'I dunno. First responders scooted as soon as the ME's team declared DCDS.'
Deceased, declared dead at scene. The official pronouncement by the city's medical examiner that got the crime scene clock running and started all kinds of procedures. Once DCDS was called, there was no reason for anybody to remain on the scene; Rhyme insisted that responders get the hell out to avoid contamination. 'Good,' he told Sellitto. He realized he was fully in View of Death Number One mode.
'All right, Sachs. Where are we with the city worker?' A glance at the City Hall report.
'I'd say it's done. Still awaiting customer records about people who bought that brand of knife. But I'm betting the perp didn't use his credit card or fill out a questionnaire about customer service. Not much else to do.'
'Agreed. Okay, Lon, we'll take it. Though I can't help but note you didn't really ask. You just drew a straw on my behalf and stomped slush in here, assuming I'd get on board.'
'What the fuck else'd you be doing, Linc? Cross-country skiing through Central Park?'
Rhyme liked it when people didn't shrink from his condition, when they weren't afraid to make jokes like Sellitto's. He grew furious when people treated him like a broken doll.
There, there, poor you ...
Sellitto said, 'I've called Crime Scene in Queens. There's an RRV en route. They'll let you take the lead, Amelia.'
'On my way.' She pulled on a wool scarf and gloves. She picked another leather jacket from the hook, longer, mid-thigh. In all their years together Rhyme had never seen her wear a full overcoat. Leather jackets or sport, that was about it. Rarely a windbreaker, either, unless she was undercover or on a tac op.
The wind again blasted the ancient windows, rattling the frames, and Rhyme nearly told Sachs to drive carefully - she piloted a classic rear-wheel-drive muscle car that behaved badly on ice - but telling Sachs to be cautious was like telling Rhyme to be patient; it just wasn't going to happen.
'You want help?' Pulaski asked.
Rhyme debated. He asked Sachs, 'You need him?'
'Don't know. Probably not. Single victim, confined area.'
'For the time being, rookie, you'll be our undercover mourner. Stay here. We'll think about your cover story.'
'Sure, Lincoln.'
'I'll call in from the scene,' Sachs said, grabbing the black canvas bag that contained the com unit she used to talk with Rhyme from the field, and hurried out the door. There was a brief howl of wind, then silence after the creak and slam.
Rhyme noticed that Sellitto was rubbing his eyes. His face was gray and he radiated exhaustion.
The detective saw that Rhyme was looking his way. He said, 'That fucking Met case. Not getting any sleep. Who breaks into someplace where you got a billion dollars' worth of art, pokes around and walks out empty-handed? Doesn't make sense.'
Last week at least three very clever perps had broken into the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue after hours. Video cameras were disabled and alarms suspended - no easy matter - but an exhaustive crime scene search had revealed that the perps had spent time in two areas: the antique arms hall of the museum, which was open to the public - a schoolboy's delight, filled with swords, battle-axes, armor and hundreds of other clever devices meant to excise body parts; and the museum's basement archives, storage and restoration areas. They'd left after several hours and remotely reactivated the alarms. The intrusion had been pieced together by computer analysis of the security shutdowns and physical examinations of the rooms after discovering the alarm breaches.
It was almost as if the burglars were like many tourists who visit the museum: They'd seen enough, grown bored and headed for a nearby restaurant or bar.
A complete inventory revealed that while some items in both areas had been moved, the intruders hadn't perped a single painting, collectible or packet of Post-it notes. Crime Scene investigators - Rhyme and Sachs hadn't worked that one - had been overwhelmed by the amount of space to search; the arms and armor displays were bad enough but the network of archives and storage rooms extended underground, far east, well past Fifth Avenue.
The case had been demanding time-wise but Sellitto had admitted that wasn't the worst of it. 'Politics. Fucking politics.' He'd gone on to explain, 'Hizzoner thinks it looks bad his prize jewel got busted into. Which translates: My crew's working overtime and hell with everything else. We've got terror threats in the city, Linc. Code red or orange or whatever color means we're fucked. We got Tony Soprano wannabes. And what'm I doing? I'm looking through every dusty room, at every weird canvas and every naked statue in the basement. I mean, every. You wanna know my feeling about art, Linc?'
'What, Lon?' Rhyme had asked.
'Fuck art. That's my feeling.'
But now the new case - the poison tat artist - had derailed the old, to the detective's apparent relief. 'You got a killer like this, the papers ain't gonna be happy we're spending our time worried about paintings of water lilies and statues of Greek gods with little dicks. You see those statues, Linc? Some of those guys ... Really, you'd think the model'd tell the sculptor to add an inch or two.'
He sat heavily in a chair, sipped more coffee. Still no interest in the pastry.
Rhyme then frowned. 'One thing, Lon?'
'Yeah?'
'When did this tattoo killing happen exactly?'