"Thanks, Linc. We owe you." Sellitto pulled up a chair next to the bed. Nodded Banks to do the same. "Now. Gimme your thoughts. What's this asshole's game?"
Rhyme said, "Not so fast. I don't work alone."
"Fair enough. Who d'you want on board?"
"A tech from IRD. Whoever's the best in the lab. I want him here with the basic equipment. And we better get some tactical boys. Emergency Services. Oh, and I want some phones," Rhyme instructed, glancing at the Scotch on his dresser. He remembered the brandy Berger had in his kit. No way was he going out on cheap crap like that. His Final Exit number would be courtesy of either sixteen-year-old Lagavulin or opulent Macallan aged for decades. Or--why not?--both.
Banks pulled out his own cellular phone. "What kind of lines? Just--"
"Landlines."
"In here?"
"Of course not," Rhyme barked.
Sellitto said, "He means he wants people to make calls. From the Big Building."
"Oh."
"Call downtown," Sellitto ordered. "Have 'em give us three or four dispatchers."
"Lon," Rhyme asked, "who's doing the spadework on the death this morning?"
Banks stifled a laugh. "The Hardy Boys."
A glare from Rhyme took the smile off his face. "Detectives Bedding and Saul, sir," the boy added quickly.
But then Sellitto grinned too. "The Hardy Boys. Everybody calls 'em that. You don't know 'em, Linc. They're from the Homicide Task Force downtown."
"They look kind of alike is the thing," Banks explained. "And, well, their delivery is a little funny."
"I don't want comedians."
"No, they're good," Sellitto said. "The best canvassers we got. You know that beast 'napped that eight-year-old girl in Queens last year? Bedding and Saul did the canvass. Interviewed the entire 'hood--took twenty-two hundred statements. It was 'causa them we saved her. When we heard the vic this morning was the passenger from JFK, Chief Wilson himself put 'em on board."
"What're they doing now?"
"Witnesses mostly. Around the train tracks. And sniffing around about the driver and the cab."
Rhyme yelled to Thom in the hallway, "Did you call Berger? No, of course you didn't. The word 'insubordination' mean anything to you? At least make yourself useful. Bring that crime scene report closer and start turning the pages." He nodded toward the turning frame. "That damn thing's an Edsel."
"Aren't we in a sunny mood today?" the aide spat back.
"Hold it up higher. I'm getting glare."
He read for a minute. Then looked up.
Sellitto was on the phone but Rhyme interrupted him. "Whatever happens at three today, if we can find where he's talking about, it's going to be a crime scene. I'll need someone to work it."
"Good," Sellitto said. "I'll call Peretti. Toss him a bone. I know his nose'll be out of joint 'cause we're tiptoeing around him."
Rhyme grunted. "Did I ask for Peretti?"
"But he's the IRD golden boy," Banks said.
"I don't want him," Rhyme muttered. "There's somebody else I want."
Sellitto and Banks exchanged glances. The older detective smiled, brushing pointlessly at his wrinkled shirt. "Whoever you want, Linc, you got him. Remember, you're king for a day."