"Fire away."
"Crip abuse! I'll get you indicted. Arrest him, Lon."
"Lincoln," Sellitto said placatingly.
"Arrest him!"
The detective was taken aback by the viciousness of Rhyme's words.
"Hey, buddy, maybe you should go a little light," Sellitto said.
"Oh, Christ," Rhyme groaned. He started to moan loudly.
Sellitto blurted, "What is it?" Thom was silent, looking on cautiously.
"My liver." Rhyme's face broke into a cruel grin. "Cirrhosis probably."
Thom swung around, furious. "I will not put up with this crap. Okay?"
"No, It's not oh-kay--"
A woman's voice, from the doorway: "We don't have much time."
"--at all."
Amelia Sachs walked into the room, glanced at the empty tables. Rhyme felt spittle on his lip. He was overwhelmed with fury. Because she saw the drool. Because he wore a crisp white shirt he'd changed into just for her. And because he wanted desperately to be alone, forever, alone in the dark of motionless peace--where he was king. Not king for a day. But king for eternity.
The spit tickled. He cramped his already sore neck muscles trying to wipe his lip dry. Thom deftly swiped a Kleenex from a box and dried his boss's mouth and chin.
"Officer Sachs," Thom said. "Welcome. A shining example of maturity. We aren't seeing much of that right at the moment."
She wasn't wearing her hat and her navy blouse was open at the collar. Her long red hair tumbled to her shoulders. Nobody'd have any trouble differentiating that hair under a comparison 'scope.
"Mel let me in," she said, nodding toward the stairs.
"Isn't it past your bedtime, Sachs?"
Thom tapped a shoulder. Behave yourself, the gesture meant.
"I was just at the federal building," she said to Sellitto.
"How are our tax dollars doing?"
"They've caught him."
"What?" Sellitto asked. "Just like that? Jesus. They know about it downtown?"
"Perkins called the mayor. The guy's a cabbie. He was born here but his father's Serbian. So they're thinking he's trying to get even with the UN, or something. Got a yellow sheet. Oh, and a history of mental problems too. Dellray and feebie SWAT're on their way there right now."
"How'd they do it?" Rhyme asked. "Betcha it was the fingerprint."
She nodded.
"I suspected that would figure prominently. And, tell me, how concerned were they about the next victim?"
"They're concerned," she said evenly. "But mostly they want to nail the unsub."
"Well, that's their nature. And let me guess. They're figuring they'll sweat the location of the vic out of him after they take him down."