The Twelfth Card (Lincoln Rhyme 6)

"Right. I'm not laughing. I'm looking at the trash."

"Good."

The man with the gun kept lounging against a building. He was in his forties, solid, with razor-cut hair. She now saw the bulge at his hip, which told her it was a long pistol, probably a revolver, since it seemed

to swell out where the cylinder would be. "Here's the situation," she said softly to the rookie. "Man on our two o'clock. He's carrying."

Bless him, the rookie--with spiky little-boy hair as shiny beige as caramel--kept looking at the garbage. "The perp? You think it's the perp in the assault?"

"Don't know. Don't care. I care about the fact that he's carrying."

"What do we do?"

"Keep on going. We pass him, watching the garbage. Decide we're not interested. Head back toward the scene. You slow up and ask me if I want coffee. I say yes. You go around to his right. He'll keep his eyes on me."

"Why will he watch you?"

Refreshing naivete. "He just will. You double back. Get close to him. Make a little noise, clear your throat or something. He'll turn. Then I'll come up behind him."

"Sure, I've got it . . . Should I, you know, draw down on him?"

"No. Just let him know you're there and stand behind him."

"What if he pulls his gun?"

"Then you draw down on him."

"What if he starts to shoot?"

"I don't think he will."

"But if he does?"

"Then you shoot him. What's your first name?"

"Ronald. Ron."

"How long you out?"

"Three weeks."

"You'll do fine. Let's go."

They walked to the garbage pile, concerned. But then they decided it was no threat and started back. Pulaski stopped suddenly. "Hey, how 'bout some coffee, Detective?"

Overacting--he'd never be a guest on Inside the Actor's Studio--but all things considered it was a credible performance. "Sure, thanks."

He doubled back then paused. Shouted: "How do you like it?"

"Uhm, sugar," she said.

"How many sugars?"

Jesus Lord . . . She said, "One."

"Got it. Hey, you want a Danish too?"

Okay, cool it, her eyes told him. "Just coffee's fine." She turned toward the crime scene, sensing the man with the gun study her long red hair, tied in a ponytail. He glanced at her chest, then her butt.