Of course she could have a suitor stop by later tonight, but that hasn’t been her style.
All by her lonesome.
She proceeds to the front of her building. She greets a neighbor, a retiree, he seems. He’s walking toward the entrance too. They smile — hers is radiant — and they exchange a few words. With his key he opens the door (a silly Henderson pin tumbler).
The bags she carts are cumbersome and, gentleman that he must be, he volunteers to help her. She hands one over. As he takes it he glances in and once again smiles, lifting an impressed eyebrow.
Which says to me that the recipient of whatever is inside will be delighted with the purchase. On the other hand, noting the logo of the store on the bag, aren’t children always overjoyed when their parents put that very special new toy into their little hands?
8
“Rumpled” was the go-to word in describing Lon Sellitto, the middle-aged detective first grade who had been the criminalist’s partner years ago, before Rhyme moved to Crime Scene and, later, ascended to be the head of NYPD Investigation and Resources Division, which included the CSU.
Pressing his mobile to his ear, the stocky man with thinning hair of a shade that could best be described as brown-gray made his way into the parlor, nodding greetings to Rhyme and Sachs, as he steamed toward the cookies. He tucked the phone between cheek and shoulder and broke one in half carefully, then set the larger portion back on the tray before negating the show of willpower by scarfing down the surviving half.
He was apparently on hold. He said to no one, “Oatmeal. Raisins. Damn, that man can bake.” He glanced toward Sachs. “You ever bake?”
She seemed perplexed, as if she’d been asked that old saw about how many angels fit on the head of a pin, or however it went. “Once, I think. No, that was something else.”
Sellitto asked, “How’d the trial go?”
Rhyme grumbled, “No earthly idea. It’s in the jury’s hands now.” His voice conveyed the message that he didn’t want to think about, much less discuss, the trial. He said, “‘Odd’? You said, ‘odd.’” The criminalist’s heart was beginning to thud a bit faster — as always, the messenger was his temple. Lincoln Rhyme lived for “odd,” along with “unusual” and “challenging.” “Inexplicable” too. A case where Thug A shoots Thug B, who’s then caught with the murder weapon ten minutes later, did not intrigue. His worst enemy was not a psychotic killer but boredom. Before the accident, and after, to be bored was to die a little.
Amelia Sachs was also eyeing the visitor with some anticipation, it appeared. She was assigned to Major Cases — where Sellitto was a supervising lieutenant. She could catch a job for anybody at MC who needed her but she worked most frequently for Sellitto — and she always did when Rhyme was brought on as consultant.
The detective was then speaking to the person on the other end of the line. “Yessir... We’re on it... Okay... Well.” He paced up to the immaculate glass wall that separated the non-sterile part of the parlor from the lab. He rapped on the glass absently. He nodded, as one will do when concluding a conversation, even when the person he was speaking with was off camera, miles away. “Yessir.” The phone vanished into the pocket of his brown suit. The man had other colors in his wardrobe but when he thought of Sellitto, Rhyme thought of brown.
Thom appeared, with another steaming mug. “Here you go, Lon. How’ve you been? How’s Rachel? You ever get that dog you were talking about?”
“Don’t interrupt him, Thom. He’s here to tell us an interesting tale, aren’t you, Lon? About something odd.”
“You make the best coffee.”
“Thank you.”
“Molasses in the cookies?”
“Not too much. It can overwhelm.”
“Interruption, I was saying,” Rhyme said in a slow, cool voice.
Sellitto said, “Rachel bakes. She made scones the other day. Which I’m not even sure what that is. Kinda dry. Good with butter. Okay, okay, Linc. A couple uniforms from the Twenty House get a call.”
The precinct, a 1960s-era structure with a white stone façade, always in need of scrubbing, was within walking — or rolling — distance of the town house and Rhyme had been there on investigations more than a few times in the past years.
“Case like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
And Lon Sellitto had witnessed a great deal of mayhem over his years as an NYPD beat cop then detective.
“So. Here’s the sit.”
“The what?” Sachs asked.
“The situation. Everybody’s using ‘sit’ in OnePP.”
At another time Rhyme would have lectured his former partner about the sanctity of language, suggesting that dismembering a word spoke volumes about the intelligence and vanity of the dismemberer — nor was he particularly happy at the curious renaming of One Police Plaza. But he let it go.
“Victim was a woman named Annabelle Talese. Twenty-seven, marketing manager for a fashion company and an influencer.”
“What’s an influencer?” Rhyme asked.
“Do you not watch any television, Linc? Surf the web? Or listen to podcasts?”
“What’s a podcast?... That I’m joking about. But influencer?”
Sachs said, “Somebody who talks about a product online. I use this mascara for my morning routine. I like this line of sweaters from ABC knitwear. They get paid by the manufacturer, or they make money from advertising. Influencers’re pretty or handsome. At least, that helps. Unboxing videos’re part of it too. Pam told me about them.”
The young woman, whom Sachs had taken under her wing after saving her from terrorists, was presently studying criminalistics in Chicago.
Rhyme looked at her, querying.
“Somebody buys a product and then videos themselves taking it out of the box and setting it up.”
“Will wonders never cease,” Rhyme said and glanced at Sellitto with a can-we-move-it-along expression.
“A perp breaks into her place in the middle of the night.”
“Homicide?” Rhyme asked.
“No.”
“Sexual battery?” from Sachs.
“Probably not.”
Rhyme and Sachs shared a glance. It was she who said, “‘Probably’?”
“Here’s part of the ‘odd.’” Sellitto took a long drink of coffee, which apparently authorized him to chew down another cookie. “Might have touched her, but she couldn’t tell. Basically what he does is he moves things around in her apartment. Personal things, clothes, hygiene stuff, sits beside the bed and eats one of these.” He pointed at the pastry.
“Jesus,” Thom said.
“I’ll say. Kid was petrified. Thought he might still be in the apartment after she woke up.”
“Why?”
“That’s the other part of ‘odd.’ The door was locked, both the knob and two deadbolts, so she figured he had to be there. Only he wasn’t.”
“So,” Sachs said. “He had a key.”
“No, he didn’t. She’s sure of that. He picked the locks to get in. And used his tools to lock up after he left. What kind of burglar does that?”
9
Sachs asked, “And she’s positive there’s no spare key?”
“She was going to give a set to her mother but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. A responding said she admitted she’d been drinking the night before. But nothing more than on a typical gals’ night out. Can I say ‘gal’?”
“Lon,” Rhyme said impatiently.