The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

"No."

"Good call."

The detective arrived in the doorway, a solid Latina whom Sachs had known for years. Rita Sanchez. The woman nodded to Sachs.

"Rita. Get him downtown. I'll be there soon to handle the paperwork. Call the U.S. attorney too."

The woman stared coolly at Nick. She knew the story of their relationship. "Sure, Amelia. I'll handle it." Her tone was saying: Jesus, I'm sorry, honey.

"Amelia!" Nick was pausing at the door, Sanchez and the uniform slowing. "I'm... I'm sorry."

What's the worst evil?

She looked past him, to the detective, and nodded. Nick was led from the apartment.

"Whatsis?" Fred Dellray asked, nodding at the gym bag Nick had with him.

Sachs unzipped it and extracted a painting. Well. Took a deep breath. The canvas was similar to one that she'd admired years ago. One she'd wanted so very badly but hadn't been able to afford. Remembered the freezing cold Sunday they'd seen it in the SoHo gallery, after brunch on Broome and West Broadway. Remembered the night, back in their apartment, snow tapping on the window, the radiator clicking, lying beside Nick, thinking about the painting. Sorry she couldn't buy it but much, much happier she was a cop than someone with a more lucrative job who could've plunked down the Visa and bought the canvas on the spot.

"I don't know," she said, replacing the painting in the bag. "No idea."

And, turning away, she wiped one small tear from the corner of her right eye and sat down to write up the rest of the report.

CHAPTER 57

Ah, Amelia," Thom said as she walked into the parlor. "Wine?"

"Gotta work."

"You sure?"

"Yes." She noted that both Rhyme and Archer had whiskies in their cup holders. "I mean, no. I mean, yes, I'll take one."

The aide returned a moment later. He glanced at the bottle of scotch nearby. "Wait."

"Wait," Rhyme said, attempting to preempt. "What does that mean? I hate it when people say that. 'Wait.' Wait what? Stop moving? Stop breathing? Stop their mental processes?"

"Okay, what 'wait' means is that somebody has done something unacceptable, something of which I am only now aware and about which I am lodging a protest. You raided the booze."

Archer laughed. "He commanded me to stand up, walk over there and pour some. No, Lincoln, I'm not taking the fall for you. I'm just a lowly intern, remember?"

Rhyme grumbled, "If you'd given me a decent amount to begin with, there would've been no issue."

Thom snagged the bottle and left the parlor.

"Wait!" Rhyme called. "And that's the proper use of the word."

Sachs gave a smile at the exchange and returned to the evidence, pacing as she looked over the packets and regarded the charts. She did this often, the pacing, to bleed off energy. When he was capable of it, Lincoln Rhyme used to do exactly the same when considering an intractable problem with a case.

The doorbell sounded and Rhyme heard Thom's footsteps zip to the door. The nearly subaudible greeting of the visitor explained to Rhyme who had come a-calling.

"Time to get to work," Rhyme said.

Sachs nodded to Mel Cooper, who walked into the parlor shucking his jacket. He'd heard about Alicia Morgan, and Rhyme now explained about her contamination of the evidence. The tech shrugged. "We've been up against worse." He looked over the evidence from Griffith's and Morgan's apartments. "Yes, yes. We'll find some answers in here."

Rhyme was pleased to see Cooper's eyes shine with the intensity of a prospector spotting a thumb-sized nugget.

Sachs was digging latex gloves from her pocket when her phone dinged. An incoming text.