Here's the answer, Rhyme thought, opening his eyes once again and staring at the entries.
The only problem is that we don't know the question.
Thom appeared in the doorway. "Time for some ROMs," the aide said.
Range of motion exercises were important for quads. They kept the muscles from atrophying, they improved the circulation, they had a beneficial psychological effect too--which Rhyme publicly disavowed. Still, his sessions were partially based on the premise that there would come a day when he himself would use his muscles again.
And so while he groused and complained and gave Thom hell when the aide expertly performed the ROMs then measured the results, he secretly looked forward to the daily exercises. Today, however, Rhyme cast a strong glance at the aide and the young man got the message. He retreated to the hallway.
"What're you thinking?" Sellitto asked.
Rhyme didn't answer.
Engaged in its own range of motion exercises, his mind, unlike his lifeless limbs, was limited by nothing. Infinite height, infinite depth, past and future. The criminalist now mentally followed the trails of evidence that they had collected while working the GHOSTKILL case, some of them as wide as the East River, some as narrow and frail as thread, some helpful, some as seemingly useless as the broken nerves that ran from Lincoln Rhyme's brain south into his still body. But even these he didn't neglect.
*
The highway took a sweep around the Brooklyn army facility and Yindao steered the police station wagon onto an exit ramp, about as fast as the Ghost himself would have taken the turn in his BMW or Porsche, and descended into a pleasant neighborhood of tidy yards and red-brick buildings.
The Ghost glanced into the side mirror casually and noticed that Yusuf was still behind them.
Then he looked at Yindao, the profile of her beautiful face, her shimmery red hair pinned into a bun, the outline of her breasts beneath her black T-shirt.
He was startled by the blare of the woman's phone ringing again.
She answered it.
"Rhyme . . . yeah, we're in the neighborhood. Go ahead." She fell silent. "Excellent!" She turned to the Ghost and Coe. "He's found them. A friend of Chang's got him an apartment and a job near here. It's not that far away." She turned her attention back to the phone. As she listened to what Rhyme was saying, though, the expression on her face grew momentarily dark. It seemed to the Ghost that she had tensed in reaction to whatever the man was now telling her. The Ghost wondered if Rhyme had learned something about him. He grew vigilant.
"Sure, Rhyme," she said finally. "Got it."
Yindao disconnected the call.
"Damn," Coe said. "I never thought he'd really be able to do it."
The Ghost looked at her. "So he got the exact address."
She didn't answer for a moment. Finally she said, "Yeah."
Then she began talking, just chatting like a schoolgirl, about her life in Brooklyn. The Ghost saw at once that this wasn't her nature and he grew even more suspicious. Whatever Rhyme had told her at the end of their conversation, he now understood, had nothing to do with the Changs.
He noticed her hand slip to her leg, which she scratched absently. She left her hand near her hip and he realized that the gesture was merely an excuse to move her hand to her gun.
With his eyes still on the road, the Ghost's hand now slipped casually to his side and then curled behind his back until it was touching the grip of his Glock pistol, which rested in the waistband of his workout slacks under the windbreaker.
Silence in the car as they drove for some minutes through residential streets. It seemed to the Ghost, though, that Yindao was merely driving in circles. He grew even more tense and cautious.
Another turn and, looking at the house numbers, she pulled up to the curb, put the car in park and set the brake. Pointing to a small brownstone apartment building.
"That's it."
The Ghost glanced quickly but kept his attention wholly on Yindao.
"Not the shithole I was expecting," Coe said cynically. "Let's go get this over with."
Yindao said casually, "Wait." And she turned to her right to look at Coe over the seat.
The Ghost could see easily that it was a feint. She moved fast--far faster than the Ghost had expected. Before the snakehead could even close his fingers around his own pistol, Yindao had swept hers from her holster and was swinging the gun toward him.