How would one go about writing a melody? If the physical therapy exercises he was doing now eventually had some effect . . . could he actually press his fingers on a keyboard? As he was considering this he noticed Sachs looking up at his face in the dim light. "You heard about the sergeant's exam?" she asked.
A hesitation. Then: "Yep," he replied. He'd scrupulously avoided bringing up the matter all night; when Sachs was prepared to discuss something she would. Until then the subject didn't exist.
"You know what happened?" she asked.
"Not all the details. I assume it falls into the category of a quasi-corrupt, self-interested government official versus the overworked heroic crime scene cop. Something like that?"
A laugh. "Pretty much."
"I've been there myself, Sachs."
The music from the circus kept thudding away, engendering mixed responses. Somehow you felt you should be irritated that it was intruding but you couldn't resist enjoying the beat.
She then asked, "Did Lon talk to you about pulling some strings for me? Making calls to city hall?"
Amelia'll never find out. I'll tell my guy to keep the lid on it. . . .
He chuckled. "He did, yeah. You know Lon."
The music stopped. Then applause filled the night. The faint yet evocative sound of the MC's voice followed.
She said, "I heard he could've made the whole thing go away. Bypassed Ramos."
"Probably. He's got a long reach."
Sachs asked, "And what'd you say about that?"
"What do you think?"
"I'm asking."
Rhyme said, "I said no. I wouldn't let him do it."
"You wouldn't?"
"No. I told him you'd make rank on your own or not at all."
"Goddamn," she muttered.
He looked down at her, momentarily alarmed. Had he misjudged her?
"I'm pissed at Lon for even considering it."
"He meant well."
He believed that her arm around his chest gripped him tighter. "What you told him, Rhyme, that means more to me than anything."
"I know that."
"It could get ugly. Ramos's going for suspension. Twelve months off duty, no pay. I don't know what I'll do."
"You'll consult. With me."
"A civilian can't walk the grid, Rhyme. I have to sit still, I'll go crazy."
When you move they can't getcha. . . .
"We'll get through it."