Whitmore, of course, was not given to displays of emotion but Rhyme could tell from the lawyer's uncharacteristically darting eyes that he was concerned.
Rhyme was too.
The footsteps seemed furtive.
The lawyer said, "I've never done criminal work, but I've been shot at twice pursuant to civil suits. The perpetrators missed both times and might have been trying only to scare me. But it was still an unpleasant experience."
Rhyme had been shot at, as well, and could concur.
Another scrape.
From where? Rhyme had no idea.
Whitmore added, "I also received in the mail a rat without its head. The head arrived a week later with a note suggesting I withdraw a lawsuit." It was nerves talking at this point.
"But you didn't." Rhyme was scanning the street, and the buildings. This was not a particularly dangerous neighborhood, statistically, but if a mugger wanted to nail someone easy, this pair would be a good choice. A slim nerdy lawyer and a gimp.
Whitmore said, "No, the case stood. In fact, I ran some forensics on the rat, found human DNA, and my private eye got samples of personal effects of everyone connected to the case. The rodent was a gift from the brother of the defendant." Whitmore was looking around again, primarily up. One black window seemed particularly to bother him, though Rhyme could have told him that snipers weren't the main risk.
"You would have thought that the brother would be a rather obvious suspect. But he seemed to believe he could get away with it. I sued him for intentional infliction of emotional distress. I wasn't actually that distressed but I made a credible witness. The jury was rather sympathetic. I testified I had nightmares about rats. This was true but the opposing counsel failed to ask when. The last time was when I was eight. Mr. Rhyme, did you hear that noise again?"
He nodded.
"Do you have a gun?" the lawyer asked.
Rhyme's expression, as he turned toward Whitmore: Do I look like I'm a fast-draw kind of person?
Then more footsteps, growing closer.
Cocking his head to the right, Rhyme whispered, "He's coming from that direction."
They remained still for a moment. There was a sound from where he'd just indicated: A click of metal.
Chambering a bullet before the mugging?
Or just planning to shoot and pilfer after they were dead?
Time to leave. Now. Rhyme gestured with his head and Whitmore nodded. Rhyme could move fast, if roughly, over the cobblestones toward one of the busy north-south avenues.
He whispered Thom's number to Whitmore. "Text him. Have him meet us a block north, Broadway."
The lawyer did this and slipped his phone back into his pocket. With effort he dragged Rhyme's heavy chair over the curb.
Another whisper to Whitmore: "He's close. Move, fast."
They started up the street, along the front of the office building.
When they arrived at the corner and hurried past it, both men froze.
Staring directly into the muzzle of a pistol.
"Oh, my," Whitmore gasped.
Lincoln Rhyme's response was more subdued. "Sachs. What the hell are you doing here?"
CHAPTER 20
Rhyme watched his partner examining him and Whitmore with a perplexed frown for mere seconds before she slipped the blocky Austrian pistol back into the plastic holster with a definitive click.