The Burial Hour (Lincoln Rhyme 13)

"Daydreaming," Rhyme said. "I wasn't looking at anything."

Not true, but he hadn't been regarding either the curious color of or the savage wrinkles in the suit. He was noting, with satisfaction, that Sellitto was recovering well following the attack on him by poison, which had caused major nerve and muscle damage--hence, the cane. While the detective was always fighting his weight, Rhyme thought he looked better on the portly side, like now. The sight of a gaunt, gray Lon Sellitto had been alarming.

"Where's Amelia?" Sellitto asked.

"In court. Testifying in the Gordon case. On the calendar first thing. Should be over with soon. Then she was going shopping. For our trip."

"Buying herself a trousseau? What is that anyway?"

Rhyme had no idea. "Something about weddings, clothing. I don't know. But she's got a dress already. Something frilly. Blue. Or maybe pink. Today she's shopping for me. What's so goddamn funny, Lon?"

"Picturing you in a tuxedo."

"Just sweats and a shirt. Maybe a tie. I don't know."

"Tie? And you didn't complain?"

True, Rhyme had little patience for what he considered affectation. But this occasion was different. For all her edge and edginess and her need of speed and blunt firearms, her passion for tactical solutions, Sachs had a splinter of teen girl within her and she was enjoying the game of wedding planning. This included shopping for a whatever-the-hell-it-was trousseau and a romantic honeymoon, and if that pleased her, by God, Rhyme was more than happy to accommodate.

Though he really hoped he could convince her about Greenland.

"Well, tell her to shop later. I need her to run a scene. We've got a situation."

A ping resounded within Rhyme the way a submarine's sonar detects something unexpected off the port bow.

He texted Sachs and received no response. "Maybe on the stand, testifying. Tell me more."

Thom appeared in the doorway--Rhyme hadn't realized he'd left. The aide said, "Lon, coffee? Cookies? I've been baking. I've got a couple of different kinds. One is--"

"Yes, yes, yes." It was Rhyme answering. "Bring him something. Make a decision yourself. I want to hear his story."

Situation...

"Proceed," he told Sellitto.

"Anything chocolate," Sellitto called to Thom's back.

"Easily arranged."

"Kidnapping, Linc. Upper East Side. Apparently one adult male snatched another."

"Apparently? What requires interpretation?"

"The only wit was nine years old."

"Ah."

"Perp grabs vic, tosses him into a car trunk. Takes off."

"The girl is sure about this? Not a figment of her overactive little imagination, stoked by watching too much television, ruining her thumbs on video games, reading too many Hello Pony stories?"

"Hello Kitty. Ponies are a different book."

"Did Mommy or Daddy confirm?"

"Morgynn, the girl, was the only one who saw. But I think it's legit. She found a calling card he'd left behind." Sellitto held up his phone and displayed a photo.

At first Rhyme couldn't make out the image. It was a picture of a dark shape, thin, lying on a sidewalk.