"Thank you!" Rhyme called to the aide's receding back.
Stepping back and eyeing the intern's face, the EMT said to Archer, "Mostly superficial. Dizzy?"
She rose from the rattan chair where she'd been sitting and paced up and down the parlor. "A little but not any worse than what I usually have." She returned and lowered herself into her Storm Arrow wheelchair. Then she restrapped her left arm to the rest of the chair by herself.
The tech said, "Okay. Stable. Good. You'r
e moving pretty good there. Got to say." He regarded the power chair. He was understandably confused.
Neither Rhyme nor Archer explained to the man how she had come to use as her sole means of conveyance a wheelchair rigged for someone who was a full quad when she in fact was not. Not yet, in any event. As she'd explained to Rhyme after class the first week--and to Thom when she'd started her internship here--she was only partially disabled at this point. Yes, there was a tumor embracing her spinal cord. But the consequences of the condition were not complete debilitation. However, she had decided to prepare for the day when, after her surgery, she would most likely be rendered a full quad.
Thom had indeed played the role of caregiver, but only up to a point; she returned to the non-disabled world for bathroom detail at home and at Rhyme's, and she would dress herself. Rhyme had noted too that her golden bracelet, with the runic characters, might appear on one arm in the morning and the other in the afternoon; she would swap the accessory from time to time if it was irritating her skin. The jewelry had been a present from her son and, accordingly, she insisted on wearing it constantly.
The only other time she had forsaken the playacting was, of course, just moments ago to rise to her unsteady feet and save Rhyme's and her own life.
After the EMT signed off and left, she piloted closer to Rhyme.
"You didn't miss a beat," he said, of her performance. When he'd mentioned to Alicia Morgan that Archer's condition was worse than his and suggested she should get some rest, she'd deduced immediately that something was wrong regarding their visitor--since, of course, she had no condition, at least not one as grave as Rhyme had suggested.
Archer nodded. "I was going to call the police as soon as I was out of the parlor."
Rhyme sighed. "I didn't think she'd tackle you. I knew she was here to kill me--and anyone else--but I thought we could buy some time."
Archer added, "I saw where Amelia keeps that gun on your shelf, but I don't really know how to use one. And, with the tumor, my hands aren't very steady."
"And you don't need to cock a lamp or make sure it's loaded," Rhyme conceded.
Archer said, "But we still have one more perp."
"You like that word, don't you?"
"Nice feel to it. Perp." Archer added, "Alicia said she didn't know where Griffith is. He was going to contact her. I suppose we could monitor her cell."
Rhyme shook his head. "He'll use a burner phone. And in a few hours he'll know she was busted. He'll go to ground."
"So where do we look to find him?"
"Where else?" Rhyme asked, nodding toward the evidence boards.
The answer is there...
CHAPTER 55
He wasn't going to propose.
Nick Carelli was tempted to, felt that draw, that urge within. Just say it, fast. And, if Ame said no, which of course she would, back off.
But he'd keep at it. If it took a long time then it would take a long time. One way or the other he'd ease his way back into Amelia's heart.
Thinking of Freddy's words:
Find a lady, Nick. Man needs a woman in his life.
Oh, I'm working on that...
Nick was heading home, walking down the tree-lined sidewalk in BK, his gym bag over his shoulder. Odd, but he was pretty close to whistling. He didn't; actually he didn't know many people who whistled (though when he was inside he read in the papers about a case Amelia had run in which a professional killer was an accomplished whistler).
The bag contained a small painting, wrapped in gold gift paper. It was a landscape, no, a cityscape it was called, since it showed the Brooklyn Bridge with the early-morning sun making the metal glow and casting shadows toward Manhattan. The artwork, which he'd found in a small gallery on Henry Street, was similar to a painting Amelia had liked when they'd been together. It had been in a Manhattan gallery and they'd discovered it on a cold Sunday after brunch. That one, on the pure-white wall of the pretentious space (SoHo; enough said), was expensive as shit. No way could he afford it. He'd thought about blustering his way into the gallery around closing time, flashing his shield and claiming he had to take it into evidence on suspicion of its being stolen. It would then "disappear" from the evidence room, and it'd be sorry, sorry, to the gallery owner. But Nick couldn't figure out a way to make it work.