She spoke with the officer and sent him to run the scene at Heatherly's. Rhyme didn't hold out many hopes of getting any evidence from the theft. Still, the j's needed to be dotted.
'Thom,' Rhyme said, 'before we go to visit Lon, I'll have one for the road - a double, if you please.'
He braced for defense. But, for some reason, the aide didn't object to the consumption of fine, aged - and poison-free - single-malt whisky. Perhaps he was sympathetic to the fact that, while the criminalist had prevented a terrorist attack, the Watchmaker had slipped away. And Rhyme would probably lose a slick thirty grand in the process.
A glass appeared in the cup holder.
Rhyme sipped the smoky liquor. Good, good.
He sent and answered several emails, to and from tattoo artist TT Gordon, whom Rhyme had taken a liking to. The man was coming over to hang out with the dude in a wheelchair next week. They'd talk about grammar and Samoan culture and life in hipster New York. And who knew what other topics, and projects, might arise?
Mt. Everest and falcons perhaps.
He cocked his head. A crunch of feet on the ice outside. Then a click, the front-door lock, more footsteps.
Rhyme took another sip. The sound told the story. Sachs, however, didn't interpret the sonic evidence and remained wary ... until Pam Willoughby turned the corner and paused in the archway.
'Hey.' The teen nodded to everyone, unwrapping an impressive scarf from her neck. The day was wind-and sleet-free but must've been cold. Her pretty nose was pink and her shoulders hunched.
Amelia Sachs's shoulders, on the other hand, sagged but she managed a smile. She'd be recalling that Pam was going to borrow her foster father's car to pick up the last of her possessions in the bedroom upstairs.
Silence for a moment. Sachs seemed to take a deep breath. 'How's it going?'
'Okay. Good. Play opens officially next week. Busy. Victorian costumes. They weigh a ton. The dresses.'
Small talk. Pointless talk.
Silence. Sachs said, 'I'll help you get your things.' Nodding toward the stairs.
Pam glanced around the parlor, avoiding eyes. 'Well, actually, I mean, do you think it'd be okay if I moved back? Just for a while, till I can find someplace new? Didn't really want to go back to my place in the Heights. Just, you know, everything that happened there. And the Olivettis - they're great. Only.' She looked at the floor. Then up. 'Would that be okay?'
Sachs strode forward and hugged her hard. 'That's a question you never need to ask.'
Thom said, 'You've got some things outside to bring in?'
'In the car. Yeah, I could use some help, sure.'
Thom suited up, donning his own scarf and a faux-fur Russian Cossack hat. He followed Pam out to the car.
Sachs pulled on her coat and gloves and followed. She got as far as the arched doorway separating the parlor from the hall. She turned to Rhyme. 'Wait a minute.'
'Wait?' he asked.
She walked closer, tilted her head as if she were gazing at a gangbanger she'd just collared, and looked down. In a soft voice: 'Thom changed the locks last week. After Billy broke in.'
Rhyme shrugged. A sip of single malt. 'Uhm.'
'Well?'
'Well what?' he muttered.
'Pam didn't knock just now. She let herself in. That means she had one of the new keys.'
'New keys?'
'Why are you repeating what I say? How did Pam get a new key? She hasn't been here for over a week.'
'Hm. I don't know. That's a mystery.'