The Cold Moon (Lincoln Rhyme 7)

"Ah, an appreciative audience," he said, glancing at Rhyme.

"I'm appreciative. Just not excessively."

Thom nodded at the bowl that had held the main course. "To him it's 'stew.' He doesn't even try the French. Tell

her what you think of food, Lincoln."

The criminalist shrugged. "I'm not fussy about what I eat. That's all."

"He calls it 'fuel,'" the aide said and carted the dishes to the kitchen.

"You have dogs at home?" Rhyme asked Dance, nodding at Jackson.

"Two. They're a lot bigger than this guy. The kids and I take 'em to the beach a couple times a week. They chase seagulls and we chase them. Exercise all around. And if that sounds too healthy, don't worry. Afterward we go for waffles at First Watch in Monterey and replace any calories we've lost."

Rhyme glanced into the kitchen, where Thom was washing dishes and pans. He lowered his voice and asked if she'd engage in bit of subterfuge.

She frowned.

"I wouldn't mind if a bit of that"--he nodded toward a bottle of old Glenmorangie scotch--"ended up in there." The nod shifted toward his tumbler. "You might want to keep it quiet, though."

"Thom?"

A nod. "He enacts Prohibition from time to time. It's rather irritating."

Kathryn Dance knew the value of indulging. (Okay, maybe she'd gained six pounds in Tijuana; that had been a long, long week.) She set the dog down and poured him a good healthy dose. She fit the cup into the holder of his wheelchair, arranging the straw near his mouth.

"Thanks." He took a long sip. "Whatever you're billing the city for your time, I'll authorize double pay. And help yourself. Thom won't give you any grief."

"Maybe some caffeine." She poured a black coffee and allowed herself one of the oatmeal cookies that the aide had set out. He'd baked them himself.

Dance glanced at her watch. Three hours earlier in California. "Excuse me for a minute. Check in at home."

"Go right ahead."

She made a call on her mobile. Maggie answered.

"Hey, sweets."

"Mommy."

The girl was a talker and Dance got a ten-minute account of a Christmas shopping trip with her nana. Maggie concluded with: "And then we came back here and I read Harry Potter."

"The new one?"

"Uh-huh."

"How many times is that?"

"Six."

"Wouldn't you like to read something different? Expand your horizons?"

Maggie replied, "Gee, Mom, like, how many times've you listened to Bob Dylan? That Blonde on Blonde album. Or U2?"

Unassailable logic. "You got me there, sweets, only don't say like."

"Mom. When're you coming home?"