Jeffery Deaver - The burning wire

"Go on, Rookie."

"I'm leaving."

"The area?"

"The force."

"Ah."

Rhyme had become aware of body language since he'd known Kathryn Dance. He sensed that Pulaski was now delivering lines he'd rehearsed. Many times.

The cop rubbed his hand through his short blond hair. "William Brent."

"Dellray's CI?"

"Right, yessir."

Rhyme thought once more about reminding the young man that he didn't need to use such deferential appellations. But he said only, "Go on, Pulaski."

His face grim, eyes turbulent, Pulaski sat down in the creaking wicker chair near Rhyme's Storm Arrow. "At Galt's place, I was spooked. I panicked. I didn't exercise good judgment. I wasn't aware enough of procedures." As if in summary, he added, "I didn't assess the situation properly and adjust my behavior accordingly."

Like a schoolboy who wasn't sure of the test answers and was rattling them off quickly, hoping one would stick.

"He's out of his coma."

"But he might've died."

"And that's why you're quitting?"

"I made a mistake. It nearly cost somebody his life… I just don't feel I can keep functioning at full capacity."

Jesus, where did he get these lines?

"It was an accident, Rookie."

"And one that shouldn't've happened."

"Are there any other kinds of accidents?"

"You know what I mean, Lincoln. It's not like I haven't thought this through."

"I can prove that you have to stay, that it'd be wrong for you to quit."

"What, say that I'm talented, I have a lot to contribute?" The cop's face was skeptical. He was young but he looked a lot older than when Rhyme had met him. Policing will do that.

So will working with me, Lincoln Rhyme reflected.

"You know why you can't quit? You'd be a hypocrite."

Pulaski blinked.

Rhyme continued, an edge to his voice. "You missed your window of opportunity."

"What's that mean?"

"Okay, you fucked up and somebody was injured badly. But then when it looked like Brent was a perp with outstanding paper, you thought you'd been given a reprieve, right?"

"Well… I guess."

"You suddenly didn't care that you'd hit him. Since he was, what, less than human?"

"No, I just-"

"Let me finish. The minute after you backed into that guy, you had a choice to make: Either you should've decided that the risk of collateral damage and accidents isn't acceptable to you and quit on the spot. Or you should've put the whole thing behind you and learned to live with what happened. It doesn't make any difference if that guy was a serial killer or a deacon at his church. And it's intellectually dishonest for you to whine about it now."

The rookie's eyes narrowed with anger and he was about to offer a defense of some sort, but Rhyme continued, "You made a mistake. You didn't commit a crime… Well, mistakes happen in this business. The problem is that when they do it's not like accounting or making shoes. When we fuck up, there's a chance somebody's going to get killed. But if we stopped and worried about that, we'd never get anything done. We'd be looking over our shoulders all the time and that would mean more people would die because we weren't doing our jobs."

"Easy for you to say," Pulaski snapped angrily.

Good for him, Rhyme thought, but kept his face solemn.

"Have you ever been in a situation like this?" Pulaski muttered.

Of course he had. Rhyme had made mistakes. Dozens, if not hundreds, of them. It was a mistake years ago, one that indeed resulted in the deaths of innocent people, that led to the case that brought Rhyme and Sachs together for the first time. But he didn't want a band-of-brothers argument at the moment. "That's not the point, Pulaski. The point is you've already made your decision. Coming back here with the evidence from Galt's, after you'd run over Brent, you lost the right to quit. So it's a nonissue."

"This is eating me up."

"Well, it's time to tell it-whatever the hell it is-to stop eating. Part of being a cop is putting that wall up."

"Lincoln, you're not listening to me."

"I did listen. I considered your arguments and I rejected them. They're invalid."

"They're valid to me."

"No, they're not. And I'll tell you why." Rhyme hesitated. "Because they're not valid to me… and you and I are a lot alike, Pulaski. I myself hate to goddamn admit it, but it's true."

This brought the young man up short.

"Now, forget all this crap you've been boring me with. I'm glad you're here because I need you to do some follow-up work. At the-"

Pulaski stared at the criminalist and gave a cold laugh. "I'm not doing anything. I'm quitting. I'm not listening to you."

"Well, you're not going to quit now. You can do it in a few days. I need you. The case-your case as much as mine-isn't over with yet. We have to make absolutely sure Logan's convicted. You agree?"

A sigh. "I agree."

"Before McDaniel got removed from command and sent to the cloud zone, or wherever he went, he had his men search Bob Cavanaugh's office. He didn't call us to do it. The Bureau's Evidence Response Team is good-I helped set it up. But we should've walked the grid too. I want you to do that now. Logan was saying there's a cartel involved and I want to make sure every one of them gets nailed."

A resigned grimace. "I'll do it. But that's my last assignment." Shaking his head, the young man stormed from the room.

Lincoln Rhyme struggled to keep the smile from his face as he sought the straw sprouting from his tumbler of whisky.

LINCOLN RHYME WAS now alone.

Ron Pulaski was walking the grid at Algonquin Consolidated. Mel Cooper and Lon Sellitto were back in their respective homes. Roland Bell had reported that Richard Logan was tucked away safely in a special high-security wing of downtown detention.

Amelia Sachs had been downtown too, helping with the paperwork, but was now back in Brooklyn. Rhyme hoped she might be taking a little time to herself, maybe to sneak a drive in her Cobra Torino. She occasionally took Pammy out on the road. The girl reported that the drives were "untotallybelievable," which he interpreted as meaning "exhilarating."

He knew, though, that the girl was never in any danger. Unlike when Sachs was by herself, she knew the right moment to pull back when her nature tried to assert itself.

Thom was out too, with his partner, a reporter for The New York Times. He'd wanted to stay at home and keep an eye on his boss, watching for horrific side effects from the dysreflexia attack or for who knew what? But the criminalist had insisted he go out for the night.

"You've got a curfew," he'd snapped. "Midnight."

"Lincoln, I'll be back before-"

"No. You'll be back after midnight. It's a negative curfew."

"That's crazy. I'm not leaving-"

"I'll fucking fire you if you come back before then."

The aide examined him carefully and said, "Okay. Thanks."

Rhyme had no patience for the gratitude and proceeded to ignore the aide as he busied himself on the computer, organizing the lists of evidence that would be turned over to the prosecutor for the trial, at the end of which the Watchmaker would go to jail for an impressive assortment of crimes, including capital murder. He would surely be convicted but New York, unlike California and Texas, treated the death penalty like an embarrassing birthmark in the middle of its forehead. As he'd told Rodolfo Luna, he doubted the man would die.

Other jurisdictions would be vying for him too. But he'd been caught in New York; they'd have to wait in line.

Rhyme secretly was not troubled by a life sentence. Had Logan been killed during the confrontation here-say, going after a gun to hurt Sachs or Sellitto-that would have been a fair end, an honest end. That Rhyme had captured him and that he'd spend the rest of his life in prison was justice enough. Lethal injection seemed cheap. Insulting. And Rhyme wouldn't want to be part of the case that sent the man on that final stroll to the gurney.