"Lon," she whispered, "I'm fine."
The big detective responded, "I know enough about crime scenes to secure the place. Rhyme's been busting my chops for years to get it right."
"I'm not going to be sprinting."
"Yeah, maybe not, but could you drop into a combat pose if he lights you up with that fucking gun of his?"
"Yes, I could," she answered firmly.
"Well, I don't think so. So quit arguing and get the civvies safe." He cinched his body armor tighter and drew his revolver.
She hesitated.
"That's an order, Detective."
She looked at him darkly. But as independent as Sachs was--some would use the word "renegade"--the portable's daughter knew her place in the ranks of the New York City Police Department. She said, "All right . . . but here, take this." She drew her fifteen-round Glock and handed it to him, along with an extra clip. She took his six-shot revolver.
He looked down at the large black automatic. It was a gun with a trigger pull as delicate as a moth's wing. If he handled this weapon wrong, like he'd done on Elizabeth Street yesterday, he could easily kill himself or somebody on the entry team. Rubbing his cheek once more, Sellitto glanced at the apartment. And hurried to join the others.
Crossing the street to clear the apartments and houses, Sachs glanced back and watched them go. She turned and continued on to the apartments and houses across the street.
The limp was gone.
In fact, she was fine. The only pain she felt was disappointment that she wasn't on point with the entry team. But she'd had to fake the fall and injury. For Lon Sellitto's sake. She couldn't think of any way to save him except by forcing him to take on the job. She'd assessed the risk of his going in on a team and decided that there was minimal threat to him or to anybody else--there'd be plenty of backup, everybody was in armor and they were catching their perp by surprise. Sellitto also seemed to have some measure of control over his fear. She recalled the deliberation with which he'd held and examined the Glock, how his quick eyes had looked over the perp's building.
But in any event there really was no choice. Sellitto was a great cop. But if he stayed skittish he'd cease to be any kind of cop at all and his life would be over with. Those splinters of self-doubt had a way of infecting your entire soul. Sachs knew; she battled them constantly herself. If he didn't go back into combat now, he'd give up.
She picked up her pace; after all, she did have an important job here, clearing the residences across the street, and she had to move fast; the entry team was going inside at any minute. Sachs started ringing doorbells and getting people out of front rooms and making sure they stayed inside for the time being behind locked doors. She radioed Bo Haumann on the secure tactical frequency and told him that the immediate houses were clear; she'd keep going with those that were farther away, up and down the street.
"Okay, we're going in," the man said tersely and disconnected.
Sachs continued along the street. She found her fingernail digging into her thumb. Reflecting on the irony: Sellitto fidgeted going into a fight; Amelia Sachs was edgy when she had to stay out of harm's way.
Chapter Thirty-One
Lon Sellitto followed the four officers up the dim stairs, to the second-floor landing of the apartment.
Breathing hard from the climb, he paused, caught his breath. The tactical cops huddled, waiting for word from Haumann that the electricity to the apartment had been cut--they didn't want any more electrocutions.
While they waited the big detective had a talk with himself: Are you ready for this?
Think about it. Now's the time to decide. Leave or stay?
Tap, tap, tap . . .
It all swirled around in his mind: the blood spattering him obscenely, the needles from the bullet ripping apart flesh. The brown eyes that were filled with life one second and then glazed with death a moment later. The icy rush of absolute panic when that basement door on Elizabeth Street opened and his gun went off with a huge, kicking explosion, Amelia Sachs cringing, reaching for her weapon, as the bullet dug chunks of stone out of the wall just a few feet from her.
The bullet from my own goddamn gun!
What was happening? he wondered. Was his nerve gone? He laughed grimly to himself, comparing the kind of nerve he was thinking of to Lincoln Rhyme's, whose physical nerve, the one in his spine, was literally destroyed. Well, Rhyme fucking well dealt with what happened to him. Why can't I?
It was a question that had to be answered, because if he stepped up now and he caved or flubbed the takedown again, people might die. Probably would, given the stone-cold perp they were after.
If he stayed back, took himself off the detail, his career would be over, but at least he wouldn't've jeopardized anyone else.
Can you do it? he asked himself.
The leader of the team said, "Detective, we're going in in about thirty seconds. We'll batter the door, spread out and clear the apartment. You can come in and secure the crime scene after. That all right with you?"
Leave or stay? the lieutenant asked himself. You can just walk downstairs. That'll be it. Give up your shield, hire on as a security consultant with some corporation. Double your salary.
Never get shot at again.
Tap, tap, tap . . .
Never see eyes wincing and going lifeless inches from yours.
Tap . . .
"Is that okay?" the leader repeated.
Sellitto glanced at the cop "No," he whispered. "No."
The ESU officer frowned.
The detective said, "Take the door out with the ram, then I'll go in. First."
"But--"
Sellitto muttered, "You heard Detective Sachs. This perp isn't working alone. We need anything we can find that'll lead us to the prick who hired him. I'll know what to look for and I can save the scene if he tries to fuck it up."
"Let me call in," the ESU man said doubtfully.
"Officer," the detective said calmly, "that's the way it is. I'm senior here."
The team leader looked at his second in command. They shrugged.
"It's your . . . decision."
Sellitto supposed the third word of that sentence was originally going to be "funeral."
"As soon as they pull the juice we go in," the ESU officer said. He put on his gas mask. The team pulled on theirs, Sellitto too. He gripped Sachs's Glock--kept his finger outside the trigger guard--and stepped to the side of the door.
In his earpiece he heard: "We're cutting the electricity in three . . . two . . . one."
The leader tapped the shoulder of the officer with the battering ram. The big man swung it hard and the door crashed open.
Flying on adrenaline, forgetting everything but the perp and the evidence, Sellitto charged inside, the tactical officers behind, covering him, kicking doors open and searching the rooms. The second team came in from the kitchen.
No immediate sign of Boyd. On a small TV a sitcom played--the source of the voices and most likely the source of heat and noise that S and S had found.
Most likely.
But maybe not.
Glancing left and right as he entered the small living room, seeing no one, Sellitto headed straight for Boyd's desk, piled high with evidence: sheets of paper, ammunition, several envelopes, bits of plastic wire, a digital timer, jars of liquid and of white powder, a transistor radio, rope. Using a tissue, Sellitto carefully checked a metal cabinet near the desk for traps. He found none and opened it, noting more jars and boxes. Two more guns. Several stacks of new bills--nearly $100,000, the detective estimated.
"Room's clear," one of the ESU officers called. Then another, from a different room.
Finally a voice: "Team Leader A to CP, we've cleared the scene, K."
Sellitto laughed out loud. He'd done it. Confronted whatever the fuck it was that'd been torturing him.
But don't get too cocky, he told himself, pocketing Sachs's Glock. You came along on this sleigh ride for a reason, remember? You got work
to do. So secure the fucking evidence.
As he looked over the place, though, he realized something was nagging.
What?
Looking over the kitchen, the hallway, the desk. What was odd? Something was wrong.
Then it occurred to him:
Transistor radio?
Did they even make those anymore? Well, if they did, you hardly ever saw 'em, with all the fancier players available for cheap: boom boxes, CD players, MP3s.
Shit. It's a booby trap, an explosive device! And it's sitting right next to a big jar of clear liquid, with a glass stopper in the top, which Sellitto knew from science class was what you used to store acid in.
"Christ!"
How long did he have before it detonated? A minute, two?
Sellitto lunged forward and grabbed the radio, stepped to the bathroom, setting it in the sink.
One of the tactical officers asked, "What's--?"
"We've got an IED! Clear the apartment!" the detective shouted, ripping off his gas mask.
"Get the fuck out!" the officer cried.
Sellitto ignored him. When people make improvised explosive devices they never worry about obscuring fingerprints or other clues because once the devices blow up, most evidence is destroyed. They knew Boyd's identity, of course, but there could be some trace or other prints on the device that might lead to the person hiring him or his accomplice.
"Call the Bomb Squad," somebody transmitted.
"Shut up. I'm busy."
There was an on/off switch on the radio but he didn't trust that to deactivate the explosive charge. Cringing, the detective worked the black plastic back off the radio.
How long, how long?
What's a reasonable time for Boyd to get into his apartment and disarm the trap?
As he popped the back off and bent down, Sellitto found himself staring at a half stick of dynamite--not a plastic explosive but plenty powerful enough to blow off his hand and blind him. There was no display. It's only in the movies that bombs have easy-to-read digital timers that count down to zero. Real bombs are detonated by tiny microprocessor timing chips without displays. Sellitto held the dynamite itself in place with a fingernail--to keep from obliterating any prints. He started to work the blasting cap out of the explosive.
Wondering how sophisticated the unsub had been (serious bomb makers use secondary detonators to take out people like Sellitto who were fucking around with their handiwork), he pulled the blasting cap out of the dynamite.
No secondary detonators, or any--
The explosion, a huge ringing bang, echoed through the bathroom, reverberating off the tile.
"What was that?" Bo Haumann called. "Somebody shooting? We have gunshots? All units report."
"Explosion in the bathroom of the subject's unit," somebody called. "Medics to the scene, EMS to the scene!"
"Negative, negative. Everybody take it easy." Sellitto was running his burned fingers under cold water. "I just need a Band-Aid."
"That you, Lieutenant?"
"Yeah. It was the blasting cap went off. Boyd had a booby trap rigged to take out the evidence. I saved most of it . . . . " He pressed his hand into his armpit and squeezed. "Fuck, that stings."
"How big a device?" Haumann asked.
Sellitto glanced at the desk in the other room. "Big enough to blow the shit out of what looks like a gallon jar of sulfuric acid, I'd guess. And I see some jars of powder, probably cyanide. It would've taken out most of the evidence--and anybody who was nearby."
Several of the ESU officers glanced with gratitude toward Sellitto. One said, "Man, this's one perp I wanna take down personally."
Haumann, ever the voice of a detached cop, asked matter-of-factly, "Status of unsub?"
"No sign. Heat on the infrared was a fridge, TV and sunlight on furniture, looks like," one cop transmitted.
Sellitto looked over the room and then radioed, "Got an idea, Bo."
"Go ahead."
"Let's fix the door fast. Leave me and a couple other guys inside, clear everybody else off the streets. He might be back soon. We'll get him then."
"Roger, Lon. I like it. Let's get moving. Who knows carpentry?"
"I'll do it," Sellitto said. "One of my hobbies. Just get me some tools. And what kind of fucking entry team is this? Doesn't anybody have a goddamn Band-Aid?"
*
Down the street from Boyd's apartment, Amelia Sachs was listening to the transmitted exchanges about the kick-in. It seemed that her plan for Sellitto might've worked--even better than she'd hoped. She wasn't exactly sure what had happened but it was clear that he'd done something ballsy and she heard some newfound confidence in his voice.
She acknowledged the message about the plan to pull everybody off the street and wait for Boyd to return, then she added that she was going to warn the last residents across the street from the safe house and, after that, she'd join the others on the stake-out. She knocked on the front door and told the woman who answered to stay away from the front of the house until she heard it was safe to come out. There was a police action going on across the street.
The woman's eyes were wide. "Is it dangerous?"
Sachs gave her the standard line: We're just being cautious, nothing to be alarmed about and so on. Noncommittal, reassuring. Half of being a cop is public relations. Sometimes it's most of being a cop. Sachs added that she'd seen some children's toys in the woman's yard. Were they home now?
It was then that Sachs saw a man emerge from an alleyway up the street. He was walking slowly in the direction of the apartment, head down, wearing a hat and a long overcoat. She couldn't see his face.
The woman was saying in a concerned voice, "It's just my boyfriend and me here now. The children are at school. They usually walk home but should we go pick them up?"
"Ma'am, that man there, across the street?"
She stepped forward and glanced. "Him?"
"Do you know him?"
"Sure. He lives in that building right there."
"What's his name?"
"Larry Tang."
"Oh, he's Chinese?"
"I guess. Or Japanese or something."
Sachs relaxed.
"He's not involved in anything, is he?" the woman asked.
"No, he's not. About your children, it probably would be best to--"
Oh, Jesus . . .
Looking past the woman, Amelia Sachs stared into a bedroom of the bungalow, which was in the process of being renovated. On the wall were some painted cartoon characters. One was from Winnie-the-Pooh--the character Tigger.
The orange shade of the paint was identical to the samples she'd found near Geneva's aunt's place in Harlem. Bright orange.
Then she glanced at the floor in the entry hall. On a square of newspapers was an old pair of shoes. Light brown. She could just see the label inside. They were Bass. About size 11.
Amelia Sachs understood suddenly that the boyfriend that the woman had referred to was Thompson Boyd and the apartment across the street wasn't his residence but was another of his safe houses. The reason it was empty at the moment, of course, was that he was somewhere in this very house.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Amelia Sachs, thinking: Get the woman outside. Her eyes aren't guilty. She's not part of it.
Thinking: Of course Boyd's armed.
Thinking: And I just traded my Glock for a fucking six-shooter.
Get her out of here. Fast.
Sachs's hand was easing toward her waistband, where Sellitto's tiny pistol rested. "Oh, one more thing, ma'am," she said calmly. "I saw a van up the street. I wonder if you could tell me whose it is."
What was that noise? Sachs wondered. Something from within the house. Metallic. But not like a weapon, a faint clatter.
"A van?"
"Yeah, you can't see it from here. It's behind that tree." Sachs stepped back, gesturing her forward. "Could you step outside and take a look, please? It'd be a big help."
The woman, though, stayed w
here she was, in the entryway, glancing to her right. Toward where the sound had come from. "Honey?" She frowned. "What's wrong?"
The clattering, Sachs understood suddenly, had been venetian blinds. Boyd had heard the exchange with his girlfriend and had looked out the window. He'd seen an ESU officer or squad car near his safe house.
"It's really important," Sachs tried. "If you could just . . . "
But the woman froze, her eyes wide.
"No! Tom! What're you--?"
"Ma'am, come over here!" Sachs shouted, drawing the Smith & Wesson. "Now! You're in danger!"
"What're you doing with that? Tom!" She backed away from Boyd but remained in the corridor, a rabbit in headlights. "No!"
"Get down!" Sachs said in a ragged whisper, dropping into a crouch and moving forward into the house.
"Boyd, listen to me," Sachs shouted. "If you've got a weapon, drop it. Throw it out where I can see it. Then get on the floor. I mean now! There're dozens of officers outside!"
Silence, except for the woman's sobbing.
Sachs executed a fast feint, looking low around the corner to the left. She caught a glimpse of the man, his face calm, a large, black pistol in his hand. Not the North American .22 magnum, but an automatic, which would have stopping-power bullets and a clip capacity of fifteen rounds or so. She ducked back to cover. Boyd'd been expecting her to present higher and the two slugs he fired missed her, though only by inches, blowing plaster and wood splinters into the air. The brunette was screaming with every breath, scrabbling away, looking from Sachs back to where Boyd was. "No, no, no!"
Sachs called, "Throw your weapon down!"
"Tom, please! What's going on?"
Sachs called to her, "Get down, miss!"
A long moment of complete silence. What was Boyd up to? It was as if he was debating what to do next.
Then he fired a single round.
The detective flinched. The bullet was wide, though. It completely missed the wall where Sachs stood.
But, it turned out, Boyd hadn't been aiming at her at all, and the slug did indeed hit its target.
The brunette was dropping to her knees, her hands on her thigh, which gushed blood. "Tom," she whispered. "Why? . . . Oh, Tom." She rolled onto her back and lay clutching her leg, gasping in pain.
Just like at the museum, Boyd had shot someone to distract the police, to give him a chance to get away. But this time it was his girlfriend.
Sachs heard the crack of glass as Boyd broke through a window to escape.