Rhyme didn't. Not at all. But he noticed Sachs had a faint smile on her face.
Archer continued, "Then I saw you two together. Began to think maybe I'd made a mistake. I called him back last night. We're going out this weekend. Who knows? Maybe in six months we'll be engaged. Like you two. Have you set a date yet?"
Sachs shook her head. "Not yet. Soon."
Archer smiled. "Did he propose romantically?"
"Hardly got down on one knee, now, did I?" Rhyme muttered.
Sachs said, "I think it was, 'There seems to be no objective or practical reason for not getting married. What's your thinking on the subject?'"
Archer laughed.
Rhyme frowned. "Nothing funny about that. I gave an accurate assessment of the situation, coupled with a request for further data that might be helpful in reaching a conclusion. Made perfect sense to me."
Archer was glancing at Sachs's left hand. "I was noticing your ring. Beautiful."
Sachs held up her ring finger, displaying the two-carat blue stone. "Lincoln picked it. It's from Australia."
"Sapphire?"
"No, a diamond."
"Not particularly valuable," Rhyme said analytically. "But rare. A class two-b. I was intrigued by the color. Blue because of scattered boron in the matrix. A semiconductor, by the way. The only diamond that has that characteristic."
"You having a honeymoon?"
Rhyme said, "I was thinking Nassau. The last time I was in the Bahamas I was almost shot and almost drowned. Both within five minutes. I'd like to go back and have a more peaceful time of it. And there's a friend I'd like to see. His wife makes excellent conch fritters."
"I expect an invite to the wedding."
Sachs tilted her head. "There're some openings for the wedding party."
"Just ask, I'll be there."
The doorbell buzzed. Rhyme glanced at the screen. Archer's brother had arrived to pick her up. Thom let Randy into the room. He greeted Rhyme and Sachs with a nod and hurried to his sister. "You all right, Jule? Your face!"
"No, no, it's okay. A little bruised."
Archer turned her chair to Rhyme. "I'm going out of character again."
He lifted an eyebrow.
She rose from the chair, walked to Rhyme and put her arms around him, hugged hard. At least, that was his deduction, since he couldn't feel the pressure. A similar embrace for Sachs, then she dropped back into the Storm Arrow and, with her brother behind, wheeled out.
"Back tomorrow early," Rhyme called.
He laughed as she lifted her left arm and gave a thumbs-up.
When they'd left Rhyme said, "I talked to your mom. She's in good spirits. When's the surgery?"
"Tomorrow afternoon."
He observed her wan face, peering out the window. "The other situation?" He was referring to Nick. The other night she'd told Rhyme everything about his reappearance--and her suspicion of him. About spending the night at Nick's to place a tracking app on his phone.
A preface like that, Sachs? Pray continue...
No reaction for a moment. She was immobile, looking out over Central Park.
"Turned out the way I was afraid it would. Worse, actually. He tried to order a hit on somebody."
Rhyme grimaced and shook his head. "I'm sorry."
"Fred'll run him for a while. We'll get a half-dozen others, high-ups in the OC chain. Then cut him loose."
"One thing you never told me, Sachs."
The rattan chair she sat in gave its unique caw as she turned his way. She tilted her head, brushed her hair back. Rhyme liked her wearing it down, rather than in a bun.
"What's that?"
"Why did you get suspicious of Nick? Everything he told you, how he acted... it sounded credible. To me, at least."
After a moment she said, "Intuition. How you hate that word, I know. But that's what it was. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Something was off about him. It was Mom who brought it into focus. Nick said he took the fall for his brother. But she said that if he'd really cared for me, he never would've done that. Nick was a decorated cop; he had cred all over downtown. His brother gets busted, he could've worked with the DA on sentencing, helped Donnie get into a program in prison. Organized an operation to nail Delgado--that was all a lie, by the way. But he wouldn't have taken the fall." She smiled, her full lips, free of color, forming a mild crescent. "Didn't have a splinter of evidence, just a gut feel."
"No," Rhyme said. "Not gut. Heart. Sometimes that's better than evidence."
She blinked.
"But you didn't hear me say that, Sachs. You never heard me say that."
"I better get to Mom." She kissed his mouth hard. "That woman's got to get well fast. I miss sleeping here."
"I miss that too, Sachs. I really do."
CHAPTER 60
Rhyme looked up from his monitor, on which he was engaged in a chess match against a smart, but largely unimaginative computer program.
He said to the visitor dawdling in the parlor doorway, "Come on in." And to the microprocessor: "White queen to e-seven. Check."
Rhyme let the software cogitate on that move and wheeled away from the work station, facing Ron Pulaski. "Where've you been, Rookie? You missed the climax, the crescendo, the denouement of the Griffith case. Here you are, arriving for the coda. How dull."
"Well, that other case. I was multitasking."
"Do you know how much I detest that word, Pulaski? Using 'task' as a verb is as mortifying as using 'ask' as a noun. Unacceptable. And tacking on the prefix 'multi' is unnecessary. 'Tasking,' if you're going to accept it as a predicate, includes a single endeavor or a dozen."
"Lincoln, we live in the era of the--"
"If you say 'sound bite,' I will not be happy."
"--the, uhm, era of the frequent use of a contracted phrase or single word to convey a complex concept. That's what I was going to say."
A stifled laugh and he reminded himself not to sell the kid short. Rhyme needed someone to ground him.
But through the repartee Rhyme could see he had something important on his mind. "You heard from Amelia? About Griffith?" Rhyme asked.
A nod. Ron sat in the rattan chair. "Sad character. Sad story."
"Was, yes. But in the eyes of the law, revenge is no more acceptable as a motive than sexual lust or terrorism. Now I'm tired of being pretentious. Since the case is over, there's no reason for you to be here. So. What's up?"
The young officer's eyes remained on a miniature dresser of Griffith's. Then he looked at a kitchen table. He studied this until, apparently, it was time to talk.
"The other case."
"Gutierrez."
Pulaski looked at him. "The way you said that, Lincoln. You know it wasn't Gutierrez."
"I made the supposition. Wasn't hard."
"Jenny calls me transparent."
"A bit of that in you, Rookie, yes. Not that it's bad."
Pulaski didn't seem to care if it was good or bad. "The other case?"
"Go on."
"It was the Baxter case." Accompanied by an unnecessary glance at the whiteboard in the corner, whose back was turned to them.
This revelation Rhyme had not guessed. Ideas formed, but it was his colleague, not Rhyme, who had center stage.
"I went through the case files. I know it was closed but I went through them anyway. And I found some loose ends."
Rhyme recalled Archer's questioning observations: Why the outside storage space that Baxter had neglected to tell investigators about?
Rhyme asked, "Which were?"
"Well, one was pretty interesting. I looked over the detectives' notes and got the names of everybody Baxter met with over the past year or so. One in particular seemed interesting. Someone named Oden."
"Never heard of him."
"The name was in a transcription of a witness's statement so they wrote O-D-E-N. Turns out the name was actually O apostrophe D-E-N-N-E."
"Irish, not a misspelled Norse deity," Rhyme observed.
/> "I asked around, checked more notes. There wasn't much. But I did find this O'Denne had some connection to the drug world in Brooklyn. He was behind some kind of new drug people were talking about on the streets. Synthetic. Seemed like the name was Catch. But detectives on the case never pursued the lead. I guessed it was because Baxter..."
"You can say it, Rookie. Died."
"That's right. But I did. I followed up."
"Unofficially?"
"Sort of."
"She's sort of pregnant."
"Finally got an ID. O'Denne was in East New York. Why would Baxter--a financial bigwig--have anything to do with this gangbanger in East New York? I went to talk to O'Denne and find out--"
"--if Baxter was more than just a scam artist."
"Exactly. I wanted to prove he was bankrolling this new drug. That he'd actually used the gun you found--that he'd killed people. The evidence was ambiguous, remember, Lincoln. There were questions. Maybe he was dangerous."
Rhyme said softly, "So then it would have been proper procedure for him to go into Violent Offender Detention."
Pulaski nodded. "So you wouldn't've been responsible for an innocent man's death; you'd've put a dangerous perp away. And if I could show you that, then you'd give up this bullshit about retirement. Which it really is, Lincoln."
Rhyme exhaled a faint laugh. "Well, quite the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Rookie. And what's the answer?"
"My brother and I tracked down O'Denne. East BK."
A raised eyebrow.
"He's a priest, Lincoln."
"A..."
"Father Francis Xavier O'Denne. He runs a storefront clinic in Brownsville. The drug he was connected with?" He shook his head with a grim smile. "A new form of methadone to treat addicts. And it's not called 'Catch.' That's the name of Father O'Denne's clinic. Community Action Treatment Center for Hope." Pulaski sighed. "And Baxter? He was one of the main benefactors of the place."
So the gun was Baxter's father's, a souvenir from one of the milestones in the man's life. And the gunshot residue came from a stray twenty-dollar bill, the drugs from that or another bill. The oil from the sporting goods store where he'd bought his son the last present he would ever buy for the boy.
"And, I guess I'll tell you everything, Lincoln. The center may have to close, if Father O'Denne can't find somebody else to back it."
"So, I'm responsible not only for an innocent man's death but for preventing how many people from getting off the street and into productive lives?"
"Shit. I just wanted to help, Lincoln. Get you back on the job. But... well, that's what I found."
That's the thing about science; you can't ignore the facts.
Rhyme turned his chair and looked again at the tiny pieces of furniture that Vernon Griffith had so carefully and perfectly created.
"Anyway," Pulaski said. "I understand now."
"Understand what?"
"Why you're doing this. Retiring. If I'd fucked up, I'd probably do the same thing. Back out. Quit the force. Take up something else."
Rhyme kept his eyes on Vernon Griffith's miniatures. He said in a gusty voice, "Bad choice."
"I... What?"
"Quitting because of a screw-up--a thoroughly bad idea."
Pulaski's bows narrowed. "Okay, Lincoln. I don't get it. What're you saying?"
"You know who I was talking to an hour ago?"
"No clue."
"Lon Sellitto. I was asking him if there were any cases he needed some help on."
"Cases? Criminal?"
"Last time I looked he wasn't a social worker, Rookie. Of course criminal." He wheeled around to face the young officer.
"Well, I hope you can understand why I'm a little confused."
"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of narrow minds."
"I like Emerson too, Lincoln. And I think it was 'little minds.'"
Was it? Probably. Rhyme nodded in concession.
"But that still doesn't explain why."
Lincoln Rhyme suspected the answer was this: If you tallied up all the reasons for not pursuing what you know in your heart you're meant to pursue, you'd be absolutely--he relished the word--paralyzed. Which simply meant that you had to ignore every voice within clamoring for you to quit, to retire, to hesitate or pause or question, whether it was a clue that stymied you or exhaustion tempting you to rest or the stunner that a man lay dead in a grave that you had thoughtlessly dug for him.
But he said, "I don't have a clue, Rookie. None at all. But there it is. So go clear your calendar. I'll need you in early tomorrow morning. You and Amelia. We've got to finish up the Unsub Forty case and then see what else Lon has on the--forgive me--front burner."
"Sure, Lincoln. Good."
As he headed out the door, Pulaski was blushing and the look on his face was best described as beaming.
Which was a form of expression that Rhyme believed no one should ever succumb to.
MONDAY VII
PLAN A
CHAPTER 61
The door buzzer sounded and Rhyme glanced at the screen. Lon Sellitto and his cane.
Thom walked to the entry hall and let the detective in. He noted that Sellitto stayed on course toward Rhyme, not diverting to the tray of cookies that Thom had made earlier, the air still redolent of hot butter and cinnamon. But the glance toward the pastry revealed regret; maybe he'd gained a pound or two in the past few days and the old Lon Sellitto--Let the Dieting Begin--was back.
"Hey." A nod to Thom, then moving stiffly to the chair, the shoes tapping, the cane silent on its worn rubber tip. "Linc, Amelia."
Sachs nodded. She'd come here to drop off the evidence from the early part of the Unsub 40 case--what had been stored in Queens. She'd been concerned that, like the White Castle napkins, some of it might go missing. So she had personally collected the evidence early this morning and delivered it to Rhyme's.
Her stay here wouldn't be long; she was taking Rose to the hospital for her surgery in a few hours.
"Nothing?" Thom asked the detective. "Coffee?"
"Nup." Looking up, avoiding their eyes.
Hm. Rhyme scanned the man's face. Something was up.
"That escalator. You oughta leave it, Linc. Good conversation starter."
And good conversation deflector, Rhyme thought. He was impatient. There was evidence to organize. He was meeting with the prosecutor in the cases against Griffith and Morgan, and Mel Cooper would be arriving soon.
"What's up, Lon?"
"Okay, gotta tell you."
Rhyme looked toward him. But Sellitto's eyes were on Sachs.
She finished assembling the evidence and then peeled off the tight latex gloves. Blew on her fingers. For years Rhyme had not experienced the relief that a small act like that brought, after hours of being gloved, but he remembered the sensation clearly.
"Go ahead, Lon." Amelia Sachs wanted her news straight and fast--bad news, at least. He reflected that she never seemed to have much use for the good.
"You've been suspended."
"What?"
"The fuck is this about?" Rhyme snapped.
"A problem at One PP."
Sachs was closing her eyes. "I leaked the story, right? About the smart controllers? And didn't tell the brass. But I had to, Lon."
Rhyme said, "This is bullshit. She probably saved lives. Companies shut down their servers and Griffith wasn't able to hack in."
Sellitto's doughy face registered confusion. "What're you talking about?"
Sachs explained about her clandestine meeting with the reporter, who broke the story that some companies were hesitant, for financial reasons, to go offline to upgrade their cloud servers with the new CIR security updates.
Sellitto gave a sour look. "Whatever. But that ain't it. Sorry, Amelia. It's Madino."
Rhyme recalled. The captain from the 84th Precinct, who'd convened the Shooting Team after Sachs had shot a round into the escalator motor to save Greg Frommer's life.
"Turns out
there were some reporters got on the case."
"And he told me they went away."
"Well, they didn't go very far. It's a big deal now, police firing weapons."
"At unarmed kids, yeah," Rhyme snapped. "Not at industrial machinery."
Sellitto held up two palms. "Please, Linc. I'm the messenger is all."
Rhyme recalled his exchange with Sachs a few days ago.
As long as there're no reporters trying to make their careers with stories on cops shooting guns in malls, I'll be cool.
I don't think that's much of a journalistic subspecialty...
It had seemed funny at the time.
Sachs said, "Go on."
"The reporters, they kept at him about what happened, who was involved. They threatened to go over his head."
She smirked. "And he was afraid that'd jeopardize his plush new office in One PP if he didn't throw me to the wolves."
"In a nutshell, yep."
"Bottom line?" she muttered.
"Three months, no pay. Sorry, Amelia. I gotta do the weapon and shield thing. Just like the fucking movies." He appeared genuinely disgusted by the whole affair.
A sigh, then she handed them over. "I'll fight it. Talk to the PBA lawyer."
"You can. Sure." His tone was like quicksand.
She eyed him closely. "But?"
"My advice. Take the wrist slap and move on. Madino could make it bad for you."
"I'll make it bad for him."
Silence for a moment. Then the reality of NYPD politics--well, every governmental body's politics--appeared to seep in, and a look of resignation stilled her face.
Sellitto continued, "Everybody'll forget about it in a few months. You'll be back on track. You fight, it'll drag out. Make more press. They do not want that. Could sideline you for a long time. You know how the system works, Amelia."
Rhyme said contemptuously, "This is bullshit, Lon."
"I know it, you know it, they know it. The difference is they don't care."
She said, "But we've got the Griffith/Morgan case to wrap up."
"Effective immediately."
She pulled off her lab jacket, swapped it for her sport coat, the dark-gray one, cut to accommodate both her figure and her Glock 17. A tricky job of tailoring, Rhyme had always thought.
Her voice contained a shrug, as she said, "Not the worst timing, I guess. Gives me a chance to take better care of Mom over the next couple of weeks. Maybe it's a blessing."
But it wasn't, of course. And Rhyme could easily see she didn't feel that way at all. She was facing an empty, and edgy, quarter year and mad as hell about it. He was certain of this because it was how he would have felt under these circumstances. Working is what we're made for--dogs, horses, humans. Take that away and we're diminished, sometimes irreversibly.