“I’ve adapted.” Rhyme nodded to his wheelchair.
“We share quite a bit, Lincoln. But I have no interest in adaptation.”
Rhyme noticed Hale’s eyes had slipped to the evidence bag containing his burner phones.
“You want to make a call?” He was thinking of Woman X.
Hale debated, but whether it was from the slim chance that someone might trace it or for some other reason, he shook his head. “No. I think not.” He sounded wistful.
Hale looked at the monitor depicting the street in front of the town house. Two police cruisers waited there, each with officers inside. No one was on the sidewalk.
His eyes met Rhyme’s.
The criminalist nodded.
Hale walked into the lobby, disappearing from Rhyme’s view. A moment later there was a click of the door latch. A patch of illumination grew into a trapezoid on the marble of the hallway as the door hinge squeaked softly. The man’s stark, elongated shadow ran from the door to the security scanner.
There was silence.
Then Rhyme blinked at two sounds, a second apart.
The first was the thud of a bullet striking the Watchmaker’s chest. The second was the resounding boom of a rifle shot from Central Park.
Hale was flung backward into the hallway, both he and the floor spattered with blood.
Rhyme heard shouts from outside as officers leapt from the cars and crouched on the side closest to the town house, scanning for a target, though Rhyme knew that the shooter was speeding away.
Almost immediately came the distant bleat of sirens, growing closer.
Rhyme concentrated on the man who lay on his back. Moving slowly, trying to draw his legs up, gripping air with long fingers as if reaching for a safety rope.
Or for a set of watchmaking tools.
Would he turn his head so that they might share a last gaze? Rhyme wondered.
He did not.
70
“Tell me, Captain Rhyme. The details.”
Detective Lawrence Hylton and his Caribbean-inflected voice were back again — the officer who glanced off all things Internal Affairs. The time was 9 a.m., the morning after Hale had died.
“The deceased and I have a history. I thought I could get him to tell me about what he was doing here, why he was behind the cranes collapsing, the assassination plot, the sabotage of the cybersecurity company. Who his accomplice was. We had a conversation. I think he looked at the monitor and thought he could make it past the officers outside. He got to the hall and opened the door, and he was shot before I could hit the panic button.”
He nodded his head toward the control pad of his chair.
“Sometimes signals from my brain are a bit delayed.” Rhyme rarely played this card. He decided this situation, though, warranted doing so, even though his words were not in the least true. “Where was the shooter?”
“We aren’t sure, but we think that high-rise — Seventy-Second Street. The middle of the park. Two hundred fifty, three hundred yards. Small caliber. Two twenty-three probably.”
An assault rifle. The weapons had short barrels, but shot flat and fast, and with a good scope they were — obviously — accurate enough to kill at a distance. They also fit quite well into a guitar case.
“Who else was in the town house?”
Rhyme was hardly in the mood for any debriefing. But under the circumstances he decided to stay blandly cooperative.
“No one. I was alone.”
“When did your wife, Detective Sachs, leave?”
“About forty minutes before the incident. The exact time’ll be on the security cam time stamp. Lon Sellitto left then too. Amelia has alibi witnesses at the Ron Pulaski crime scene. And Lon went to One PP. If you were suggesting they might have been the shooter.”
“I wasn’t.” The reply was flat. Hylton looked over his notebook. “And your assistant...”
Rhyme found himself oddly affected by what had just happened. Not rattled, but... hollow. That was the word. He corrected stiffly, “Not my ‘assistant.’ ‘Caregiver.’ Or ‘aide.’ An assistant has a different connotation — an easier job, all around.”
“Your caregiver then. How did he happen not to be here?”
“Because he happened to be shopping.”
“Ah. But by leaving you alone here, isn’t that... Well, I mean, isn’t it a risk?”
“Quads rarely self-immolate. Or starve to death over the course of an hour or two.”
“Captain.” Hylton spoke with labored patience.
“Thom Reston has many, many skills. Sniping is not among them.”
“You can appreciate how odd this is.”
“I made an error in judgment, trusting Hale. I thought he would be more cooperative if he were not chained to a radiator.”
The officer said pointedly, “And just coincidentally a person was laying in wait to shoot him.”
Rhyme chose not to say what came into his mind: A person lies in wait. A chicken lays, whether it’s waiting for anything or not.
“The suspect was in custody. He was caught. He was going to spend the rest of his days in a twelve-by-twelve room. Do you really think there’s an NYPD officer who would commit murder two just to shorten the judicial process?”
Hylton didn’t respond. He looked to his notes for guidance. They apparently offered none. “Who do you think? If you had to guess.”
“I don’t need to guess at all. I know who the shooter was. Andy Gilligan’s brother.”
“I’ll send a team to his house.”
“Yes, you’ll need to go through the motions.”
“So he’s gone, you think?”
“Gone.”
Hylton closed his notebook. “I also need to get a statement from Patrolman Pulaski. Where is he now?”
Rhyme looked at the time on a nearby monitor. “Engaged at the moment. But I’m sure he’ll call you when he’s free.”
71
The burn recovery was coming along fine.
Dr. Amit Bakshi paused and looked over the electronic patient records of Aaron Stahl, the student whose SUV the NYPD police officer had run into, resulting in a conflagration that apparently made quite the scene in Lower Manhattan.
An ER doc with twelve years of experience in the city, Bakshi had treated many people for auto accidents. In New York City, the injuries tended to be less severe, since one couldn’t drive that fast — as opposed to New Castle, Pennsylvania, where he’d started practicing medicine, and State Route 17, with that curve.
Dead Man’s Zone.
In New York, cars rarely exploded in flames, but the EMTs who brought him in had explained that the incident was a fluke occurrence, as the NYPD officer’s car just happened to shove Aaron’s SUV into some construction supplies, some bars or tubing, which ripped open the gas tank. Modern-day safety precautions by automakers, only got you so far when jagged metal was involved.
“Hey, Doctor.”
“Hello, sir,” Bakshi replied. He believed that being slightly formal bestowed comfort in his patients. Even with a nineteen-year-old.
He offered a nod and smile to Aaron’s older sister, Natalia, who sat bedside.
The woman, late twenties, he guessed, nodded in return, with a reserved smile, and continued to text. Much signage here was devoted to forbidding the use of cell phones. Not a soul paid attention.
Bakshi had tried to deduce the nature of the family situation, but had been unsuccessful. Neither parent had come to visit. Perhaps these two were orphans.
Bakshi turned his attention to his patient to ask the basic questions that had to be asked, and to check vitals — and the informative less-than-vitals; like espionage, medicine was first and foremost about intelligence.