The big car eased onto the dusty shoulder and Lucy pulled in behind it. Rules dictated that she call in for a tag, tax and warrants check but Lucy didn't bother with this. There was nothing that DMV could report that would be of any interest to her. With trembling hands she opened the door and climbed out.
The driver's eyes now shifted to the sideview mirror and continued to examine her clinically. They registered some surprise, noticing, she supposed, that she wasn't in her uniform--just jeans and a work shirt--though she was wearing her weapon on her hip. What would an off-duty cop be doing pulling over a driver who hadn't been speeding?
Henry Davett rolled down his window.
Lucy Kerr looked inside, past Davett. In the front passenger seat was a woman in her early fifties, with a dryness to her sprayed blond hair that suggested frequent beauty parlor shampoos. She wore diamonds on wrist, ears and chest. A teenage girl sat in the back, flipping through boxes of CDs, mentally enjoying the music that her father wouldn't let her listen to on the Sabbath.
"Officer Kerr," Davett said, "what's the problem?"
But she could see in his eyes, now no longer in reflection, that he knew exactly what the problem was.
And still they remained as guilt-free and in control as when he'd noticed the gyrations of the flashing lights on her Crown Victoria.
Her anger tugged at its restraints and she snapped, "Get out of the car, Davett."
"Honey, what did you do?"
"Officer, what's the point of this?" Davett asked, sighing.
"Out. Now." Lucy reached inside and popped the door locks.
"Can she do that, honey? Can she--"
"Shut up, Edna."
"All right. I'm sorry."
Lucy swung the door open. Davett unsnapped his seat belt and stepped out onto the dusty shoulder.
A semi sped past and wrapped its wake around them. Davett looked distastefully at the gray Carolina clay settling on his blue blazer. "My family and I are late for church and I don't think--"
She took him by the arm and pulled him off the shoulder, into the shade of wild rice and cattails; a small stream, a feeder to the Paquenoke, ran beside the road.
He repeated with exasperation, "What is the point?"
"I know everything."
"Do you, Officer Kerr? Do you know everything? Which would be?"
"The poison, the murders, the canal..."
Davett said smoothly, "I never had a bit of direct contact with Jim Bell or anybody else in Tanner's Corner. If there were some damn crazy fools on my payroll who hired some other damn crazy fools to do things that were illegal that's not my fault. And if that happened I'll be cooperating with the authorities one hundred percent."
Unfazed by his suave response she growled, "You're going down with Bell and his brother-in-law."
"Of course I'm not. Nothing links me to a single crime. There're no witnesses. No accounts, no money transfers, no evidence of any wrongdoing. I'm a manufacturer of petrochemical-based products--certain cleaners, asphalt and some pesticides."
"Illegal pesticides."
"Wrong," he snapped. "The EPA still allows toxaphene to be used in some cases in the U.S. And it's not illegal at all in most Third World countries. Do some reading, Deputy: without pesticides malaria and encephalitis and famine'd kill hundreds of thousands of people every year and--"
"--and give the people who're exposed to it cancer and birth defects and liver damage and--"
Davett shrugged. "Show me the studies, Deputy Kerr. Show me the research that proves that."
"If it's so fucking harmless then why did you stop shipping it by truck? Why did you start using barges?"
"I couldn't get it to port any other way--because some knee-jerk counties and towns've banned transportation of some substances they don't know the facts about. And I didn't have the time to hire lobbyists to change the laws."
"Well, I'll bet the EPA'd be interested in what you're doing here."
"Oh, please," he scoffed. "The EPA? Send them out. I'll give you their phone number. If they ever get around to visiting the factory they'll find permissible levels of toxaphene everywhere around Tanner's Corner."
"Maybe what's in the water alone is at a permissible level, maybe what's in the air alone, maybe the local produce alone.... But what about the combination of them? What about a child who drinks a glass of water from his parents' well then plays in the grass then eats an apple from a local orchard then--"
He shrugged. "The laws're clear, Deputy Kerr. If you don't like them write your congressman."
She grabbed him by the lapel. She raged, "You don't understand. You are going to prison."
He pulled away from her, whispered viciously, "No, you don't understand, Officer. You're way out of your depth here. I'm very, very good at what I do. I do not make mistakes." He glanced at his watch. "I have to go now."
Davett walked back to the SUV, patting his thinning hair. The sweat had darkened it and stuck the strands into place.
He climbed in and slammed the door.
Lucy walked up to the driver's side as he started the engine. "Wait," she said.
Davett glanced at her. But the deputy ignored him. She was looking at his passengers. "I'd like you to see what Henry did." Her strong hands ripped her own shirt open. The women in the car gaped at the pink scars where her breasts had been.
"Oh, for pity's sake," Davett muttered, looking away.
"Dad ..." the girl whispered in shock. Her mother stared, speechless.
Lucy said, "You said that you don't make mistakes, Davett? ... Wrong. You made this one."
The man put the car in gear, clicked on his turn signal, checked his blind spot and eased slowly onto the highway.
Lucy stood for a long moment, watching the Lexus disappear. She fished in her pocket and pinned her shirt closed with several safety pins. She leaned against her car for a long moment, fighting tears, then she happened to look down and notice a small, ruddy flower by the roadside. She squinted. It was a pink moccasin flower, a type of orchid. Its blossoms resemble tiny slip-on shoes. The plant was rare in Paquenoke County and she'd never seen one as lovely as this. In five minutes, using her windshield ice scraper, she'd uprooted the plant and had it packed safely in a tall 7-Eleven cup, the root beer sacrificed for the beauty of Lucy Kerr's garden.
... chapter forty-four
A plaque on the courthouse wall explained that the name of the state came from the Latin Carolus, for Charles. It was King Charles I who granted a land patent to settle the colony.
Carolina...
Amelia Sachs had assumed the state was named for Caroline, some queen or princess. Brooklyn born and raised, she had little interest in, or knowledge of, royalty.
She now sat, handcuffed still, between two guards on a bench in the courthouse. The redbrick building was an old place, filled with dark mahogany and marble floors. Stern men in black suits, judges or governors, she assumed, looked down on her from oil paintings as if they knew she was guilty. There didn't seem to be air-conditioning but breezes and the darkness cooled the place thanks to efficient eighteenth-century engineering.
Fred Dellray ambled up to her. "Hey there--you want some coffee or something?"
The left-field guard got as far as "No speaking to the--" before the Justice Department ID card crimped off the recitation.
"No, Fred. Where's Lincoln?"
It was nearly nine-thirty.
"Dunno. You know that man--sometimes he just appears. For a man who doesn't walk he gets around more'n anybody I know."
Lucy and Garrett weren't here either.
Sol Geberth, in a rich-looking gray suit, walked up to her. The guard on her right scooted over and let the lawyer sit down. "Hello, Fred," the lawyer said to the agent.
Dellray nodded, but coolly, and Sachs deduced that, as with Rhyme, the defense lawyer must've gotten acquittals for suspects that the agent had collared.
"It's a deal," Geberth said to Sachs. "The prosecutor's agreed to involuntary manslaughter--no othe
r counts. Five years. No parole."
Five years ...
The lawyer continued. "There's one aspect to this I didn't think about yesterday."
"What is it?" she asked, trying to gauge from the look on his face how deep this new trouble ran.
"The problem is you're a cop."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
Before he could say anything Dellray said, "You being a law enforcement officer. Inside."
When she still didn't get it the agent explained, "Inside prison. You'll have to be segregated. Or you wouldn't last a week. That'll be tough, Amelia. That'll be nasty tough."
"But nobody knows I'm a cop."
Dellray laughed faintly. "They'll know ever-single-thing there is to know 'bout you by the time you get yourself issued your jumpsuit and linen."
"I haven't collared anybody down here. Why would they care that I'm a cop?"
"Don't make a splinter of difference where you're from," Dellray said, eyeing Geberth, who nodded in confirmation. "They ab-so-lutely won't keepya in general population."
"So it's basically five years in solitary."
"I'm afraid so," Geberth said.
She closed her eyes and felt nausea course through her.
Five years of not moving, of claustrophobia, of nightmares ...
And, as an ex-convict, how could she possibly think about becoming a mother? She choked on the despair.
"So?" the lawyer asked. "What's it going to be?"
Sachs opened her eyes. "I'll take the plea."
The room was crowded. Sachs saw Mason Germain, a few of the other deputies. A grim couple, eyes red, probably Jesse Corn's parents, sat in the front row. She wanted badly to say something to them but their contemptuous gaze kept her silent. She saw only two faces that looked at her kindly: Mary Beth McConnell and a heavy woman who was presumably her mother. There was no sign of Lucy Kerr. Or of Lincoln Rhyme. She supposed that he didn't have the heart to watch her being led off in chains. Well, that was all right; she didn't want to see him under these circumstances either.
The bailiff led her to the defense table. He left the shackles on. Sol Geberth sat beside her.
They rose when the judge entered and the wiry man in a bulky black robe sat down at the tall bench. He spent some minutes looking over documents and talking with his clerk. Finally he nodded and the clerk said, "The people of the state of North Carolina versus Amelia Sachs."
The judge nodded to the prosecutor from Raleigh, a tall, silver-haired man, who rose. "Your Honor, the defendant and the state have entered into a plea arrangement, whereby the defendant has agreed to plead guilty to second-degree manslaughter in the death of Deputy Jesse Randolph Corn. The state waives all other charges and is recommending a sentence of five years, to be served without possibility of parole or reduction."
"Miss Sachs, you've discussed this arrangement with your attorney?"
"I have, Your Honor."
"And he's told you that you have the right to reject it and proceed to trial?"
"Yes."
"And you understand that by accepting this you will be pleading guilty to a felony homicide charge." "Yes."
"You're making this decision willingly?"
She thought of her father, of Nick. And of Lincoln Rhyme. "I am, yes."
"Very well. How do you plead to the charge of second-degree manslaughter brought against you?"
"Guilty, Your Honor."
"In light of the state's recommendation the plea will be entered and I am hereby sentencing you--"
The red-leather doors leading to the corridor swung inward and with a high-pitched whine Lincoln Rhyme's wheelchair maneuvered inside. A bailiff had tried to open the doors for the Storm Arrow but Rhyme seemed to be in a hurry and just plowed through them. One slammed into the wall. Lucy Kerr was behind him.
The judge looked up, ready to reprimand the intruder. When he saw the chair he--like most people--deferred to the political correctness that Rhyme despised and said nothing. He turned back to Sachs. "I'm hereby sentencing you to five years--"
Rhyme said, "Forgive me, Your Honor. I need to speak with the defendant and her counsel for a minute."
"Well," the judge grumbled, "we're in the middle of a proceeding. You can speak to her at some future time."
"With all respect, Your Honor," Rhyme responded, "I need to speak to her now." His voice was a grumble too but it was much louder than the jurist's.
Just like the old days, being in a courtroom.
Most people think that a criminalist's only job is finding and analyzing evidence. But when Lincoln Rhyme was head of the NYPD's forensics operation--the Investigation and Resources Division--he had spent nearly as much time testifying in court as he did in the lab. He was a good expert witness. (Blaine, his ex-wife, often observed that he preferred to perform in front of people--herself included--rather than interact with them.)
Rhyme carefully steered up to the railing that separated the counsel tables from the gallery in the Paquenoke County Courthouse. He glanced at Amelia Sachs and the sight nearly broke his heart. In the three days she'd been in jail she'd lost a lot of weight and her face was sallow. Her red hair was dirty and pulled up in a taut bun--the way she wore it at crime scenes to keep the strands from brushing against evidence; this made her otherwise beautiful face severe and drawn.
Geberth walked over to Rhyme, crouched down. The criminalist spoke to him for a few minutes. Finally, Geberth nodded and rose. "Your Honor, I realize this is a hearing regarding a plea bargain. But I have an unusual proposal. There's some new evidence that's come to light--"
"Which you can introduce at trial," the judge snapped, "if your client chooses to reject the plea arrangement."
"I'm not proposing to introduce anything to the court; I'd like to make the state aware of this evidence and see if my worthy colleague will agree to consider it."
"For what purpose?"
"Possibly to alter the charges against my client." Geberth added coyly, "Which may just make Your Honor's docket somewhat less burdensome."
The judge rolled his eyes, to show that Yankee slick-ness counted for zip around these parts. Still, he glanced at the prosecutor and asked, "Well?"
The D.A. asked Geberth, "What sort of evidence? A new witness?"
Rhyme couldn't control himself any longer. "No," he said. "Physical evidence."
"You're this Lincoln Rhyme I've been hearing about?" the judge asked.
As if there were two crip criminalists plying their trade in the Tar Heel State.
"I am, yes."
The prosecutor asked, "Where is this evidence?"
"In my custody at the Paquenoke County Sheriff's Department," Lucy Kerr said.
The judge asked Rhyme, "You'll agree to be deposed, under oath?"
"Certainly."
"This's all right with you, Counselor?" the judge asked the prosecutor.
"It is, Your Honor, but if this is just tactical or if the evidence turns out to be meaningless, I'll pursue interference charges against Mr. Rhyme."
The judge thought for a moment then said, "For the record, this is not part of any proceeding. The court is merely lending itself to the parties for a deposition prior to arraignment. The examination will be conducted pursuant to North Carolina Rules of Criminal Procedure. Swear the deponent."
Rhyme parked in front of the bench. As the Bible-clutching clerk approached uncertainly, Rhyme said, "No, I can't raise my right hand." Then recited, "I swear that the testimony I am about to give is the truth, upon my solemn oath." He tried to catch Sachs's eye but she was staring at the faded mosaic tile on the courtroom floor.
Geberth strolled to the front of the courtroom. "Mr. Rhyme, could you state your name, address and occupation."
"Lincoln Rhyme, 345 Central Park West, New York City. I'm a criminalist."
"That's a forensic scientist, is that right?"
"Somewhat more than that but forensic science is the bulk of what I do."
"And how
do you know the defendant, Amelia Sachs?"
"She's been my assistant and partner on a number of criminal investigations."
"And how did you happen to come to Tanner's Corner?"
"We were assisting Sheriff James Bell and the Paquenoke County Sheriff's Department. Looking into the murder of Billy Stail and the abductions of Lydia Johansson and Mary Beth McConnell."
Geberth asked, "Now, Mr. Rhyme, you say you have new evidence that bears on this case?"
"Yes, I do."
"What is that evidence?"
"After we learned that Billy Stail had gone to Blackwater Landing to kill Mary Beth McConnell I began speculating why he'd done that. And I concluded that he'd been paid to kill her. He--"
"Why did you think he was paid?"
"It's obvious why," Rhyme grumbled. He had little patience for irrelevant questions and Geberth was deviating from his script.
"Share that with us, if you would."
"Billy had no romantic relationship with Mary Beth of any kind. He wasn't involved in the murder of Garrett Hanlon's family. He didn't even know her. So he'd have no motivation to kill her other than financial profit."
"Go on."
Rhyme continued, "Whoever hired him wasn't going to pay by check, of course, but in cash. Deputy Kerr went to the house of Billy Stail's parents and was given permission to search his room. She discovered ten thousand dollars hidden beneath his mattress."
"What was there about this--"
"Why don't I just finish the story?" Rhyme asked the lawyer.
The judge said, "Good idea, Mr. Rhyme. I think counsel's laid enough groundwork."
"With Officer Kerr's assistance I did a friction ridge analysis--that's a fingerprint check--of the top and bottom bills in the sucks of cash. I found a total of sixty-one latent fingerprints. Aside from Billy's prints, two of these prints proved to be from a person involved in this case. Deputy Kerr got another warrant to enter that individual's house."
"Did you search it too?" the judge asked.
He replied with forced patience, "No, I didn't. It wasn't accessible to me. But I directed the search, which was conducted by Deputy Kerr. Inside the house she found a receipt for the purchase of a shovel identical to the murder weapon, eighty-three thousand dollars in cash, secured with wrappers identical to the ones around the two stacks of money in Billy Stail's house."
Dramatic as ever, Rhyme had saved the best till the last. "Deputy Kerr also found bone fragments in the barbecue behind that premises. These fragments match the bones of Garrett Hanlon's family."