Lincoln Rhyme suspected the answer was this: If you tallied up all the reasons for not pursuing what you know in your heart you're meant to pursue, you'd be absolutely--he relished the word--paralyzed. Which simply meant that you had to ignore every voice within clamoring for you to quit, to retire, to hesitate or pause or question, whether it was a clue that stymied you or exhaustion tempting you to rest or the stunner that a man lay dead in a grave that you had thoughtlessly dug for him.
But he said, "I don't have a clue, Rookie. None at all. But there it is. So go clear your calendar. I'll need you in early tomorrow morning. You and Amelia. We've got to finish up the Unsub Forty case and then see what else Lon has on the--forgive me--front burner."
"Sure, Lincoln. Good."
As he headed out the door, Pulaski was blushing and the look on his face was best described as beaming.
Which was a form of expression that Rhyme believed no one should ever succumb to.
MONDAY VII
PLAN A
CHAPTER 61
The door buzzer sounded and Rhyme glanced at the screen. Lon Sellitto and his cane.
Thom walked to the entry hall and let the detective in. He noted that Sellitto stayed on course toward Rhyme, not diverting to the tray of cookies that Thom had made earlier, the air still redolent of hot butter and cinnamon. But the glance toward the pastry revealed regret; maybe he'd gained a pound or two in the past few days and the old Lon Sellitto--Let the Dieting Begin--was back.
"Hey." A nod to Thom, then moving stiffly to the chair, the shoes tapping, the cane silent on its worn rubber tip. "Linc, Amelia."
Sachs nodded. She'd come here to drop off the evidence from the early part of the Unsub 40 case--what had been stored in Queens. She'd been concerned that, like the White Castle napkins, some of it might go missing. So she had personally collected the evidence early this morning and delivered it to Rhyme's.
Her stay here wouldn't be long; she was taking Rose to the hospital for her surgery in a few hours.
"Nothing?" Thom asked the detective. "Coffee?"
"Nup." Looking up, avoiding their eyes.
Hm. Rhyme scanned the man's face. Something was up.
"That escalator. You oughta leave it, Linc. Good conversation starter."
And good conversation deflector, Rhyme thought. He was impatient. There was evidence to organize. He was meeting with the prosecutor in the cases against Griffith and Morgan, and Mel Cooper would be arriving soon.
"What's up, Lon?"
"Okay, gotta tell you."
Rhyme looked toward him. But Sellitto's eyes were on Sachs.
She finished assembling the evidence and then peeled off the tight latex gloves. Blew on her fingers. For years Rhyme had not experienced the relief that a small act like that brought, after hours of being gloved, but he remembered the sensation clearly.
"Go ahead, Lon." Amelia Sachs wanted her news straight and fast--bad news, at least. He reflected that she never seemed to have much use for the good.
"You've been suspended."
"What?"
"The fuck is this about?" Rhyme snapped.
"A problem at One PP."
Sachs was closing her eyes. "I leaked the story, right? About the smart controllers? And didn't tell the brass. But I had to, Lon."
Rhyme said, "This is bullshit. She probably saved lives. Companies shut down their servers and Griffith wasn't able to hack in."
Sellitto's doughy face registered confusion. "What're you talking about?"