The Kill Room

“Exactly.”

Rhyme nodded. “I can’t disagree, Sachs. I’ve never questioned an investigation before, in all these years. They haven’t been gray. This one’s real gray.

“There’s one thing, though, to keep in mind, Sachs. About us.”

“We’re volunteers.”

“Yep. We can walk away if we want. Let Myers and Laurel find somebody else.”

She was silent and she was motionless, at least according to those places where Rhyme could sense motion.

He continued, “You weren’t happy with the case in the first place.”

“No, I wasn’t. And part of me does want to bail, yeah. There’s too much we don’t know about the players and what they have in mind, what their motives are.”

“My motive queen.”

“And when I say players, I mean Nance Laurel and Bill Myers, as much as Metzger and Bruns – or whatever the hell his name is.” After a moment: “I have a bad feeling about this one, Rhyme. I know, you don’t believe in that. But you were crime scene most of your career. I was street. There are  hunches.”

This sat between them for a minute or two as they both watched the male falcon rise and lift his wings in a minor flourish. They’re not large animals but, seen from so close, the preening was regally impressive, as was the bird’s momentary but intense gaze into the room. Their eyesight is astonishing; they can spot prey miles away.

Emblems…

“You want to keep at it, don’t you?” she asked.

He said, “I get what you’re saying, Sachs. But for me it’s a knot that needs unraveling. I can’t let it go. You  don’t need to, though.”

There was no delay as she whispered, “No, I’m with you, Rhyme. You and me. It’s you and me.”

“Good, now I was–”

And his words stopped abruptly because Sachs’s mouth covered his and she was kissing him hungrily, almost desperately, flinging blankets back. She rolled on top of him, gripping his head. He felt her fingers on the back of his head, his ears, his cheek, fingers firm one moment, soft the next. Strong again. Stroking his neck, stroking his temple. Rhyme’s lips moved from hers to her hair and then a spot behind her ear, then down to her chin and seated on her mouth again. Lingering.

Rhyme had used his newly working arm on the controls of a Bausch + Lomb comparison microscope, with phones, with the computer and with a density gradient device. He had not used it yet for this: drawing Sachs closer, closer, gripping the top of her silk pajama top and smoothly drawing it over her head.

He supposed he could have finessed the buttons, if he’d tried, but urgency dictated otherwise.

III

CHAMELEONS

TUESDAY, MAY 16

CHAPTER 24

Rhyme wheeled from the front sitting room of his town house into the marble entryway near the front door.

Dr. Vic Barrington, Rhyme’s spinal cord injury specialist, followed him out, and Thom closed the doors to the room and joined them. The idea of physicians’ making house calls was from another era, if not a different dimension, but when the essence of the injury makes it far easier to come to the mountain, that’s what many of the better doctors did.

But Barrington was untraditional in many ways. His black bag was a Nike backpack and he’d bicycled here from the hospital.

“Appreciate your coming in this early,” Rhyme said to the doctor.

The time was six thirty in the morning.

Rhyme liked the man and had decided to give him a pass and resist asking how the “emergency” or the “something” had gone yesterday when he’d had to postpone their appointment. With any other doc he would have grilled.

Barrington had just completed a final set of tests in anticipation of the surgery scheduled for May 26.

“I’ll get the blood work in and look over the results but I don’t have any indication that anything’s changed over the past week. Blood pressure is very good.”

This was the nemesis of severely disabled spinal cord patients; an attack of autonomic dysreflexia could spike the pressure in minutes and lead to a stroke and death if a doctor or caregiver didn’t react instantly.

“Lung capacity gets better every time I see you and I swear you’re stronger than I am.”

Barrington was no bullshit all the way and when Rhyme asked the next question, he knew he’d get an honest response. “What’re my odds?”

“Of getting your left arm and hand working again? Close to one hundred percent. Tendon grafts and electrodes’re pretty surefire–”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about surviving the operation or not having some kind of cataclysmic setback.”

“Ah, that’s a little different. I’ll give you ninety percent on that one.”

Rhyme considered this. Surgery couldn’t do anything about his legs; nothing ever would fix that, at least not for the next five or ten years. But he’d come to believe that with disabilities hands and arms were the key to normal. Nobody pays much attention to people in wheelchairs if they can pick up a knife and fork or shake your hand. When someone has to feed you and wipe your chin, your very presence spreads discomfort like spattered mud.

And those who don’t look away give you those fucking sympathetic glances. Poor you, poor you.

Ninety percent…reasonable for getting a major portion of your life back.

“Let’s do it,” Rhyme said.

“If there’s anything that bothers me about the blood work I’ll let you know but I don’t anticipate that. We’ll keep May twenty sixth on the calendar. You can start rehab a week after that.”

Rhyme shook the doctor’s hand and then, as he turned toward the front door, the criminalist said, “Oh, one thing. Can I have a drink or two the night before?”

“Lincoln,” Thom said. “You want to be in the best shape you can for the surgery.”

“I want to be in a good mood too,” he muttered.

The doctor appeared thoughtful. “Alcohol isn’t recommended forty eight hours before a procedure like this…But the hard and fast rule is nothing in the stomach after midnight the day of the operation. What goes in before that, I’m not too concerned about.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

After the man had left, Rhyme wheeled into the lab, where he regarded the whiteboards. Sachs was just finishing writing what Mychal Poitier had told him last night. She was editing, using a thicker marker to present the most recent information.

Rhyme stared at the boards for some time. Then he shouted, “Thom!”

“I’m right here.”

“I thought you were in the kitchen.”

“Well, I’m not. I’m here. What do you want?”

“I need you to make some phone calls for me.”

“I’m happy to,” the aide replied. “But I thought you liked making them on your own.” He glanced at Rhyme’s working arm.

“I like making the calls. I dislike being on hold. And I have a feeling that’s what I’d be doing.”

Thom added, “And so I’m going to be your surrogate hold ee.”

Rhyme thought for a moment. “That’s a good way to put it, though hardly very articulate.”

Robert Moreno Homicide

Boldface indicates updated information

Crime Scene 1.

Suite 1200, South Cove I

May 9.

Victim 1: Robert Moreno.

COD: Single gunshot wound to chest.

Supplemental information: Moreno, 38, U.S. citizen, expatriate, living in Venezuela. Vehemently anti American. Nickname: “the Messenger of Truth.” Pla

Spent three days in NYC, April 30–May 2. Purpose?

May 1, used Elite Limousine.

Driver Tash Farada (regular driver Vlad Nikolov was sick. Trying to locate).

Closed accounts at American Independent Bank and Trust, prob. other banks too.

Collected woman Lydia, at Lexington and 52nd, accompanied him all day. Prostitute? Paid her money? Canvassing to learn identity.