Struggling to her feet, she holstered her weapon and massaged her knee. She limped to the street and conducted a canvass of those on the sidewalk. But no one had paid any attention to light-colored cars, no one had seen a compact man with brown hair and military bearing acting strangely, no one had seen any weapons.
Standing with hands on hips, looking west then east. All was peaceful, all was normal. A typical day on the Upper West Side.
Sachs returned to the cul-de-sac, fighting the limp. Man, that hurt. She collected the Chinese and tossed it into a Dumpster.
In New York City alleyways the five-second rule about dropped food does not apply.
CHAPTER 54
YOU WERE RIGHT, CAPTAIN," Mychal Poitier called from the second-story porch outside Annette Bodel's apartment in Nassau. "The side window has been jimmied. Barry Shales or your unsub broke in here, either before or after he killed her."
Rhyme gazed up, squinting into the brilliant sky. He couldn't see the corporal, just the silhouette of a palm waving lethargically near the roof of the building in which prostitute-student Annette had lived.
This was the other crime scene he'd referred to. He'd known that Annette's killer had to come here to find any information she might have had about him and his visit to South Cove last week. Poitier and his men had been here before--after she was reported missing--but merely to see if she, or her body, was present. The door locks had not been disturbed and the officers hadn't investigated further.
"Probably afterward," Rhyme called. Part of the questions during Annette's torture would have been about address books and computer files that might have referenced him. Diaries too, of course. All of that would be gone but, he hoped, some trace of the unsub remained.
A small cluster of locals, faces tanned and faces black, were nearby, checking out the entourage. Rhyme supposed their words ought to be delivered more discreetly but twenty-five vertical feet separated him from Poitier and so there was no choice but to shout.
"Don't go inside, Corporal. Ron will handle it." He turned. "Rookie, how we doing?"
"Almost ready, Lincoln." He was suiting up in RBPF crime scene coveralls and assembling the basic collection equipment.
Rhyme didn't even consider running this scene himself, though he'd earlier been tempted. There was no elevator in the building and it would be nearly impossible to carry the heavy wheelchair up the narrow rickety stairs. Besides, Pulaski was good. Nearly as good as Amelia Sachs.
The officer now paused in front of Rhyme as if expecting a briefing. But the criminalist offered simply, "It's your scene. You know what to do."
A nod from the young man and up the stairs he trotted.
*
IT TOOK ABOUT AN HOUR for him to walk the grid.
When Pulaski emerged, with a half dozen collection bags, he asked Rhyme and Poitier if they wanted to review the evidence now. Rhyme debated but in the end he decided to take everything back to New York and do the analysis there.
Part of this was the familiarity of working with Mel Cooper.
Part was that he missed Sachs, a fact he wouldn't share with another human being...except her.
"What are our travel options?" he asked Thom.
He checked his phone. "If we can get to the airport in a half hour, we can make the next flight."
Rhyme glanced at the corporal.
"We're twenty minutes at the most," Poitier said.
"Even in the infamous Bahamian traffic?" Rhyme asked wryly.
"I have red lights."
Pulaski headed toward the van, still in coveralls, booties and shower cap.
"Get into street clothes, rookie. I think you'd upset the passengers, dressed like that."
"Oh, right."
The flashing lights did help and soon they were at the terminal. They exited the van and, while Pulaski saw to the luggage and Thom arranged for the vehicle to be collected, Rhyme remained next to Poitier. The area was bustling with tourists and locals, and the air filled with dust and the endless bangs and catcalls of construction. And that constant perfume, trash fire smoke.