Sachs said, “Carrie’s fine.”
“Who?”
“The vic. Carrie Noelle.”
He knew she was all right. He’d heard.
Not relevant.
“But this one was more troubling.”
“How so?”
“He moved all her knives — hid them. And shorted out her phone in the aquarium.”
Rhyme considered his wife’s words. “He didn’t want her to have a way to communicate and didn’t want her to have weapons. Because this time he was considering attacking her.”
“That’s what I think.”
“Why didn’t he?” Rhyme asked.
“Maybe he heard we were there. One of the blue-and-whites hit the siren, to move a car along. He heard it, saw us and got out fast.”
“The siren, really?” Rhyme grimaced. “At least, if that’s the case, Sachs, I suppose we saved her.”
She nodded.
“Did he leave a newspaper?”
“He did. In her underwear drawer again. Same page. Same message — in lipstick.”
“The hell’s that about? I’m voting it’s a misdirection.”
And then recalled that his vote would not be counting for anything in the investigation.
The doorbell sounded and Rhyme and Sachs glanced at the security monitor. Thom had heard too and he appeared in the hallway, looking neat and trim, as he always did. Dark slacks and a blue dress shirt, a blue and purple floral tie. “Answer it?” he asked, noting that they continued to look at the monitor and had not unlocked the door themselves.
The caller was a large, tanned man, with a shaved, or naturally bald, head. After a moment he held up a gold NYPD shield.
Sachs and Rhyme shared a glance. She said, “Don’t know him.”
On his chair arm controller, Rhyme hit the intercom.
“Help you?”
“Captain Rhyme?”
“That’s right, Detective.”
“You have a minute?”
A pause. “Sure.” A nod to Thom, who walked to the door and unlatched it.
A moment later the man, with broad shoulders and a handsome, thoughtful face was in the parlor, looking past Rhyme and Sachs, who stepped away and typed on her phone. He said, “Well, that’s impressive.”
He meant the lab.
Rhyme knew. Nothing to comment on.
The large man turned and nodded to Sachs and Rhyme. She slipped her phone away and focused on the visitor.
“Detective.” A glance to Sachs. Then back to Rhyme: “This won’t take long, Captain. I’m Richard Beaufort, the One One Two. I’m following up on the Buryak case.”
We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty...
“Are you?” Rhyme reminded himself to keep a lid on the impatience and anger.
“Yessir. I’m contacting everyone involved in the trial and putting together a file of all the documentation they have about it. Pain in the ass, I know. For me too. Do you have anything here? Evidentiary reports, anything like that? Copies are fine. You can keep the originals.”
“Postmortem, hm?” Rhyme wheeled closer to Beaufort, who towered. The height disparity was one thing about his condition that had been so very hard to get used to: he was always lower than those around him. Rhyme’s personality had been forceful — if not domineering — and being looked down at was a blow. Oddly, though, over the years he’d come to realize that he actually had more power in the chair; those talking to, or arguing with, him lowered their heads, which was, in a way, an act of submission.
“I honestly don’t know what they have in mind, sir. I was just told to collect any documentation.”
“I think we gave the prosecutor everything.” He looked to Sachs, who nodded. Then Rhyme said, “But there are some evidence charts we did, flow diagrams, you know. It’s secondary material. Would they want that?”
“I think they would. Is that a scanning electron microscope?” He walked to the glass partition. “And a chromatograph. In a Central Park West town house. I’ll be damned.”
Rhyme continued, “They’re photos — digital — of the charts. Like those.” Rhyme pointed and Beaufort looked toward the whiteboards on easels. One was of the Locksmith case, the others about the Buryak and the Gregorios case — the murder by the homeless man. There were crime scene photos of the bloody body. They were explicit and bright and stark. Beaufort gave no reaction.
He asked, “A thumb drive, or something?”
“Sure.” He wheeled to the computer, instructed it to call up the Buryak file. He scrolled through to find the JPGs of the charts and, after Sachs had loaded a blank thumb drive into the USB slot, copied the files and pasted them. She handed the drive to Beaufort.
“Thanks, Captain, Detective...” He pocketed the small rectangle. “Appreciate it.” He started to leave, then paused. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
The Hindenburg? World War Two? The Great Recession? Rhyme reined himself in and said, “Thanks.”
“They didn’t ask me but I would’ve told them it’s a bad idea. We need you, a lot of the line people say so. Brass too.”
“You take care, Detective,” Rhyme said.
“You too.”
Thom showed him out.
As soon as the door closed, Rhyme turned to Sachs. “So?”
“Take a look. I’ll send it to you.” She typed on her phone and a moment later a ding rang out in the lab. Rhyme called up his email.
He was looking at what she’d just downloaded from the NYPD personnel database and sent to him.
Richard Beaufort was indeed a detective, third-class, with the NYPD. And, yes, he had been assigned to the 112 House, the precinct in which Buryak’s mansion was located. However, he’d never had anything to do with the Buryak case. In fact, for the past four months, he had had nothing to do with criminal investigation. He’d been transferred to a different job.
He was on Mayor Tony Harrison’s security detail.
Rhyme muttered, “Son of a bitch was here to see if I was working the Locksmith case.”
“Rodriguez was at the Noelle scene, playing it up for the cameras. Potter was there too, the mayor’s aide.”
“To report that we’re toeing the line.” Rhyme scoffed. “The press’s really playing it up big. They like notorious bad guys. Looks better when they get caught. The Zodiac Killer, the Boston Strangler. And here we’ve got a nefarious serial perp. The Locksmith gets collared on the mayor’s watch — and without my help — his poll numbers go up. I don’t know why any human being would run for political office.”
Rhyme again reflected: I’m fucking housebound, no work to do, no desire to look for alternatives.
He thought of what Commander Brett Evans had said last night.
New Jersey...
Commercial lab work...
Jesus Christ.
He said, “You’ve got to get to Queens. That blood trace Mel found? If he used the knife once he’s going to use it again. That’s a given.”
She didn’t answer but glanced down as her phone dinged with a text. “Just a second.” She walked into the hallway and then out onto the front porch. On the monitor, he saw her looking up and down the street. She returned and, head down, sent yet another text.
“Sachs. I’m serious. You need to get started.”
Now, she held up a wait-a-second index finger and walked to the front door once more. He heard it open. He heard voices.