After a brief silence Rhyme said, “Maybe here’s one. Just thinking about her plots, all the planning. How does ‘the Engineer’ sound?”
“I like it. But you know what I’d like more?”
“Which is?”
“To see her in detention.”
“That day will come, Sachs. That day will come.”
She hoped so.
Though she could not push from her mind the last stanza of the poem.
And leaves behind the unfulfilled
To dwell on ways to make amends.
They disconnected.
Ron Pulaski had been on his phone, and he now disconnected. “I just called for a CS bus. I’ll get started on the spiral.”
“The what?”
“Oh, I’m searching in spirals now. Not grids.”
Interesting idea. She’d watch him and maybe try it herself on her next scene.
The ESU team leader approached. The compact, crew-cut army vet was grimacing. “Sorry, Detective. No sign of her on the streets. And I checked the cemetery office. The CCTV was running when we got here, but somehow it got fried ten minutes ago. All the data’s wiped.”
No surprise there.
“Just no clue where she’s gone.”
Pulaski gave a fast laugh. “Oh, we’ve got plenty of clues. Where the homeless guy was when the two of them talked, the gun, the poem. The approaches to and from the grave. The grave itself. The wheel. Surveillance footage outside the cemetery.”
“Still doesn’t seem like much,” the ESU man said.
“It doesn’t need to be. It just needs to point us somewhere.” Pulaski pulled on booties over his shoes and new latex gloves. “And we’ll go from there.”
75
“Lincoln. The news.”
Thom’s voice was calling from the kitchen, where he was fixing dinner. Rhyme didn’t know what was on the menu, but it smelled good. He usually thought of food as fuel — his reverence was reserved for beverages — but occasionally he enjoyed a fine meal. And his caregiver was just the man for creating one.
Rhyme called in response: “Why?”
“I heard his name mentioned.”
“Eight million people in the city, Thom. Can we narrow, some?”
“Just put it on.”
“News,” Rhyme murmured, clicking the remote, “is apprentice history...” The screen came to life. “It’s an ad! Cosmetics, long hair and slow motion. Useless. No shampoo will give anyone that hair who didn’t have that hair before the shampoo.”
“Well,” Thom offered, sighing, “either wait without complaining or change the channel.”
He changed the channel.
A blond anchorwoman, her highly made-up face as serious as could be, was saying “...has denied the allegations. But supporters and donors are already distancing themselves from the representative.”
A picture appeared, a postage-sized one in the lower right-hand corner of the cluttered screen, the man Lyle Spencer had spoken to about the Kommunalka Project.
Representative Stephen Cody.
The crawl read:
U.S. representative’s emails show sympathy for presidential assassins.
Her low voice gave the details:
“Among the emails discovered are those in which Representative Cody is alleged to have said it was, quote, ‘a bummer the attempt didn’t work. Boyd’s still got a year to screw up the country.’ In another he allegedly wrote, quote, ‘Doesn’t anybody see that infrastructure plan of his is going to...’ I’m deleting the word he used. ‘...the middle class?’ And, quote: ‘How hard was it to kill an old man? Where’s Oswald when we need him?’
“Oswald of course is a reference to Lee Harvey Oswald, the man who assassinated President John F. Kennedy in 1963.
“Whether the assassination plot was real or not is being investigated by federal and city authorities.
“Cody has denied writing the emails and calls them part of a conspiracy to damage his campaign. WLAN News has not independently confirmed the authenticity of the emails, although an aide, speaking off the record, has said that they originated on Cody’s secure server, which only he had access to.
“Cody had been considered the front-runner in the upcoming contest against Marie Leppert, Manhattan businesswoman and former federal prosecutor, running for public office for the first time.
“Fifteen years ago, Cody was convicted of trespass and vandalism during environmental protests in Pennsylvania.”
Several other politicians chimed in with opinions, among them Senator Edward Talese of New York.
Thom stepped into the doorway. “How’s that for a twist?”
He handed a glass of wine to his boss, who thanked him with a nod. A cabernet. Some people could tell where the grapes came from, the nature of the earth in which the vines had grown, the year it had been bottled. Rhyme could tell two things only: it contained alcohol and had a not-unpleasant taste.
His eyes returned to the TV.
An image came on the screen of the representative scurrying through a sea of reporters from a black sedan into his Manhattan town house, head down. Their voices swelled and rattled as their questions ricocheted around the front yard. The one question that was discernible through the TV was: “Representative, you support green reform, but you’re riding in a limo. Could you comment on that?”
A criticism that seemed a bit milquetoast, considering the man had apparently just nodded favorably to the violent overthrow of the government.
As Thom disappeared into the kitchen, Rhyme motored into the front hallway. It had been released as a crime scene and the floor and walls had been scrubbed clean of the Watchmaker’s blood.
Here he brought the wheelchair to a stop more or less on the spot where the bullet had landed. His eyes dropped to the marble.
Ten minutes later, he heard Thom’s voice. “Who’s here?”
“How’s that?” Rhyme called absently.
“I heard you talking to someone.”
“Hardly.”
Rhyme returned to the parlor, set the wine on a side table and said to his phone, “Command. Call Sachs.”
76
Rhyme and Lon Sellitto were in his town house, listening over the speaker.
Amelia Sachs was at the garage on West 46th Street where, two days ago, Charles Hale had swapped one SUV out for another before driving to the park to send Rhyme to sleep forever.
She reported: “No cameras. That’s curious. Nearly all garages in the city have them. Hale must’ve searched for a while to find this one.”
Rhyme said, “And since he was planning on leaving right after he killed me, he wouldn’t care if he was recorded only picking up a new car. But he would care if he was meeting somebody secretly. Somebody who’d be here after he was gone.”
“Exactly, Rhyme. No cameras in the garage, but... I found one in a retail store across the street. I did a timeline. A limo entered the garage fifteen minutes before Hale got there and left three minutes after he did in his new SUV. I ran the limo’s tag. And you’re not going to believe who it’s registered to.”
“I make it one security,” the ESU officer’s voice came through the Motorola earpiece. He had the richest baritone Sachs had ever heard and if he decided to get out of policing, he’d have a future as a radio announcer or a narrator of audiobooks.
“Roger. I have eyes on two. ESU Team Two?”
“No one else I can see. Only the subject and the guard, who’s armed. Saw a piece on his right-side belt. Large. Maybe a forty-five.”