'You have to spend money to make money,' Weller said.
So, he was being asked to invest. Cash. Good. Much better than having to bring them the head of a rival drug dealer to prove his loyalty.
'That's not a problem,' Pulaski said dismissively, as if he could jump in his private jet, fly to Switzerland and pluck stacks of hundreds from his private bank.
'What would you be willing to cough up?'
This was a stumper. It was tough to get buy-money for sting operations. The brass knew there was always a chance of losing it. But he had no idea what the limits were. What would they do on Blue Bloods? He shrugged. 'A hundred K.'
Weller nodded. 'That's a good figure.'
And it was then that Pulaski thought: How did he know I'd come this way? There were three or four possible approaches to the hotel. And, hell, for that matter, how did he know I'd be on foot and not take a cab or drive? Earlier Weller had referred to parking in front of the Huntington Arms.
One answer was that Weller, or somebody, had been following Pulaski.
And there was only one reason for that. To set him up. Maybe he'd seen him come out of Rhyme's and looked up the owner of the townhouse.
And here I am without a fucking wire and two blocks from the backup team and a gun on my ankle, a thousand miles away.
'So. Glad this is moving along. Let me see about that money and--'
But Weller wasn't listening. His eyes flickered past Pulaski, who spun around.
Two unsmiling men in leather jackets approached. One with shaggy hair, one with a shaved head.
When they noted Pulaski's gaze, they drew pistols and lunged.
The young officer turned and started to sprint. He made it all of two yards before the third killer stepped out from behind the truck where he'd been waiting, wrapped his massive arm around the patrolman's throat and slammed the officer against the window of the pet shop.
Weller stepped back. The hit man touched the gun muzzle to Pulaski's temple while, inside the store, a colorful toucan in a flamboyant Polynesian cage ruffled its feathers and watched with scant interest the goings-on outside.
CHAPTER 54
Rhyme phoned Rachel Parker and happened to get Lon Sellitto's son.
The young man had come to town from upstate New York, where he was working after graduating from SUNY in Albany. Rhyme remembered the boy as being quiet and pleasant enough, though he'd had some anger issues and mood problems - common among the children of law enforcers. But that was years ago and now he seemed mature and steady. In a voice missing any of Lon's Brooklyn twang, Richard Sellitto told Rhyme that his father's condition was largely unchanged. He was still categorized as critical. Rhyme was pleased that the young man was doing everything he could to support Rachel and Sellitto's ex, Richard's mother.
After he disconnected, Rhyme gave Cooper the update - which was really no update at all. He reflected that this was one of the most horrific aspects of poisoning: The substance wormed its way into your cells, destroying delicate tissues for days and weeks afterward. Bullets could be removed and wounds stitched. But poisons hid, residing, and killed at their leisure.
Rhyme now returned to the chart containing the pictures of the tattoos.
What on earth are you trying to say? he wondered yet again.
A puzzle, a quotation, a code? He kept returning to the theory that the clues referred to a location. But where?
His phone buzzed once more. He frowned looking at the caller ID. He didn't recognize it.
He answered. 'Rhyme here.'
'Lincoln.'
'Rookie? Is that you? What's wrong?'
'Yes, I--'
'Where the hell have you been? The team's at the hotel, where you're meeting Weller. Or were supposed to be meeting. They've been in place for an hour. You never showed up.' He added sternly, 'We were, you can imagine, a little concerned.'
'There was a problem.'