The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

Pulaski nodded. "So you wouldn't've been responsible for an innocent man's death; you'd've put a dangerous perp away. And if I could show you that, then you'd give up this bullshit about retirement. Which it really is, Lincoln."

Rhyme exhaled a faint laugh. "Well, quite the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Rookie. And what's the answer?"

"My brother and I tracked down O'Denne. East BK."

A raised eyebrow.

"He's a priest, Lincoln."

"A..."

"Father Francis Xavier O'Denne. He runs a storefront clinic in Brownsville. The drug he was connected with?" He shook his head with a grim smile. "A new form of methadone to treat addicts. And it's not called 'Catch.' That's the name of Father O'Denne's clinic. Community Action Treatment Center for Hope." Pulaski sighed. "And Baxter? He was one of the main benefactors of the place."

So the gun was Baxter's father's, a souvenir from one of the milestones in the man's life. And the gunshot residue came from a stray twenty-dollar bill, the drugs from that or another bill. The oil from the sporting goods store where he'd bought his son the last present he would ever buy for the boy.

"And, I guess I'll tell you everything, Lincoln. The center may have to close, if Father O'Denne can't find somebody else to back it."

"So, I'm responsible not only for an innocent man's death but for preventing how many people from getting off the street and into productive lives?"

"Shit. I just wanted to help, Lincoln. Get you back on the job. But... well, that's what I found."

That's the thing about science; you can't ignore the facts.

Rhyme turned his chair and looked again at the tiny pieces of furniture that Vernon Griffith had so carefully and perfectly created.

"Anyway," Pulaski said. "I understand now."

"Understand what?"

"Why you're doing this. Retiring. If I'd fucked up, I'd probably do the same thing. Back out. Quit the force. Take up something else."

Rhyme kept his eyes on Vernon Griffith's miniatures. He said in a gusty voice, "Bad choice."

"I... What?"

"Quitting because of a screw-up--a thoroughly bad idea."

Pulaski's bows narrowed. "Okay, Lincoln. I don't get it. What're you saying?"

"You know who I was talking to an hour ago?"

"No clue."

"Lon Sellitto. I was asking him if there were any cases he needed some help on."

"Cases? Criminal?"

"Last time I looked he wasn't a social worker, Rookie. Of course criminal." He wheeled around to face the young officer.

"Well, I hope you can understand why I'm a little confused."

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of narrow minds."

"I like Emerson too, Lincoln. And I think it was 'little minds.'"

Was it? Probably. Rhyme nodded in concession.

"But that still doesn't explain why."