vics w/ unusual knots

• “Old” appeals to him

• Called one vic “Hanna”

• Knows basic German

• Underground appeals to him

•Dual personalities

• Maybe priest, soc. worker, counselor

“Fuck this, Dellray,” Sellitto began, “you passed on the case.”

The agent swiveled his glossy black face around until he was looking down at the detective.

“Passed? Passed? I never got no ring-a-ling about it. D’jou call me?”

“No.”

“Then who dropped the dime?”

“Well ...” Sellitto, surprised, glanced at Polling, who said, “You got an advisory. That’s all we’ve gotta send you.” On the defensive now too.

“An advisory. Yeah. And, hey, how ’xactly was that delivered? Would that have been by Pony Ex-press? Book-rate mail? Tell me, Jim, what’s the good of an overnight advisory when there’s an ongoing operation?”

Polling said, “We didn’t see the need.”

“We?” Dellray asked quickly. Like a surgeon spotting a microscopic tumor.

“I didn’t see the need,” Polling snapped. “I told the mayor to keep it a local operation. We’ve got it under control. Now fuck off, Dellray.”

“And you thought you could wrap it up in time for the eleven o’clock news.”

Rhyme was startled when Polling shouted, “What we thought was none of your goddamn business. It’s our fucking case.” He knew about the captain’s legendary temper but he’d never seen it in action.

“Ac-tu-ally, it’s ou-ur fuck-ing case now.” Dellray strolled past the table that held Cooper’s equipment.

Rhyme said, “Don’t do this, Fred. We’re getting a handle on this guy. Work with us but don’t take it away. This unsub isn’t like anything you’ve ever seen.”

Dellray smiled. “Let’s see, what’s the latest I hear about this ‘fuck-ing’ case? That you’ve got a civvy doin’ the ’rensics.” The agent forewent a glance at the Clinitron bed. “You got a portable doing crime scene. You got soldiers out buying groceries.”

“Evidence standards, Frederick,” Rhyme reminded stridently. “That’s SOP.”

Dellray looked disappointed. “But ESU, Lincoln? All those taxpayer dollars. Then there’s cutting up people like Texas Chainsaw ...”

How had that news got out? Everyone was sworn to secrecy on the dismemberment issue.

“And whatsis I hear ’bout Haumann’s boys found the vic but dint go in and save her right away? Channel Five had a Big Ear mike on it. Got her screaming for a good five minutes ’fore you sent somebody in.” He glanced at Sellitto with a wry grin. “Lon, my man, would that’ve been the problem you were just talking about?”

They’d come so far, Rhyme was thinking. They were getting a feel for him, starting to learn the unsub’s language. Starting to see him. With a burst of surprise he understood that he was once again doing what he loved. After all these years. And now somebody was going to take it away from him. Anger rippled inside him.

“Take the case, Fred,” Rhyme grumbled. “But don’t cut us out. Don’t do it.”

“You lost two vics,” Dellray reminded.

“We lost one,” Sellitto corrected, looking uneasily at Polling, who was still fuming. “Nothing we coulda done about the first. He was a calling card.”

Dobyns, arms crossed, merely observed the argument. But Jerry Banks leapt in. “We’ve got his routine down now. We aren’t going to lose any more.”

“You are if ESU’s gonna sit around listenin’ to vics scream their heads off.”

Sellitto said, “It was my—”

“My decision,” Rhyme sang out. “Mine.”

“But you’re civvy, Lincoln. So it couldn’t have been your decision. It mighta been your suggestion. It mighta been your recommendation. But I don’t think it was your decision.”

Dellray’s attention had turned to Sachs again. His eyes on her, he said to Rhyme, “You told Peretti not to run the scene? That’s mighty curious, Lincoln. Why’d you go and do something like that?”

Rhyme said, “I’m better than he is.”

“Peretti’s not a happy boy scout. Nosir. He and I had a chin wag with Eckert.”

Eckert? The Dep Com? How was he involved?

And with one glance at Sachs, at the evasive blue eyes, framed by strands of mussed red hair, he knew how.

Rhyme nailed her with a look, which she promptly avoided, and he said to Dellray, “Let’s see ... Peretti? Wasn’t he the one opened up traffic on the spot where the unsub’d stood to watch the first vic? Wasn’t he the one released the scene before we’d had a chance to pick up any serious trace? The scene my own Sachs here had the foresight to seal off. My Sachs had it right and Vince Peretti and everybody else had it wrong. Yes, she did.”

She was gazing at her thumb, a look that bespoke seeing a familiar sight, and slipped a Kleenex from her pocket, wrapped it around the bloody digit.

Dellray summarized, “You shoulda called us at the beginning.”

“Just get out,” Polling muttered. Something snapped in his eyes and his voice rose. “Get the hell out!” he screamed.

Even cool Dellray blinked and eased back as the spittle flew from the captain’s mouth.

Rhyme frowned at Polling. There was a chance they might salvage something of the case but not if Polling had a tantrum. “Jim ...”

The captain ignored him. “Out!” he shouted again. “You are not taking over our case!” And startling everyone in the room, Polling leapt forward, grabbed the agent by his green lapels and shoved him against the wall. After a moment of stunned silence Dellray simply pushed the captain back with his fingertips and took out a cellular phone. He offered it to Polling.

“Call the mayor. Or Chief Wilson.”

Polling eased instinctively away from Dellray—a short man putting some distance between himself and a tall one. “You want the case, you fucking got it.” The captain strode to the stairs and then down them. The front door slammed.

“Jesus, Fred,” Sellitto said, “work with us. We can nail this scumbag.”

“We need the Bureau’s A-T,” said Dellray, now sounding like reason itself. “You’re not set up for the terrorist angle.”

“What terrorist angle?’* Rhyme asked.

“The UN peace conference. Snitch o’ mine said word was up that something was gonna go down at the airport. Where he snatched the vics.”

“I wouldn’t profile him as a terrorist,” Dobyns said. “Whatever’s going on inside him’s psychologically motivated. It’s not ideological.”

“Well, fact is, Quantico and us’re pegging him one way. ’Preciate that you feel different. But this’s how we’re handling it.”

Rhyme gave up. Fatigue was spiriting him away. He wished Sellitto and his scar-faced assistant had never shown up this morning. He wished he’d never met Amelia Sachs. Wished he wasn’t wearing the ridiculous crisp white shirt, which felt stiff at his neck and felt like nothing below it.

He realized that Dellray was speaking to him.

“I’m sorry?” Rhyme cocked a muscular eyebrow.

Dellray asked, “I mean, couldn’t politics be a motive too?”

“Motive doesn’t interest me,” Rhyme said. “Evidence interests me.”

Dellray glanced again at Cooper’s table. “So. The case’s ours. We all together on that?”

“What’re our options?” Sellitto asked.

“You back us up with searchers. Or you can drop out altogether. That’s about all that’s left. We’ll take the PE now, you don’t mind.”

Banks hesitated.

“Give ’em it,” Sellitto ordered.

The young cop picked up the evidence bags from the most recent scene, slipped them into a large plastic bag. Dellray held his hands out. Banks glanced at the lean fingers and tossed the bag onto the table, walking back to the far side of the room—the cop side. Lincoln Rhyme was a demilitarized zone between them and Amelia Sachs stood riveted at the foot of Rhyme’s bed.

Dellray said to her, “Officer Sachs?”

After a pause, her eyes on Rhyme, she responded, “Yes?”

“Commissioner Eckert wants ya t’come with us for debriefing ’bout the crime scenes. He said something about starting your new assignment on Monday.”

She nodded.

Dellray turned to Rhyme and said sincerely, “Don’tcha worry, Lincoln. We’re gonna git him. Next you hear, his head gonna be on a stake at the gates to the city.”

He nodded to his fellow agents, who packed up the evidence and headed downstairs. From the hallway Dellray called to Sachs, “You coming, officer?”

She stood with her hands together, like a schoolgirl at a party she regretted she’d come to.

“In a minute.”

Dellray vanished down the stairs.

“Those pricks,” Banks muttered, flinging his watchbook onto the table. “Can you believe that?”

Sachs rocked on her heels.

“Better get going, Amelia,” Rhyme said. “Your carriage awaits.”

“Lincoln.” Walking closer to the bed.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You did what you had to do.”

“I have no business doing CS work,” she blurted. “I never wanted to.”

“And you won’t be doing it anymore. That works out well, doesn’t it?”

She started to walk to the door then turned and blurted, “You don’t care about anything but the evidence, do you?”

Sellitto and Banks stirred but she ignored them.

“Say, Thom, could you show Amelia out?”

Sachs continued, “This is all just a game to you, isn’t it? Monelle—”

“Who?”

Her eyes flared, “There! See? You don’t even remember her name. Monelle Gerger. The girl in the tunnel ... she was just a part of the puzzle to you. There were rats crawling all over her and you said, ‘That’s their nature’? That’s their nature? She’s never going to be the same again and all you cared about was your precious evidence.”

“In living victims,” he droned, lecturing, “rodent wounds are always superficial. As soon as the first li’l critter drooled on her she needed rabies vaccine. What did a few more bites matter?”

“Why don’t we ask her opinion?” Sachs’s smile was different now. It had turned pernicious, like those of the nurses and therapy aides who hated crips. They walked around rehab wards with smiles like this. Well, he hadn’t been happy with the polite Amelia Sachs; he’d wanted the feisty one. ...

“Answer me something, Rhyme. Why did you really want me?”

“Thom, our guest has overstayed her welcome. Would you—?”

“Lincoln,” the aide began.

“Thom,” Rhyme snapped, “believe I asked you to do something.”

“Because I don’t know shit,” Sachs blurted. “That’s why! You didn’t want a real CS tech because then you wouldn’t be in charge. But me ... you can send me here, send me there. I’ll do exactly what you want, and I won’t bitch and moan.”

“Ah, the troops mutiny ...” Rhyme said, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.

“But I’m not one of the troops. I never wanted this in the first place.”

“I didn’t want it either. But here we are. In bed together. Well, one of us.” And he knew his cold smile was far, far icier than any she could muster.

“Why, you’re just a spoiled brat, Rhyme.”

“Hey, officer, time out here,” Sellitto barked.

But she kept going. “You can’t walk your crime scenes anymore and I’m sorry about that. But you’re risking an investigation just to massage your ego and I say fuck that.” She grabbed her Patrol hat and stormed out of the room.

He expected to hear a slamming door from downstairs, maybe breaking glass. But there was a faint click and then silence.

As Jerry Banks retrieved his watchbook and thumbed through it with more concentration than was needed, Sellitto said, “Lincoln, I’m sorry. I—”

“Nothing to it,” Rhyme said, yawning excessively in the false hope that it would calm his stinging heart. “Nothing at all.”

The cops stood beside the half-empty table for a few moments, difficult silence, then Cooper said, “Better get packed up.” He hefted a black ’scope case onto the table and began to unscrew an eyepiece with the loving care of a musician disassembling his saxophone.

“Well, Thom,” Rhyme said, “it’s after sunset. You know what that tells me? Bar’s open.”

Their war room was impressive. It beat Lincoln Rhyme’s bedroom hands down.

Half a floor at the federal building, three dozen agents, computers and electronic panels out of some Tom Clancy movie. The agents looked like lawyers or investment bankers. White shirts, ties. Crisp was the word that came to mind. And Amelia Sachs in the center, conspicuous in her navy-blue uniform, soiled with rat blood, dust and grainy shit from cattle dead a hundred years.

She was no longer shaking from her blowup with Rhyme and though her mind kept reeling with a hundred things she wanted to say, wished she had said, she forced herself to concentrate on what was happening around her.

A tall agent in an immaculate gray suit was conferring with Dellray—two large men, heads down, solemn. She believed he was the special agent in charge of the Manhattan office, Thomas Perkins, but she didn’t know for certain; a Patrol officer has as much contact with the FBI as a dry cleaner or insurance salesman does. He seemed humorless, efficient, and kept glancing at a large map of Manhattan pinned to the wall. Perkins nodded several times as Dellray briefed him then he stepped up to a fiberboard table filled with manila folders, looked over the agents and began to speak.

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 552