"Even if I did, I have a personal situation. My--"
"Mother," Rhyme'd interrupted.
"Right."
"I had a talk with Jaynene."
The woman had fallen silent.
Rhyme'd said, "Let me tell you a story."
"Story?"
"I headed the forensics department here in New York. The job had the typical administrative crap, you can imagine. But the thing I loved most--and what I was best at--was running crime scenes, so even after I was promoted I still got into the field as often as I could. Well, we had a serial rapist working in the Bronx a few years ago. I won't go into the details but it was an ugly situation and I wanted that man nailed. I wanted him bad. I got a call from patrol that there'd been another attack, just a half hour before, and it looked like there was some good evidence. I went uptown to run the scene personally.
"Just as I got there I found out my second in command--and a good friend of mine--had had a heart attack. A bad one. Big shock. He was a young guy, in good shape. Anyway, he was asking for me." Rhyme had pushed down a hard memory and continued, "But I stayed and ran the scene, filled out the chain of custody cards and then went to the hospital. I got there as fast as I could but I was too late. He'd died a half hour before. I wasn't proud of that. It still hurts me after all these years. But I wouldn't've done it different."
"So your point is that I should put my mother in some shitty home," she'd said bitterly. "A cheaper one. Just so I can be happy."
"Of course not. Put her someplace that'll give her what she needs--care and companionship. Not what you need. Not a rehab center that's going to bankrupt you. . . . My point? It's that if there's something you know you're meant to do in life, that has to take priority over everything else. Get a job with Cirque Fantastique. Or another show. But you have to move on."
"Do you know what some of those homes are like?"
"Well, then your job is to find one that you're both comfortable with. Sorry to be blunt. But I told you up front I don't do well with delicacy."
She'd shaken her head. "Look, Lincoln, even if I decided to, do you know how many people'd die for a job at Cirque Fantastique? They get a hundred resumes a week."
Finally he'd smiled. "Well, now, I've been thinking about that. The Immobilized Man has an idea for a routine I think we should try."
Rhyme now finished telling Sachs the story.
Kara said, "We thought we'd call the trick the Escaping Suspect. I'm going to add it to my repertoire."
Sachs turned to Rhyme. "And the reason you didn't tell me before was . . . ?"
"I'm sorry. You were downtown. I couldn't get through."
"Well, it might've worked better if you'd told me. You could've left a message."
"I. Am. Sorry. There. I've apologized. I don't do it very often, you know. I'd think you might appreciate it. Though, now that you brought it up, I don't really see how it could've worked better. The look on your face was priceless. Added to the credibility."
"And Balzac?" Sachs asked. "He didn't know Weir? He wasn't really involved?"
Rhyme nodded at Kara. "Pure fiction. We wrote the script, the two of us."
Sachs eyed the young woman. "First you get stabbed to death when I'm supposed to be looking out for you. Then you turn into a murder suspect." The policewoman gave an exasperated sigh. "This could be a difficult friendship."
Kara offered to run up the street to get some more Cuban takeout, which they'd missed the other day, though Rhyme suspected it was just an excuse for her to pick up another one of the restaurant's sludgy coffees. But before they could decide on the order they were interrupted by Rhyme's ringing phone. He ordered, "Command, answer phone." A moment later Sellitto's voice came on the speakerphone. "Linc, you busy?"
"Depends," he grumbled. "What's up?"
"No rest for the wicked. . . . We need your help again. We got a weird homicide."
"Last one was 'bizarre,' if I remember correctly. I think you just say things like that to get my attention."
"No, really, we can't figure this one out."
"All right, all right," the criminalist grumbled, "give me the details."