Saturday, 10:15 p.m., to Sunday, 5:30 a.m. 6 page

On a tall table nearby she could see the top of a large glass jug.

If she could knock it off she might use a piece of glass to cut the clothesline. The table seemed out of reach but she rolled over onto her side and started to squirm, like a caterpillar, toward it.

This reminded her of Pammy when she was an infant, rolling on the bed between herself and Ron; she thought of her baby, alone in that horrible basement, and started to cry.

Pammy, Pooh, purse.

For a moment, for a brief moment, she weakened. Wished she’d never left Chicago.

No, stop thinking that way! Quit feeling sorry for yourself! This was the absolute right thing to do. You did it for Ron. And for yourself too. He’d be proud of you. Kate had told her that a thousand times, and she believed it.

Struggling once more. She moved a foot closer to the table.

Groggy, couldn’t think straight.

Her throat stung from the terrible thirst. And the mold and mildew in the air.

She crawled a little farther then lay on her side, catching her breath, staring up at the table. It seemed hopeless. What’s the use? she thought.

Wondering what was going through Pammy’s mind.

You fucker! thought Carole. I’ll kill you for this!

She squirmed, trying to move farther along the floor. But instead, she lost her balance and rolled onto her back. She gasped, knowing what was coming. No! With a loud pop, her wrist snapped. She screamed through the gag. Blacked out. When she came to a moment later she was overwhelmed with nausea.

No, no, no ... If she vomited she’d die. With the gag on, that would be it.

Fight it down! Fight it. Come on. You can do it. Here I go. ... She retched once. Then again.

No! Control it.

Rising in her throat.

Control ...

Control it. ...

And she did. Breathing through her nose, concentrating on Kate and Eddie and Pammy, on the yellow knapsack containing all her precious possessions. Seeing it, picturing it from every angle. Her whole life was in there. Her new life.

Ron, I don’t want to blow it. I came here for you, honey ...

She closed her eyes. Thought: Breathe deep. In, out.

Finally, the nausea subsided. And a moment later she was feeling better and, though she was crying in pain from the snapped wrist, she managed to continue to caterpillar her way toward the table, one foot. Two.

She felt a thump as her head collided with the table leg. She’d just managed to connect with it and couldn’t move any farther. She swung her head back and forth and jostled the table hard. She heard the bottle slosh as it shifted on the tabletop. She looked up.

A bit of the jug was showing beyond the edge of the table. Carole drew back her head and hit the table leg one last time.

No! She’d knocked the leg out of reach. The jug teetered for a moment but stayed upright. Carole strained to get more slack from the clothesline but couldn’t.

Damn. Oh, damn! As she gazed hopelessly up at the filthy bottle she realized it was filled with a liquid and something floated inside. What is that?

She scrunched her way back toward the wall a foot or two and looked up.

It seemed like a lightbulb inside. No, not a whole bulb, just the filament and the base, screwed into a socket. A wire ran from the socket out of the jug to one of those timers that turn the lights on and off when you’re away on vacation. It looked like—

A bomb! Now she recognized the faintest whiff of gasoline.

No, no ...

Carole began to squirm away from the table as fast as she could, sobbing in desperation. There was a filing cabinet by the wall. It’d give her some protection. She drew her legs up then felt a chill of panic and unwound them furiously. The motion knocked her off balance. She realized, to her horror, that she was rolling onto her back once more. Oh, stop. Don’t ... She stayed poised, perfectly still, for a long moment, quivering as she tried to shift her weight forward. But then she continued to roll, collapsing onto her cuffed hand, her shattered wrist taking the weight of her body. There was a moment of incredible pain and, mercifully, she fainted once more.

TWENTY-FIVE

“NO WAY, RHYME. YOU CAN’T DO IT.”

Berger looked on uneasily. Rhyme supposed that in this line of work he’d seen all sorts of hysterical scenarios played out at moments like this. The biggest problem Berger’d have wasn’t those wanting to die but those who wanted everyone else to live.

Thom pounded on the door.

“Thom,” Rhyme called. “It’s all right. You can leave us.” Then to Sachs: “We’ve said our farewells. You and me. It’s bad form to ruin a perfect exit.”

“You can’t do this.”

Who’d blown the whistle? Pete Taylor maybe. The doctor must’ve guessed that he and Thom were lying.

Rhyme saw her eyes slip to the three items on the table. The gifts of the Magi: the brandy, the pills and the plastic bag. Also a rubber band, similar to the ones Sachs still wore on her shoes. (How many times had he come home from a crime scene to find Blaine staring at the bands on his shoes, horrified? “Everybody’ll think my husband can’t afford new shoes. He’s keeping the soles on with rubber bands. Honestly, Lincoln!”)

“Sachs, take the cuffs off the good doctor here. I’ll have to ask you to leave one last time.”

She barked a fast laugh. “Excuse me. This’s a crime in New York. The DA could bootstrap it into murder, he wanted to.”

Berger said, “I’m just having a conversation with a patient.”

“That’s why the charge’s only attempt. So far. Maybe we should run your name and prints through NCIC. See what we come up with.”

“Lincoln,” Berger said quickly, alarmed. “I can’t—”

“We’ll get it worked out,” Rhyme said. “Sachs, please.”

Feet apart, hands on trim hips, her gorgeous face imperious. “Let’s go,” she barked to the doctor.

“Sachs, you have no idea how important this is.”

“I won’t let you kill yourself.”

“Let me?” Rhyme snapped. “Let me? And why exactly do I need your permission?”

Berger said, “Miss ... Officer Sachs, it’s his decision and it’s completely consensual. Lincoln’s more informed than most of the patients I deal with.”

“Patients? Victims, you mean.”

“Sachs!” Rhyme blurted, trying to keep the desperation from his voice. “It’s taken me a year to find someone to help me.”

“Maybe because it’s wrong. Ever consider that? Why now, Rhyme? Right in the middle of the case?”

“If I have another attack and a stroke, I might lose all ability to communicate. I could be conscious for forty years and completely unable to move. And if I’m not brain-dead, nobody in the universe is going to pull the plug. At least now I’m still able to communicate my decisions.”

“But why?” she blurted.

“Why not?” Rhyme answered. “Tell me. Why not?”

“Well ...” It seemed as if the arguments against suicide were so obvious she was having trouble articulating them. “Because ...”

“Because why, Sachs?”

“For one thing, it’s cowardly.”

Rhyme laughed. “Do you want to debate it, Sachs? Do you? Fair enough. ‘Cowardly,’ you say. That leads us to Sir Thomas Browne: ‘When life is more terrible than death, it’s the truest valor to live.’ Courage in the face of insurmountable adversity ... A classic argument in favor of living. But if that’s true then why anesthetize patients before surgery? Why sell aspirin? Why fix broken arms? Why is Prozac the most prescribed medicine in America? Sorry, but there’s nothing intrinsically good about pain.”

“But you’re not in pain.”

“And how do you define pain, Sachs? Maybe the absence of all feeling can be pain too.”

“You can contribute so much. Look at all you know. All the forensics, all the history.”

“The social-contribution argument. That’s a popular one.” He glanced at Berger but the medico remained silent. Rhyme saw his interest dip to the bone sitting on the table—the pale disk of spinal column. He picked it up, kneaded it in his cuffed hands. He was a former orthopedics man, Rhyme recalled.

He continued to Sachs, “But who says we should contribute anything to life? Besides, the corollary is I might contribute something bad. I might cause some harm too. To myself or someone else.”

“That’s what life is.”

Rhyme smiled. “But I’m choosing death, not life.”

Sachs looked uneasy as she thought hard. “It’s just ... death isn’t natural. Life is.”

“No? Freud’d disagree with you. He gave up on the pleasure principle and came to feel that there was another force—a non-erotic primary aggression, he called it. Working to unbind the connections we build in life. Our own destruction’s a perfectly natural force. Everything dies; what’s more natural than that?”

Again she worried a portion of her scalp.

“All right,” she said. “Life’s more of a challenge to you than most people. But I thought ... everything I’ve seen about you tells me you’re somebody who likes challenges.”

“Challenges? Let me tell you about challenges. I was on a ventilator for a year. See the tracheostomy scar on my neck? Well, through positive-pressure breathing exercises—and the greatest willpower I could muster—I managed to get off the machine. In fact I’ve got lungs like nobody’s business. They’re as strong as yours. In a C4 quad that’s one for the books, Sachs. It consumed my life for eight months. Do you understand what I’m saying? Eight months just to handle a basic animal function. I’m not talking about painting the Sistine Chapel or playing the violin. I’m talking about fucking breathing.”

“But you could get better. Next year, they might find a cure.”

“No. Not next year. Not in ten years.”

“You don’t know that. They must be doing research—”

“Sure they are. Want to know what? I’m an expert. Transplanting embryonic nerve tissue onto damaged tissue to promote axonal regeneration.” These words tripped easily from his handsome lips. “No significant effect. Some doctors are chemically treating the affected areas to create an environment where cells can regenerate. No significant effect—not in advanced species. Lower forms of life show pretty good success. If I were a frog I’d be walking again. Well, hopping.”

“So there are people working on it?” Sachs asked.

“Sure. But no one expects any breakthroughs for twenty, thirty years.”

“If they were expected,” she shot back, “then they wouldn’t be breakthroughs, now would they?”

Rhyme laughed. She was good.

Sachs tossed the veil of red hair from her eyes and said, “Your career was law enforcement, remember. Suicide’s illegal.”

“It’s a sin too,” he responded. “The Dakota Indians believed that the ghosts of those who committed suicide had to drag around the tree they’d hanged themselves from for all eternity. Did that stop suicide? Nope. They just used small trees.”

“Tell you what, Rhyme. Here’s my last argument.” She nodded at Berger, grabbed the cuff chain. “I’m taking him in and booking him. Refute that one.”

“Lincoln,” Berger said uneasily, panic in his eyes.

Sachs took the doctor by the shoulder and led him to the door. “No,” he said. “Please. Don’t do this.”

As Sachs opened the door Rhyme called out, “Sachs, before you do that, answer me something.”

She paused. One hand on the knob.

“One question.”

She looked back.

“Have you ever wanted to? Kill yourself?”

She unlocked the door with a loud snap.

He said, “Answer me!”

Sachs didn’t open the door. She stood with her back to him. “No. Never.”

“Are you happy with your life?”

“As much as anybody.”

“You’re never depressed?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I’ve never wanted to kill myself.”

“You like to drive, you were telling me. People who like to drive like to drive fast. You do, don’t you?”

“Yes. Sometimes.”

“What’s the fastest you’ve done?”

“I don’t know.”

“Over eighty?”

A dismissing smile. “Yes.”

“Over a hundred?”

She gestured upward with her thumb.

“One ten? One twenty?” he asked, smiling in astonishment.

“Clocked at 168.”

“My, Sachs, you are impressive. Well, driving that fast, didn’t you think that maybe, just maybe, something might happen. A rod or axle or something would break, a tire would blow, a spot of oil on the road?”

“It was pretty safe. I’m not crazy.”

“Pretty safe. But driving as fast as a small plane, well, that’s not completely safe, now, is it?”

“You’re leading the witness.”

“No, I’m not. Stay with me. You drive that fast, you have to accept that you could have an accident and die, right?”

“Maybe,” she conceded.

Berger, cuffed hands in front of him, looked on nervously, as he kneaded the pale yellow disk of spinal column.

“So you’ve moved close to that line, right? Ah, you know what I’m talking about. I know you do—the line between the risk of dying and the certainty of dying. See, Sachs, if you carry the dead around with you it’s a very short step over that line. A short step to joining them.”

She lowered her head and her face went completely still, as the curtain of hair obscured her eyes.

“Giving up the dead,” he whispered, praying she wouldn’t leave with Berger, knowing he was so very close to pushing her over the edge. “I touched a nerve there. How much of you wants to follow the dead? More than a little, Sachs. Oh, much more than a little.”

She was hesitating. He knew he was near her heart.

She turned angrily to Berger, gripped him by the cuffs. “Come on.” Pushed through the door.

Rhyme called, “You know what I’m saying, don’t you?”

Again she stopped.

“Sometimes ... things happen, Sachs. Sometimes you just can’t be what you ought to be, you can’t have what you ought to have. And life changes. Maybe just a little, maybe a lot. And at some point it just isn’t worth the fight to try to fix what went wrong.”

He watched them standing, motionless, in the doorway. The room was utterly silent. She turned and looked back at him.

“Death cures loneliness,” Rhyme continued. “It cures tension. It cures the itch.” Just like she’d glanced at his legs earlier he now gave a fast look at her torn fingers.

She released Berger’s cuffs and walked to the window. Tears glistened on her cheeks in the yellow radiance from the streetlights outside.

“Sachs, I’m tired,” he said earnestly. “I can’t tell you how tired I am. You know how hard life is to start with. Pile on a whole mountainful of ... burdens. Washing, eating, crapping, making phone calls, buttoning shirts, scratching your nose ... Then pile on a thousand more. And more after that.”

He fell silent. After a long moment she said, “I’ll make a deal with you.”

“What’s that?”

She nodded toward the poster. “Eight twenty-three’s got that mother and her little girl ... Help us save them. Just them. If you do that I’ll give him an hour alone with you.” She glanced at Berger. “Provided he gets the hell out of town afterwards.”

Rhyme shook his head. “Sachs, if I have a stroke, if I can’t communicate ...”

“If that happens,” she said evenly, “even if you can’t say a word, the deal still holds. I’ll make sure you have one hour together.” She crossed her arms, spread her feet again, in what was now Rhyme’s favorite image of Amelia Sachs. He wished he could’ve seen her on the railroad tracks that morning, stopping the train. She said, “That’s the best I’ll do.”

A moment passed. Rhyme nodded. “Okay. It’s a deal.” To Berger he said, “Monday?”

“Okay, Lincoln. Fair enough.” Berger, still shaken, watched Sachs cautiously as she unlocked the cuffs. Afraid, it seemed, that she might change her mind. When he was free he walked quickly to the door. He realized he was still holding the vertebra and returned, set it—almost reverently—next to Rhyme on the crime scene report for the first murder that morning.

“Happier’n hogs in red Virginia mud,” Sachs remarked, slouching in the squeaky rattan chair. Meaning Sellitto and Polling, after she’d told them that Rhyme had agreed to remain on the case for another day.

“Polling particularly,” she said. “I thought the little guy was going to hug me. Don’t tell him I called him that. How are you feeling? You look better.” She sipped some Scotch and set the glass back on the bedside table, beside Rhyme’s tumbler.

“Not bad.”

Thom was changing the bedclothes. “You were sweating like a fountain,” he said.

“But only above my neck,” Rhyme pointed out. “Sweating, I mean.”

“That right?” Sachs asked.

“Yep. That’s how it works. Thermostat’s busted below that. I never need any axial deodorant.”

“Axial?”

“Pit,” Rhyme snorted. “Armpit. My first aide never said armpit. He’d say, ‘I’m going to elevate you by your axials, Lincoln.’ Oh, and: ‘If you feel like regurgitating go right ahead, Lincoln.’ He called himself a ‘caregiver.’ The word was actually on his résumé. I have no idea why I hired him. We’re very superstitious, Sachs. We think calling something by a different name is going to change it. Unsub. Perpetrator. But that aide, he was just a nurse who was up to his own armpits in piss ’n’ puke. Right, Thom? Nothing to be ashamed of. It’s an honorable profession. Messy but honorable.”

“I thrive on mess. That’s why I work for you.”

“What’re you, Thom? An aide or a caregiver?”

“I’m a saint.”

“Ha, fast with the comebacks. And fast with the needle too. He brought me back from the dead. Done it more than once.”

Rhyme was suddenly pierced with a fear that Sachs had seen him naked. Eyes fixed firmly on the unsub profile, he asked, “Say, do I owe you some thanks too, Sachs? Did you play Clara Barton here?” He uneasily waited for her answer, didn’t know how he could look at her again if she had.

“Nup,” Thom answered. “Saved you all by my lonesome. Didn’t want any of these sensitive souls repulsed by the sight of your baggy rear end.”

Thank you, Thom, he thought. Then barked, “Now go away. We have to talk about the case. Sachs and me.”

“You need some sleep.”

“Of course I do. But we still need to talk about the case. Good night, good night.”

After Thom left, Sachs poured some Macallan in a glass. She lowered her head and inhaled the smoky vapors.

“Who snitched?” Rhyme asked. “Pete?”

“Who?” she asked.

“Dr. Taylor, the SCI man.”

She hesitated long enough for him to know that Taylor was the one. She said finally, “He cares about you.”

“Of course he does. That’s the problem—I want him to care a little less. Does he know about Berger?”

“He suspects.”

Rhyme grimaced. “Look, tell him that Berger’s just an old friend. He ... what?”

Sachs exhaled slowly, as if shooting cigarette smoke through her pursed lips. “You not only want me to let you kill yourself you want me to lie to the one person who could talk you out of it.”

“He couldn’t talk me out of it,” Rhyme responded.

“Then why do you want me to lie?”

He laughed. “Let’s just keep Dr. Taylor in the dark for a few more days.”

“All right,” she said. “Jesus, you’re a tough person to deal with.”

He examined her closely. “Why don’t you tell me about it.”

“About what?”

“Who’s the dead? That you haven’t given up?”

“There’s plenty of them.”

“Such as?”

“Read the newspaper.”

“Come on, Sachs.”

She shook her head, stared down at her Scotch with a faint smile on her lips. “No, I don’t think so.”

He put her silence down to reluctance about having an intimate conversation with someone she’d known only for one day. Which seemed ironic, considering she sat next to a dozen catheters, a tube of K-Y jelly and a box of Depends. Still he wasn’t going to push it and said nothing more. So he was surprised when she suddenly looked up and blurted, “It’s just ... It’s just ... Oh, hell.” And as the sobbing began she lifted her hands to her face, spilling a good two inches of Scotland’s best all over the parquet.

TWENTY-SIX

“I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M TELLING YOU THIS.” She sat huddled in the deep chair, legs drawn up, issue shoes kicked off. The tears were gone though her face was as ruddy as her hair.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“That guy I told you about? We were going to get an apartment together.”

“Oh, with the collie. You didn’t say it was a guy. Your boyfriend?”

The secret lover? Rhyme wondered.

“He was my boyfriend.”

“I was thinking maybe it was your father you’d lost.”

“Naw. Pop did pass away—three years ago. Cancer. But we knew it was coming. If that prepares you for it I guess we were prepared. But Nick ...”

“He was killed?” Rhyme asked softly.

But she didn’t answer. “Nick Carelli. One of us. A cop. Detective, third. Worked Street Crimes.”

The name was familiar. Rhyme said nothing and let her continue.

“We lived together for a while. Talked about getting married.” She paused, seemed to be lining up her thoughts like targets at a shooting range. “He worked undercover. So we were pretty secret about our relationship. He couldn’t let word get around on the street that his gal was a cop.” She cleared her throat. “It’s hard to explain. See, we had this ... thing between us. It was ... it hasn’t happened for me very often. Hell, it never happened before Nick. We clicked in some really deep way. He knew I had to be a cop and that wasn’t a problem for him. Same with me and his working undercover. That kind of ... wavelength. You knew, where you just completely understand someone? You ever felt what I’m talking about? With your wife?”

Rhyme smiled faintly. “I did. Yes. But not with Blaine, my wife.” And that was all he wanted to say on the subject. “How’d you meet?” he asked.

“The assignments lectures at the academy. Where somebody gets up and they tell you a little about what their division does. Nick was lecturing on undercover work. He asked me out on the spot. Our first date was at Rodman’s Neck.”

“The gun range?”

She nodded, sniffing. “Afterwards, we went to his mom’s in Brooklyn and had pasta and a bottle of Chianti. She pinched me hard and said I was too skinny to have babies. Made me eat two cannoli. We went back to my place and he stayed over that night. Quite a first date, huh? From then on we saw each other all the time. It was gonna work, Rhyme. I felt it. It was gonna work just fine.”

Rhyme said, “What happened?”

“He was ...”

Another bolstering hit of old liquor. “He was on the take is what happened. The whole time I knew him.”

“He was?”

“Crooked. Oh, way crooked. I never had a clue. Not a single goddamn clue. He socked it away in banks around the city. He dusted close to two hundred thousand.”

Lincoln was silent a moment. “I’m sorry, Sachs. Drugs?”

“No. Merch, mostly. Appliances, TVs. ’Jackings. They called it the Brooklyn Connection. The papers did.”

Rhyme was nodding. “That’s why I remember it. There were a dozen of them in the ring, right? All cops?”

“Mostly. A few ICC people too.”

“What happened to him? Nick?”

“You know what happens when cops bust cops. They beat the crap out of him. Said he resisted but I know he didn’t. Broke three ribs, a couple fingers, smashed his face all up. Pleaded guilty but he still got twenty to thirty.”

“For hijacking?” Rhyme was astonished.

“He worked a couple of the jobs himself. Pistol-whipped one driver, took a shot at another one. Just to scare him. I know it was just to scare him. But the judge threw him away.” She closed her eyes, pressed her lips together hard.

“When he got collared, Internal Affairs went after him like they were in heat. They checked pen registers. We were real careful about calling each other. He said perps sometimes tapped his line. But there were some calls to my place. IA came after me too. So Nick just cut me off. I mean, he had to. Otherwise I would’ve gone down with him. You know IA—it’s always a goddamn witch-hunt.”

“What happened?”

“To convince them that I wasn’t anything to him ... Well, he said some things about me.” She swallowed, her eyes fixed on the floor. “At the IA inquest they wanted to know about me. Nick said, ‘Oh, P.D. Sachs? I just fucked her a few times. Turned out she was lousy. So I dumped her.’ ” She tilted her head back and mopped tears with her sleeve. “The nickname? P.D.”

“Lon told me.”

She frowned. “Did he tell you what it means?”

“The Portable’s Daughter. After your father.”

She smiled wanly. “That’s how it started. But that’s not how it ended up. At the inquest Nick said I was such a lousy fuck it really stood for ‘Pussy Diver’ ’cause I probably liked girls better. Guess how fast that went through the department.”

“It’s a low common denominator out there, Sachs.”

She took a deep breath. “I saw him in court toward the end of the inquest. He looked at me once and ... I can’t even describe what was in his eyes. Just pure heartbreak. Oh, he did it to protect me. But still ... You were right, you know. About the lonely stuff.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No,” she said, unsmiling. “I hit you, you hit me. That was fair. And you were right. I hate being alone. I want to go out, I want to meet somebody. But after Nick I lost my taste for sex.” Sachs gave a sour laugh. “Everybody thinks looking like me’s wonderful. I could have my pick of guys, right? Bullshit. The only ones with the balls to ask me out’re the ones who want to screw all the time. So I just gave up. It’s easier by myself. I hate it, but it’s easier.”

At last Rhyme understood her reaction at seeing him for the first time. She was at ease with him because here was a man who was no threat to her. No sexual come-ons. Someone she wouldn’t have to fend off. And perhaps a certain camaraderie too—as if they were both missing the same, crucial gene.

“You know,” he joked, “you and me, we ought to get together and not have an affair.”

She laughed. “So tell me about your wife. How long were you married?”

“Seven years. Six before the accident, one after.”

“And she left you?”

“Nope. I left her. I didn’t want her to feel guilty about it.”

“Good of you.”

“I’d have driven her out eventually. I’m a prick. You’ve only seen my good side.” After a moment he asked, “This thing with Nick ... it have anything to do with why you’re leaving Patrol?”

“No. Well, yes.”

“Gunshy?”

Finally she nodded. “Life on the street’s different now. That’s what did it to Nick, you know. What turned him. It’s not like it was when Pop was walking his beat. Things were better then.”

“You mean it’s not like the stories your dad told you.”

“Maybe,” she conceded. Sachs slumped the chair. “The arthritis? That’s true but it’s not as serious as I pretend it is.”

“I know,” Rhyme said.

“You know? How?”

“I just looked at the evidence and drew some conclusions.”

“Is that why you’ve been on my case all day? You knew I was faking?”

“I’ve been on your case,” he said, “because you’re better than you think you are.”

She gave him a screwy look.

“Ah, Sachs, you remind me of me.”

“I do?”

“Let me tell you a story. I’d been on crime scene detail maybe a year when we got a call from Homicide there was a guy found dead in an alley in Greenwich Village. All the sergeants were out and so I got elected to run the scene. I was twenty-six years old, remember. I go up there and check it out and it turns out the dead guy’s the head of the City Health and Human Services. Now, what’s he got all around him but a load of Polaroids? You should’ve seen some of those snaps—he’d been to one of those S&M clubs off Washington Street. Oh, and I forgot to mention, when they found him he was dressed in a stunning little black minidress and fishnet stockings.

“So, I secure the scene. All of a sudden a captain shows up and starts to cross the tape. I know he’s planning to have those pictures disappear on the way to the evidence room but I was so naive I didn’t care much about the pictures—I was just worried about somebody walking through the scene.”

“P is for Protect the crime scene.”

Rhyme chuckled. “So I didn’t let him in. While he was standing at the tape screaming at me a dep com tried an end run. I told him no. He started screaming at me. The scene stays virgin till IRD’s through with it, I told them. Guess who finally showed up?”

“The mayor?”

“Well, deputy mayor.”

“And you held ’em all off?”

“Nobody got into that scene except Latents and Photography. Of course my payback was spending six months printing floaters. But we nailed the perp with some trace and a print off one of those Polaroids—happened to be the same snap the Post used on page one, as a matter of fact. Just like what you did yesterday morning, Sachs. Closing off the tracks and Eleventh Avenue.”

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 565