“I remember, from my days on the force, it was always a challenge. All that juggling.”
Potter wasn’t a physical force but his voice was firm. “Mr. Rhyme, it was made clear to you that you can’t work on any case for the NYPD.”
Nice touch, the “Mr.,” reminding that Rhyme was a civilian. At least Willis had captained him.
He cast a querying look toward the two men.
“There’s been an arrest in the Gregorios murder.”
The killing in Queens.
“A homeless man?”
“That’s right. And this was displayed on the brag board at the press conference.” Potter looked at Beaufort, who brandished his phone.
The photo depicted a table and a whiteboard, on which were a mug shot of the homeless suspect, looking dazed, and pictures of a bloody wallet, a filleting knife, also crimson, and of a bottle of cherry-flavored Miracle Sav. Beneath the bottle of the gut-destroying “medicine” was a printout of Rhyme’s email to Detectives Kelly and Wilson.
When mixed together, sodium chlorite and citric acid combine to create chlorine dioxide, ClO2, a common disinfectant and cleanser. However, note that the ClO2 also is used as a fraudulent cure-all for a number of diseases, including AIDS and cancer. When used as a quack cure, ClO2 generally has added to it a flavoring agent, such as lemon, cinnamon, or — as is present here — cherry syrup...
Rhyme had never approved of brass’s showing off at press conferences: the stacks of drugs, the bags of money, the pictures of SWAT apprehending the suspect, the evidence. It was arrogant and unseemly. It also gave away techniques. Bad guys owned TVs too.
Beaufort muttered, “Dep Com Willis and the mayor feel this is a violation of the prohibition you are well aware of. It was highly embarrassing. And it was an insult to the chain of command. Not taking them seriously.”
Rhyme looked up at Potter and asked, “Did the mayor make a statement condemning my involvement in the Gregorios case?”
“Well, he did, yes.”
“What’s his opponent’s name, again, in the race for governor?”
Potter regarded Beaufort but finally answered, “Edward Roland.”
That’s right, the billionaire.
“Who, in turn, issued a statement attacking the mayor.”
“I don’t know what your point is here, Mr. Rhyme.”
He asked, “Do either of you play chess?”
They exchanged glances once more. Frowning, Beaufort asked, “I’m sorry?”
“Never mind.” Rhyme noted Sachs was looking at him. He gave her a brief it’s-okay nod. “So the mayor’s press comment about me was based on my email on the brag board.”
“That’s right,” Potter said, a bit imperiously, Rhyme thought. “You didn’t think it’d make the news, did you?”
“And he sent you here to... arrest me?”
“At this point, a public statement of contrition.”
“Mea culpa and I promise I won’t do it again.”
“We need to make an example of flouting the rules.”
Rhyme looked over Beaufort’s photo once more. He was studying the brag board carefully.
When it appeared that the two men realized his interest was bordering on analytical, Beaufort tucked the mobile away.
Rhyme was thinking there were a few things he wanted to mention to Detectives Tye Kelly and Crystal Wilson, the shields from the 112, about the collar. But the pair in front of him were the last people on earth to bring the topic up with.
“Lincoln,” Beaufort said, “you don’t seem to appreciate the trouble you’re in.”
“Time stamp,” was the criminalist’s response.
“What?” Potter asked.
“You saw the date of the email, but not the time. Detective Kelly has the original. If you’d thought to look at it, you’d see that that email was sent several hours before the fiat — which by the way means a legal and definitive declaration. And I’m not sure that’s what the mayor and the commissioner issued. But that’d be a matter for a different day.”
“Time stamp.” Potter’s face tightened and he would undoubtedly be thinking of the conversation he would be having with the mayor, who would likely blame his aide and Beaufort for not checking something as simple as the timing of Rhyme’s memo.
Beaufort tried, “Well, what are you doing here now?”
“I’m here—”
A voice boomed. “He’s here to see me.”
The three men turned to Commanding Officer Brett Evans. The tall, distinguished man, with a military bearing, nodded a greeting to Rhyme, then turned and looked coolly at the other men. “I was going to meet Lincoln and his wife downtown for lunch. Then this call came in.” He looked at the flaming building. “Their colleague was in danger. They both came down here to see about him. I did too.”
Evans continued, “I’m hooking Lincoln up with my friends at New Jersey State Police. The OFS. They’re interested in hiring him.” Evans added some heft to the word as he said, “Consulting.”
Potter looked at Beaufort.
Without a word, the two men returned to their car, Potter dropping into the driver’s seat. They didn’t depart, though. They’d be watching to make sure Rhyme didn’t prowl the scene.
Rhyme nodded his appreciation to Evans, who grinned. “How’d I do?”
“Oscar quality.”
“How’s Ron Pulaski?”
“He’ll be fine. Whittaker’s security man saved him.”
“Really? No one was hurt?”
“No.”
The two men watched several more floors collapse in explosions of dancing embers and shrouds of orange flame. Evans asked, “The Locksmith was behind this?”
“I’m sure.”
“I do have some names, Lincoln. New Jersey State Police.”
“Thanks, Brett. I will think about it.”
“Will you really?” Evans kept a stone face for a moment. Then laughed.
“But I appreciate it.”
The man then grew serious. “Just be careful.”
Rhyme glanced toward Beaufort and Potter. “I will.”
“Well, them, yes. But that’s not what I mean. I heard that Buryak isn’t happy he was brought to trial and one of the people he’s the least happy with is you. Some blogger was saying that there was a conspiracy to get him arrested and convicted. And you might be involved.”
Now Rhyme was the one who smiled. “Lon told me about that. Crazy. But I’m sure I’m well into Buryak’s rearview mirror by now.”
53
Forty minutes ago Aaron Douglass had watched Lincoln Rhyme, accompanied by a trim, athletic man in a nice shirt and slacks and tie leave the town house. They got into a Sprinter, which featured a wheelchair-accessible ramp, and pulled away from the curb.
Once again driving his gray Cadillac, Douglass had put the sleek car into gear and followed. The vehicles made their way south — eventually arriving here, the site of a building fire.
He had no idea what was going on but he did note with pleasure that someone else was present too — the person he was actually most interested in seeing and had hoped to catch: Amelia Sachs.
Parking on a side street, he’d called his “masseur,” broad-chested Arnie Cavall. “Need you. Now. With the van.” And gave the address.
Douglass had joined a small crowd, where he asked what was going on.
A man said, “Heard it was that serial killer, the Locksmith. He tried to kill somebody in the building.”
Ah, the man who could break into any place, the man Amelia Sachs was pursuing when she and Rhyme were not trying to nail Viktor Buryak. He asked, “Did they catch him?”
A toothy middle-aged woman in a large hat muttered, “They’ll never catch him. He works for the police.”