"Come on, Banks, we got work to do. You need a lift, Sachs? Or're they still trusting you with vehicles?"
"No thanks, got wheels downstairs," she said.
The two detectives left. Rhyme heard their voices echoing through the empty hall. Then the door closed and they were gone.
Rhyme realized the glaring overhead lights were on. He clicked through several commands and dimmed them.
Sachs stretched.
"Well," she said, just as Rhyme said, "So."
She glanced at the clock. "It's late."
"Sure is."
Rising, she walked to the table where her purse rested. She picked it up. Clicked it open, found her compact and examined her cut lip in the mirror.
"It doesn't look too bad," Rhyme said.
"Frankenstein," she said, prodding. "Why don't they use flesh-colored stitches?" She put the mirror away, slung the purse over her shoulder. "You moved the bed," she noticed. It was closer to the window.
"Thom did. I can look at the park. If I want to."
"Well, that's good."
She walked to the window. Looked down.
Oh, for Christ's sake, Rhyme thought to himself. Do it. What can happen? He blurted quickly, "You want to stay here? I mean, it's getting late. And Latents'll be dusting your place for hours."
He felt a mad bolt of anticipation deep within him. Well, kill that, he thought, furious with himself. Until her face blossomed into a smile. "I'd like that."
"Good." His jaw shivered from the adrenaline. "Wonderful. Thom!"
Listening to music, drinking some Scotch. Maybe he'd tell her more about famous crime scenes. The historian in him was also curious about her father, about police work in the '60s and '70s. About the infamous Midtown South Precinct in the old days.
Rhyme shouted, "Thom! Get some sheets. And a blanket. Thom! I don't know what the hell he's doing. Thom!"
Sachs started to say something but the aide appeared in the doorway and said testily, "One rude shout would've been enough, you know, Lincoln."
"Amelia's staying over again. Could you get some blankets and pillows for the couch?"
"No, not the couch again," she said. "It's like sleeping on rocks."
Rhyme was stabbed with a splinter of rejection. Thinking ruefully to himself: Been a few years since he'd felt that emotion. Resigned, he nonetheless smiled and said, "There's a bedroom downstairs. Thom can make it up for you."
But Sachs set down her purse. "That's okay, Thom. You don't have to."
"It's no bother."
"It's all right. Good night, Thom." She walked to the door.
"Well, I--"
She smiled.
"But--" he began, looking from her to Rhyme, who frowned, shook his head.
"Good night, Thom," she said firmly. "Watch your feet." And closed the door slowly, as he stepped back out of the way into the hall. It closed with a loud click.