The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

She pulled off her lab jacket, swapped it for her sport coat, the dark-gray one, cut to accommodate both her figure and her Glock 17. A tricky job of tailoring, Rhyme had always thought.

Her voice contained a shrug, as she said, "Not the worst timing, I guess. Gives me a chance to take better care of Mom over the next couple of weeks. Maybe it's a blessing."

But it wasn't, of course. And Rhyme could easily see she didn't feel that way at all. She was facing an empty, and edgy, quarter year and mad as hell about it. He was certain of this because it was how he would have felt under these circumstances. Working is what we're made for--dogs, horses, humans. Take that away and we're diminished, sometimes irreversibly.

"I have to get her to the hospital now." She strode out and left the town house.

Rhyme heard the front door shut and not long after that the big engine of her Torino fire up. He wasn't surprised that the acceleration was modest. For Amelia Sachs, unleashing her vehicle's horses was done only out of joy, never anger.

CHAPTER 62

At first Lincoln Rhyme didn't recognize the man who stepped into his parlor.

He glanced at Thom, irritated. Why no warning that a stranger had arrived?

But in a few seconds he realized: This was Evers Whitmore, Esq., the stiff, understated attorney with the precise handwriting and more precise mannerisms.

The reason for the missed identification was that the man was incognito: wearing gray wool slacks, a blue plaid shirt sans tie, and a green sweater (he should have tipped immediately; the sweater was a cardigan, all three buttons done in the best style of a 1950s sitcom father, patiently enduring his children's mischievous but benign antics). On the man's head was a Titleist golf cap, bright green and yellow.

"Mr. Rhyme."

"Mr. Whitmore." Rhyme had, as he put it to himself, given up on given names.

The lawyer was aware of Rhyme's scan of his outfit. "I'm coaching a soccer game in an hour. My sons."

"Oh, you have a family. I didn't know."

"I choose not to wear my wedding ring most of the time because it tends to give away a fact about me to opposing counsel. I myself would not use another attorney's personal information tactically but there are some who don't feel the same. As I'm sure will be no surprise to you."

"You said sons?"

"I also have daughters. Three of each."

Well.

"The boys are triplets, and they're all on the same soccer team. It tends to confound the opponents." A smile. Was this his first? In any event, it was small and brief.

Whitmore looked around. "And Detective Sachs?"

"At the hospital. Her mother's having surgery. Bypass."

"My. Any word?"

Rhyme shook his head. "But she's a feisty one. If that's indicative of a good prognosis."

The literal-minded attorney didn't seem to comprehend. "When you talk to Detective Sachs, wish her my best. And to her mother, as well."

"I will."

"I understand that you had a run-in with the suspect. A firsthand run-in."

"That's right. I wasn't injured. Juliette Archer was, but it's not serious."

Without unbuttoning his sweater, the man sat pristinely in a chair and hoisted his briefcase to his lap. A double click of the spring clasps and then he lifted the lid.

"I'm afraid I have bad news. I'm sorry to report that I've had my investigator take a thorough look at the finances of both Alicia Morgan and Vernon Griffith. She had a savings account worth about forty thousand dollars and he had about one hundred and fifty-seven thousand in assets, plus a retirement plan--but that's protected against creditors."

"So a total of about two hundred thousand."