"Did he know her?"
"At first Art said he didn't but then, well, he thought they might've met. At an art gallery he goes to sometimes. But he said he never talked to her that he can remember." Her eyes now took in the whiteboard containing the schematic of the plan to capture Logan in England.
Rhyme was remembering other times he and Arthur had spent together.
Race you to that tree. . . . No, you wimp . . . the maple way over there. Touch the trunk! On three. One . . . two . . . go!
You didn't say three!
"There's more, isn't there, Judy? Tell us." Sachs had seen something in the woman's eyes, Rhyme supposed.
"I'm just upset. For the kids too. It's a nightmare for them. The neighbors're treating us like terrorists."
"I'm sorry to push but it's important for us to know all the facts. Please."
The blush had returned and she was gripping her knees. Rhyme and Sachs had a friend who worked as an agent for the California Bureau of Investigation, Kathryn Dance. She was a kinesics, or body language, expert. Rhyme considered such skills secondary to forensic science but he'd come to respect Dance and had learned something about her specialty. He now could see easily that Judy Rhyme was a fountain of stress.
"Go on," Sachs encouraged.
"It's just that the police found some other evidence--well, it wasn't really evidence. Not like clues. But . . . it made them think maybe Art and the woman were seeing each other."
Sachs asked, "What's your opinion of that?"
"I don't think he was."
Rhyme noted the softened verb. Not as adamant a denial as with the murder and theft. She desperately wanted the answer to be no, though she'd probably come to the same conclusion Rhyme just had: that the woman's being his lover worked in Arthur's favor. You were more likely to rob a stranger than someone you were sleeping with. Still, as a wife and mother, Judy was crying out for one particular answer.
Then she glanced up, less cautious now about looking at Rhyme, the contraption he sat in and the other devices that defined his life. "Whatever else was going on, he did not kill that woman. He couldn't have. I know it in my soul. . . . Is there anything you can do?"
Rhyme and Sachs shared a look. He said, "I'm sorry, Judy, we're in the midst of a big case right now. We're real close to catching a very dangerous killer. I can't drop that."
"I wouldn't want you to. But, just something. I don't know what else to do." Her lip was trembling.
He said, "We'll make some calls, find out what we can. I can't give you information you couldn't otherwise get through your lawyer but I'll tell you honestly what I think about the D.A.'s chance of success."
"Oh, thank you, Lincoln."
"Who's his lawyer?"
She gave them the name and phone number. A high-profile, and -priced, criminal defense attorney Rhyme knew. But he'd be a man with a lot on his plate and more experience with financial than violent crimes.
Sachs asked about the prosecutor.
"Bernhard Grossman. I can get you his number."
"That's all right," Sachs said. "I have it. I've worked with him before. He's reasonable. I assume he offered your husband a plea bargain?"
"He did, and our lawyer wanted to take it. But Art refused. He keeps saying this is just a mistake, it'll all get straightened out. But that doesn't always happen, does it? Even if people are innocent they go to jail sometimes, don't they?"
They do, yes, Rhyme thought, then said, "We'll make a few phone calls."
She rose. "I can't tell you how sorry I am that we let things slide. Inexcusable." Surprising him, Judy Rhyme strode directly to the wheelchair and bent down, brushing her cheek against his. Rhyme smelled nervous sweat and two distinct scents, perhaps deodorant and hair spray. No perfume. She didn't seem the perfume type. "Thank you, Lincoln." She walked to the door and paused. To them both she said, "Whatever else you find, about that woman and Arthur, it's all right. All I care about is that he doesn't go to jail."
"I'll do what I can. We'll give you a call if we find something concrete."
Sachs saw her out.
When she returned Rhyme said, "Let's check with the lawyers first."
"I'm sorry, Rhyme." He frowned, and she added, "I just mean, it's got to be hard on you."
"How's that?"
"Thinking a close relative got busted for murder."
Rhyme shrugged, one of the few gestures he could manage. "Ted Bundy was somebody's son. Maybe a cousin too."
"But still." Sachs lifted the receiver. Eventually she tracked down the defense lawyer, got his answering service and left a message. Rhyme wondered which hole of which golf course he was on at that moment.
She then got in touch with the assistant district attorney, Grossman, who wasn't enjoying the day of rest but was in his office downtown. He'd never connected the last name of the perp to the criminalist. "Hey, I'm sorry, Lincoln," he said sincerely. "But I have to say, it's a good case. I'm not blowing smoke. I'd tell you if there were gaps. But there aren't. A jury's going to nail him. If you can talk him into a plea, you'd be doing him a huge favor. I could probably go down to twelve solid."
Twelve years, with no parole. It would kill Arthur, Rhyme reflected.
"Appreciate that," Sachs said.
The A.D.A. added that he had a complicated trial starting tomorrow so he couldn't spend any more time talking to them now. He'd call later in the week, if they liked.
He did, however, give them the name of the lead detective in the case, Bobby LaGrange.
"I know him," she said, dialing him at home too. She got his voice mail but when she tried his cell he answered immediately.
"LaGrange."
The hiss of wind and the sound of slapping water explained what the detective was up to on this clear-sky, warm day.
Sachs identified herself.
"Oh, sure. Howya doin', Amelia? I'm waiting for a call from a snitch. We've got something going down in Red Hook anytime now."
So, not on his fishing boat.
"I may have to hang up fast."
"Understood. You're on speaker."
"Detective, this is Lincoln Rhyme."
A hesitation. "Oh. Yeah." A call from Lincoln Rhyme got people's full attention pretty fast.
Rhyme explained about his cousin.
"Wait . . . 'Rhyme.' You know, I thought it was a funny name. I mean, unusual. But I never put it together. And he never said anything about you. Not in any of the interviews. Your cousin. Man, I'm sorry."
"Detective, I don't want to interfere with the case. But I said I'd call and find out what the story is. It's gone to the A.D.A., I know. Just talked to him."
"I gotta say the collar was righteous. I've run homicides for five years and short of somebody from Patrol witnessing a gang clip, this was the cleanest wrap I've seen."
"What's the story? Art's wife only gave me the bones."
In the stiff voice that cops fall into when recounting details of a crime--stripped of emotion: "Your cousin left work early. He went to the apartment of a woman named Alice Sanderson, down in the Village. She'd gotten off work early too. We aren't sure how long he was there but sometime around six she was knifed to death and a painting was stolen."
"Rare, I understand?"
"Yeah. But not like Van Gogh."
"Who was the artist?"
"Somebody named Prescott. Oh, and we found some direct-mail things, flyers, you know, that a couple of galleries'd sent your cousin about Prescott. That didn't look so good."
"Tell me more about May twelfth," Rhyme said.
"At about six a witness heard screams and a few minutes later saw a man carrying a painting out to a light blue Mercedes parked on the street. It left the scene fast. The wit only got the first three letters on the tag--couldn't tell the state but we ran everything in the metro area. Narrowed the list down and interviewed the owners. One was your cousin. My partner and me went out to Jersey to talk to him, had a trooper with us, for protocol, you know. We saw what looked
like blood on the back door and in the backseat. A bloody washcloth was under the seat. It matched a set of linens in the vic's apartment."
"And DNA was positive?"
"Her blood, yeah."
"The witness identified him in a lineup?"
"Naw, was anonymous. Called from a pay phone and wouldn't give their name. Didn't want to get involved. But we didn't need any wits. Crime Scene had a field day. They lifted a shoeprint from the vic's entryway--same kind of shoe your cousin wore--and got some good trace."
"Class evidence?"
"Yeah, class. Traces of shave cream, snack food chips, lawn fertilizer from his garage. Exactly matched what was at the vic's apartment."
No, it didn't match, Rhyme reflected. Evidence falls into several categories. "Individuating" evidence is unique to a single source, like DNA and fingerprints. "Class" evidence shares certain characteristics with similar materials but they don't necessarily come from the same source. Carpet fibers, for instance. A DNA test of blood at a crime scene can definitely "match" the criminal's blood. But a comparison of carpet fiber at a scene can only be "associated with" fibers found in the suspect's house, allowing the jury to infer he was at the scene.
"What was your take on whether or not he knew her?" Sachs asked.
"He claimed he didn't, but we found two notes she'd written. One at her office and one at home. One was 'Art--drinks.' The other just said 'Arthur.' Nothing else. Oh, and we found his name in her phonebook."
"His number?" Rhyme was frowning.
"No. Prepaid mobile. No record."
"So you figure they were more than friends?"
"Crossed our minds. Why else only give her a prepaid number and not his home or office?" He gave a laugh. "Apparently she didn't care. You'd be surprised what people accept without asking questions."
Not that surprised, Rhyme thought.
"And the phone?"
"Toast. Never found it."
"And you think he killed her because she was pressuring him to leave the wife?"
"That's what the prosecutor'll argue. Something like that."
Rhyme compared what he knew of his cousin, whom he hadn't seen in more than a decade, against this information; he could neither confirm nor deny the allegation.
Sachs asked, "Anybody else have a motive?"
"Nope. Family and friends said she dated some, but real casual. No terrible breakups. I was even wondering if the wife did it--Judy--but she was accounted for at the time."
"Did Arthur have any alibi?"
"None. Claims he went for a run but nobody could confirm seeing him. Clinton State Park. Big place. Pretty deserted."
"I'm curious," Sachs said, "what his demeanor was during interrogation?"
LaGrange laughed. "Funny you bring that up--the weirdest part of the whole case. He looked like he was dazed. Just blown away by seeing us there. I've collared a lot of people in my day, some of 'em pros. Connected guys, I mean. And he was, hands down, the best at playing the innocent-me game. Great actor. You remember that about him, Detective Rhyme?"
The criminalist didn't reply. "What happened to the painting?"
A pause. "That's the other thing. Never recovered. Wasn't in his house or garage, but the crime-scene folks found dirt in the backseat of the car and his garage. It matched the dirt in the state park where he went jogging every night near his house. We figured he buried it somewhere."
"One question, Detective," Rhyme said.
A pause at the other end of the line, during which a voice spoke indecipherable words and the wind howled again. "Go on."
"Can I see the file?"
"The file?" Not really a question. Just stalling to consider. "It's a solid case. We ran it by the book."
Sachs said, "We don't doubt that for a minute. The thing is, though, we understand he's rejected a plea."
"Oh. You want to talk him into one? Yeah, I get it. That's the best thing for him. Well, all I have is copies, the A.D.A.'s got everything else and the evidence. But I can get you the reports. A day or two okay?"
Rhyme shook his head. Sachs said to the detective, "If you could talk to Records and okay it I'll go down there and pick up the file myself."
The wind filled the speakers again, then stopped abruptly. LaGrange must have moved into shelter.
"Yeah, okay, I'll give 'em a call now."
"Thanks."
"No problem. Good luck."
After they'd disconnected, Rhyme gave a brief smile. "That was a nice touch. The plea bargain thing."
"You gotta know your audience," Sachs said and slung her purse over her shoulder, heading out of the door.
Chapter Four Sachs returned from her trip to Police Plaza a lot faster than if she'd taken public transportation--or paid attention to stoplights. Rhyme knew that she'd slapped a flashing light on the dash of her car, a 1969 Camaro SS, which she'd had painted fiery red a few years ago to match Rhyme's preferred shade for his wheelchairs. Like a teenager, she still looked for any excuse to fire up the massive engine and sear rubber off the tires.
"Copied everything," she said, carrying a thick folder into the room. She winced as she set it on an examining table.
"You okay?"
Amelia Sachs suffered from arthritis, she had all her life, and popped glucosamine, chondroitin and Advil or Naprosyn like jelly beans but she rarely acknowledged the condition, fearful that the brass might stick her behind a desk on a medical if they found out. Even when she and Rhyme were alone she downplayed the pain. But today she admitted, "Some twinges're worse than others."
"Want to sit?"
A shake of the head.
"So. What've we got?"
"Report, evidence inventory and copies of the photos. No videos. They're with the D.A."
"Let's get everything on the board. I want to see the primary crime scene and Arthur's house."
She walked to a whiteboard--one of the dozens in the lab--and transcribed information as Rhyme watched.
ALICE SANDERSON HOMICIDE
* * *
ALICE SANDERSON APARTMENT:
* Traces of Edge Advanced Gel shave cream, with aloe
* Crumbs determined to be Pringles, fat free, barbecue flavor * Chicago Cutlery knife (MW)
* TruGro fertilizer
* Shoeprint of Alton EZ-Walk, size 10 1/2
* Fleck of latex glove
* References to "Art" and a prepaid mobile number in phonebook, now no longer active. Untraceable (Possible affair?) * Two notes: "Art--drinks" (office) and "Arthur" (home)
* Wit saw light blue Mercedes, partial tag NLP
ARTHUR RHYME'S CAR:
* 2004 light blue Mercedes sedan, C Class, New Jersey license NLP 745, registered to Arthur Rhyme * Blood on door, rear floor (DNA match to victim's)
* Bloody washcloth, matching set found in victim's apartment (DNA match to victim's) * Dirt with composition similar to dirt in Clinton State Park ARTHUR RHYME'S HOUSE:
* Edge Advanced Gel with aloe, shave cream, associated with that from primary crime scene * Pringles barbecue-flavored chips, fat free
* TruGro fertilizer (garage)
* Spade containing dirt similar to dirt in Clinton State Park (garage) * Chicago Cutlery knives, same type as the MW
* Alton EZ-Walk shoes, size 10 1/2, tread similar to that at primary crime scene * Direct-mail flyers from Wilcox Gallery, Boston, and Anderson-Billings Fine Arts, Carmel, about shows of Harvey Prescott paintings * Box of Safe-Hand latex gloves, rubber composition similar to that of fleck found at primary crime scene (garage) "Man, it's pretty incriminating, Rhyme," Sachs said, standing back, hand on her hips.
"And using a prepaid cell? And references to 'Art.' But no address where he lives or works. That would suggest an affair. . . . Any other details?"
"No. Other than the pictures."
"Tape them up," he instructed while scanning the chart, regretting that he hadn't searched the scene himself--vicariously, that was, with Amelia Sachs, as they often did, via a microphone/headset
or a high-definition video camera she wore. It seemed like a competent CS job, but not stellar. No photos of the nonscene rooms. And the knife . . . He saw the picture of the bloody weapon, beneath the bed. An officer was lifting a flap of dust ruffle to get a good shot. Was it invisible with the cloth down (which meant the perp might logically have missed it in the frenzy of the moment) or was it visible, suggesting it had been left intentionally as planted evidence?
He studied the picture of packing material on the floor, apparently what the Prescott painting had been wrapped in.
"Something's wrong," he whispered.
Sachs, standing at the whiteboard, glanced his way.
"The painting," Rhyme continued.
"What about it?"
"LaGrange suggested two motives. One, Arthur stole the Prescott as a cover because he wanted to kill Alice to get her out of his life."
"Right."
"But," Rhyme went on, "to make a homicide seem incidental to a burglary, a smart perp wouldn't steal the one thing in the apartment that could be connected to him. Remember, Art had owned a Prescott. And he had direct-mail flyers about them."
"Sure, Rhyme, that doesn't make any sense."
"And say he really did want the painting and couldn't afford it. Well, it's a hell of a lot safer and easier to break in and cart it off during the day when the owner's at work, rather than murder them for it." His cousin's demeanor too, though not high in Rhyme's arsenal when he assessed guilt or innocence, nagged. "Maybe he wasn't playing innocent. Maybe he was innocent. . . . Pretty incriminating, you said? No. Too incriminating."
He thought to himself: Let's just postulate that he didn't do it. If not, then the consequences were significant. Because this wasn't simply a case of mistaken identity; the evidence matched too closely--including a conclusive connection between her blood and his car. No, if Art was innocent, then someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to set him up.
"I'm thinking he was framed."
"Why?"
"Motive?" he muttered. "We don't care at this point. The relevant question now is how. We answer that, it can point us to who. We might get why along the way, but that's not our priority. So we start with a premise that someone else, Mr. X, murdered Alice Sanderson and stole the painting, then framed Arthur. Now, Sachs, how could he have done it?"
A wince--her arthritis again--and she sat. She thought for several moments, then said, "Mr. X followed Arthur and followed Alice. He saw they had an interest in art, put them together at the gallery and found their identities."