The fact was that he enjoyed this. Debate was the heart-and-soul of crime scene work, the back-and-forth. He and Sachs used to do this all the time.
Thom appeared in the doorway. "Lincoln."
"Oh, I know that tone. You better get used to it, Juliette: the caregiver of the iron fist. Make sure you brush the little teeth and tinkle and hit the hay."
"You've been up for too many hours today," Thom said. "And your blood pressure's been high lately."
"It's high because you hound me to check my blood pressure."
"Whatever the reason," the aide said with infuriating cheer, "we can't afford it to be so high. Can we?"
In fact, no, he couldn't. A quad's physical condition leads to several maladies that could be life threatening. Sepsis from bedsores, respiratory problems, blood clots and the ace of spades: autonomic dysreflexia. When an even minor irritation--like a full bladder--goes unrelieved, because the brain's unaware of it, various changes occur as the body tries to regulate itself. Often the heart rate slows and, in compensation, the blood pressure rises. It can lead to strokes and death.
"All right," he said, surrendering. He would have fought longer but it occurred to him that he had to be a reasonable model for Archer. She too would be at risk from dysreflexia and she'd have to take the threat seriously.
"My brother'll be here any minute, anyway," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow." She wheeled into the front hallway.
"Yes, yes, yes," Rhyme muttered, staring at the evidence charts. Thinking: What do the clues tell us--where is your next move going to be, Unsub 40? And where do you hang your hat?
Is it Montana, Alabama, Westchester... the Bronx?
Or is it Queens??
"Man walks into a bar. Says, 'Hell, that hurt.'"
Nick was speaking to the back of a man he'd snuck up behind, sitting at a bar--the other kind.
Freddy Caruthers didn't turn. He kept his eyes on the TV above the premium booze. This was happening in a somewhat classy pub in Brooklyn, Park Slope. "Hell. I know that voice. No. No way. Nick?"
"Hey."
Now Freddy turned, looked Nick up and down and waited all of a half second to hug him.
The man pretty much resembled a toad.
Though a friendly, cheerful one, a grin burned onto his toady face.
"Man, man, man. Heard you were out." He backed off and gave an arm's-length gaze. "Damn."
Freddy and Nick went way back. They'd been classmates, public school classmates (no private schools in Sandy Hook, at least not for them). Nick was the good-looking one, the athlete. Freddy--five two then and now--couldn't swing a bat or catch a pass, let alone dunk. But he had other skills. You needed a term paper, he'd write one for you. Free of charge. You needed to know if Myra Handleman had a date for the prom, he'd tell you who and give good advice how to convince her to break it and say yes to you instead. You needed help on a test, Freddy had a knack for knowing what questions would be asked (students speculated that he broke into teachers' offices late at night--some said in a ninja outfit--but Nick suspected that Freddy simply thought the way the teachers thought).
Nick had built his cred on an impressive batting average and the class officer thing--looks too, sure.
Freddy had nurtured his differently, by working the system the way Amelia would needle-valve a carburetor. The rumor was Freddy got laid more than anybody else in high school. Nick doubted it but he still remembered that the plum Linda Rawlins, a foot taller and Cosmo beautiful, was Freddy's date to the junior prom. Nick stayed home with TV and the Mets.
"So. What're you up to, man?" Nick asked, sitting down. He gestured to the bartender and ordered a ginger ale.
Freddy was nursing a beer. A lite.
"Consulting." And Freddy laughed. "How's that for a job title? Ha! Really. Sounds like I'm a hit man or some shit. But it's like Shark Tank."
Nick shook his head. No clue.
"A TV show about business start-ups. I hook entrepreneurs up with investors. Small business. I learned Armenian and--"
"You what?"
"Armenian. It's a language."