Gordon pulled his tuxedo jacket on. Again, Rhyme thought, it seemed too thin for such a slight frame on a foul, gray day like this one. ‘Good luck.’ He paused in front of Rhyme, looking him over. ‘Hey, looks like you’re one of us, dude.’
Rhyme looked up. ‘One of who?’
‘You’re modded.’
‘How’s that?’
He pointed to Rhyme’s arm, where scars were prominent, from the surgery to restore motion to his right arm and hand. ‘Looks like Mount Everest, those scars there. Upside down to you.’
True, curiously, the triangular pattern did look like the famous mountain.
‘You want me to fill it in, just let me know. Or I could do something else. Oh, dude, I know. I could add a bird.’ He nodded toward the window. ‘One of those hawks or whatever they are. Flying over the mountains.’
Rhyme laughed. What a crazy thought. Then his eyes strayed to the peregrine falcons. There was something intriguing about the idea.
‘Trauma to the skin is contraindicated for someone in his condition.’ Thom was in the doorway, arms crossed.
Gordon nodded. ‘Guess that means no.’
‘No.’
He looked around the room. ‘Well, anybody else?’
‘My mother would kill me,’ near-middle-aged Mel Cooper said.
‘My wife,’ Pulaski said.
Amelia Sachs only shook her head.
Thom said, ‘I’ll stick with the one I have.’
‘What?’ Sachs asked, laughing. But the aide said nothing more.
‘Okay, but you’ve got my number. Good luck, dudes.’
Then the man was gone.
The team was looking at the images of the tattoos once more. Lon Sellitto wasn’t picking up so Sachs called Major Cases and had the team at headquarters add ‘17th’ to the list of numbers they were searching for.
Just after she’d disconnected, her phone hummed again and she answered. Rhyme saw immediately that she stiffened. She asked breathlessly, ‘What? You have somebody on the way?’
She slammed the disconnect button and looked at Rhyme, eyes wide. ‘That was a sergeant at the Eight-Four. A neighbor just called in a nine one one, intruder outside Pam’s apartment. White male in a stocking cap and short gray coat. Seemed to be wearing a mask. Yellow. Jesus.’
Sachs flipped open her phone and hit a speed-dial button.
CHAPTER 40
Answer!
Please answer! Sachs gripped her mobile hard and shivered in hopeless rage when Pam’s voice mail came on.
‘If you’re at home, Pam, get out of your house! Now! Go to the Eighty-Fourth Precinct. Gold Street. I think the perp in our case is at your place.’
Her eyes met Rhyme’s, his face equally troubled, and she jammed her finger onto the redial button.
Rhyme asked, ‘Is she working? Or at school?’
‘I don’t know. She works odd hours. And’s in school part-time this semester.’
Ron Pulaski called, ‘There should be a unit there in seven, eight minutes.’
But the question: Is it too late?
The hollow buzzing of the phone filled the speaker.
Goddamn it. Voice mail once more.
No, no …
‘Sachs—’
She ignored Rhyme and hit the redial button again. Why the hell hadn’t they put protection on Pam full-time? True, their unsub’s targets — like the Bone Collector’s — were random and the Skin Collector surely didn’t even know she existed, they’d assumed. But now, of course, he’d decided to target not only those tracking him down, but their friends and family too. It wouldn’t be impossible to discover Pam’s relationship to Rhyme and Sachs. Why hadn’t—
Click. ‘Amelia,’ Pam said, breathless. ‘I got your message. But I’m not home. I’m at work.’
Sachs lowered her head. Thank you, thank you …
‘But Seth’s there! He’s there now. He’s waiting for me. We’re going out later. Amelia, what … what should we do?’
Sachs got his mobile and spun to Pulaski. ‘Call Seth!’ She shouted the number across the room. The young officer dialed fast.
‘The doors are locked, Pam?’
‘Yes, but … Oh, Amelia. Are police there?’
‘They’re on their way. Stay where you are. And—’
‘Stay where I am? I’m going home. I’m going there now.’
‘No. Don’t do that.’
Pam’s voice was ragged, accusatory. ‘Why’s he doing this? Why is he at my apartment?’
‘Stay where—’
The girl hung up.
‘It’s ringing.’ Pulaski’s expression changed instantly.
‘Speaker,’ Rhyme snapped.
The young officer hit the button. Seth’s voice came from the line. ‘Hello?’
‘Seth, it’s Lincoln Rhyme.’
‘Hey, how—’
‘Listen to me carefully. Get out. Somebody’s breaking into the apartment. Get out now!’
‘Here? What do you mean? Is Pam all right?’
‘She’s okay. Police are coming but you have to get out. Drop whatever you’re doing and leave. Go out the front door and get to the Eighty-Fourth Precinct. It’s on Gold Street. Or at least some populated place. Call Amelia or me as soon as—’
Seth’s next words were muted, as if he was turning and the phone was no longer next to his mouth. ‘Hey!’
A sound like breaking glass could be heard and another voice, a man’s: ‘You. Put the phone down.’
‘The hell’re you—’
Then several thuds. Seth screamed.
And the line went dead.
CHAPTER 41
The squad cars beat Amelia Sachs to Pam’s apartment.
But not by much.
Sachs had kept the gears low in her Torino, the RPMs high, and her foot largely off the brake as she sped to Brooklyn Heights. Sidney Place, a narrow street ending at State, runs north, one way, but that didn’t stop Sachs from pounding the Ford the opposite way, sending several oncoming cars up on the sidewalk, squeezing for protection between the many trees here. One rattled elderly driver scraped a fender on the stairs of St Charles Borromeo church, tall and red as a fire truck.
Sachs’s fierce eyes, more than the blue dashboard flasher, cleared the way with little resistance.
Pam’s apartment building was shabbier than most here, a three-story walk-up, one of the few gray buildings in a neighborhood of crimson stone. Sachs aimed for the semicircle of police vehicles and an ambulance. She laid on the horn — no siren in the Torino — and parted the craning-neck crowd then gave up and parked. She sprinted to the door, noting that the ambulance door was open but there were no EMS techs nearby. Bad sign. Were they working away desperately on Seth?
Or was he dead?
In Pam’s apartment hallway, a stocky uniform glanced at the shield on her belt and nodded her in. She asked, ‘How is he?’
‘Dunno. It’s a mess.’
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at caller ID. Pam. Sachs debated but let it ring. She didn’t have anything to tell her yet.
I will in a few minutes, she thought. Then wondered what exactly the message would be.
A mess …
Pam lived on the ground floor, a small dark space of about six hundred square feet, whose resemblance to a jail cell was enhanced by the exposed brick walls and tiny windows. Such was the price of living in a posh neighborhood like the Heights, the center of town when Brooklyn was a city unto itself.
She stepped inside and saw two officers.
‘Detective Sachs,’ one said, though she didn’t recognize him. ‘You running the scene? We’ve cleared it. Had to make sure—’