The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

"It's not pleasant," Thom told Amelia Sachs.

From behind the bedroom door she heard, "I want that bottle and I want it now."

"What's going on?"

The handsome young man grimaced. "Oh, he can be such a prick sometimes. He got one of the patrol officers to pour him some scotch. For the pain, he said. He said he's got a prescription for single malt. Can you believe it? Oh, he's insufferable when he drinks."

A howl of rage from his room.

Sachs knew the only reason he wasn't throwing things was that he couldn't.

She reached for the doorknob.

"You might want to wait a little," Thom warned.

"We can't wait."

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"Goddamnit!" Rhyme snarled. "I want that fucking bottle!"

She opened the door. Thom whispered, "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Inside, Sachs paused in the doorway. Rhyme was a sight. His hair was disheveled, there was spittle on his chin, and his eyes were red.

The Macallan bottle was on the floor. He must have tried to grab it with his teeth and knocked it over.

He noticed Sachs but all he said was a brisk "Pick it up."

"We've got work to do, Rhyme."

"Pick. Up. That. Bottle."

She did. And placed it on the shelf.

He raged, "You know what I mean! I want a drink!"

"You've had more than enough, sounds like."

"Pour some whiskey in my goddamn glass. Thom! Get the hell in here . . . Coward."

"Rhyme," she snapped, "we've got evidence to look at."

"Hell with the evidence."

"How much did you drink?"

"The Dancer got inside, didn't he? Fox in the henhouse. Fox in the henhouse."

"I've got a vacuum filter full of trace, I've got a slug, I've got samples of his blood . . . "

"Blood? Well, that's fair. He's got plenty of ours."

She snapped back, "You oughta be like a kid on his birthday, all the evidence I've got. Quit feeling sorry for yourself, and let's get to work."

He didn't respond. As she looked at him she saw his bleary eyes focus past her on the doorway. She turned. There was Percey Clay.

Immediately, Rhyme's eyes dropped to the floor. He fell silent.