Jeffery Deaver - The Vanished Man

Sachs always adhered to Rhyme's firm rule that those walking the grid not wear scent because they might miss olfactory evidence at crime scenes. But she was off duty at the moment and he detected on her skin a pleasant, complex smell, which he deduced to be jasmine, gardenia and synthetic motor oil. They were alone in the apartment. They'd shipped Thom off to the movies with his friend Peter and had spent the night with some new CDs, two ounces of sevruga caviar, Ritz crackers, and copious Moet, despite the inherent difficulties in drinking champagne through a straw. Now, in the darkness, he was thinking again about music, about how such a purely mechanical system of tones and pacing could consume you so completely. It fascinated him. The more he thought about it, the more he decided that the subject might not be as mysterious as it seemed. Music was, after all, firmly rooted in his world: science, logic and mathematics.

How would one go about writing a melody? If the physical therapy exercises he was doing now eventually had some effect… could he actually press his fingers on a keyboard? As he was considering this he noticed Sachs looking up at his face in the dim light. "You heard about the sergeant's exam?" she asked.

A hesitation. Then: "Yep," he replied. He'd scrupulously avoided bringing up the matter all night; when Sachs was prepared to discuss something she would. Until then the subject didn't exist.

"You know what happened?" she asked.

"Not all the details. I assume it falls into the category of a quasi-corrupt, self-interested government official versus the overworked heroic crime-scene cop. Something like that?"

A laugh. "Pretty much."

"I've been there myself, Sachs."

The music from the circus kept thudding away, engendering mixed responses. Somehow you felt you should be irritated that it was intruding but you couldn't resist enjoying the beat.

She then asked, "Did Lon talk to you about pulling some strings for me? Making calls to city hall?"

Amelia'll never find out. I'll tell my guy to keep the lid on it…

He chuckled. "He did, yeah. You know Lon."

The music stopped. Then applause filled the night. The faint yet evocative sound of the MC's voice followed.

She said, "I heard he could've made the whole thing go away. Bypassed Ramos."

"Probably. He's got a long reach."

Sachs asked, "And what'd you say about that?"

"What do you think?"

"I'm asking."

Rhyme said, "I said no. I wouldn't let him do it."

"You wouldn't?"

"No. I told him you'd make rank on your own or not at all."

"Goddamn," she muttered.

He looked down at her, momentarily alarmed. Had he misjudged her?

"I'm pissed at Lon for even considering it."

"He meant well."

He believed that her arm around his chest gripped him tighter. "What you told him, Rhyme, that means more to me than anything."

"I know that."

"It could get ugly. Ramos's going for suspension. Twelve months off duty, no pay. I don't know what I'll do."

"You'll consult. With me."

"A civilian can't walk the grid, Rhyme. I have to sit still, I'll go crazy."

When you move they can't getcha…

"We'll get through it."

"Love you," she whispered. His response was to inhale her flowery Quaker State scent and tell her that he loved her too.

"Man, it's too bright." She looked toward the window, filled with glare from the circus spotlights. "Where're the shades?"

"Burned up, remember?"

"I thought Thom got some new ones."

"He started to put them up but he was fussing too much. Measuring and everything. I threw him out and told him to do it later."

Sachs slipped out of bed and found an extra sheet, draped it over the window, cutting out much of the light. She returned to bed, curled up against him and was soon asleep.

But not Lincoln Rhyme. As he lay listening to the music and the cryptic voice of the MC some ideas began to form in his mind and the opportunity for sleep came and went. Soon he was completely awake, lost in his thoughts.

Which were, not surprisingly, about the circus.

• • •

Late the next morning Thom walked into the bedroom to find that Rhyme had a visitor.

"Hi," he said to Jaynene Williams, sitting in one of the new chairs beside his bed.

"Thom." She shook his hand.

The aide, who'd been out shopping, was clearly surprised to see someone there. Thanks to the computer, the environmental control units and CCTV, Rhyme was, of course, perfectly capable of calling someone up, inviting them over and letting them inside when they arrived.

"No need to look so shocked ," Rhyme said caustically. "I have invited people over before, you know."

"Blue moon comes to mind."

"Maybe I'll hire Jaynene here to replace you."

"Why don't you hire her as well as me? With two people here we could share the abuse." He smiled at her. "I wouldn't do that to you, though."

"I've handled worse."

"Are you a coffee lady or a tea lady?"

Rhyme said, "Sorry. Where were my manners? Should've had the pot boiling by now."

"Coffee'll do."

"Scotch for me," Rhyme said. When Thom glanced at the clock, the criminalist added, "A small shot for medicinal purposes."

"Coffee all around," the aide said and disappeared.

After he'd gone Rhyme and Jaynene made small talk about spinal cord injury patients and the exercises he was now pursuing fanatically. Then, impatient as ever, Rhyme decided he'd been the polite host long enough and lowered his voice to say, "There's a problem, something bothering me. I think you can help. I'm hoping you can."

She eyed him cautiously. "Maybe."

"Could you close the door?"

The large woman glanced at it, rose and then did as he asked. She returned to her seat.

"How long have you known Kara?" he asked.

"Kara? Little over a year. Ever since her mother came to Stuyvesant."

"That's an expensive place, isn't it?"

"Painfully," Jaynene said. "Terrible what they charge. But all of the places like ours, the fees're pretty much the same."

"Does her mother have insurance?"

"Medicare is all. Kara pays for most of it herself." She added, "As best she can. She's current now but she's in arrears a lot of the time."

Rhyme nodded slowly. "I'm going to ask you one more question. Think about it before you answer. And I need you to be completely honest."

"Well," the nurse said uncertainly, looking down at the newly varnished floor. "I'll do the best I can."

• • •

That afternoon Roland Bell was in Rhyme's living room. To the soundtrack of some enticing Dave Brubeck jazz piano they were talking about the evidence in the Andrew Constable case.

Charles Grady and the state's attorney general himself had decided to delay the man's trial in order to include additional charges against the bigot – attempted murder of his own lawyer, conspiracy to commit murder and felony murder. It wouldn't be an easy case – linking Constable to Barnes and the other conspirators in the Patriot Assembly – but if anyone could bring in convictions Grady was the man to do it. He was also going for the death penalty against Arthur Loesser for the murder of Patrol Officer Larry Burke, whose body had been found in an alley on the Upper West Side. Lon Sellitto was presently at the officer's full-dress funeral in Queens.

Amelia Sachs now walked through the doorway, looking frazzled after an all-day meeting with lawyers arranged through the Patrolmen's Benevolent Association about her possible suspension. She was supposed to have been back hours ago and, glancing at her face, Rhyme deduced that the results of the session were not good.

He himself had some news – about his meeting with Jaynene and what had happened after that – and had tried to reach her but had been unable to. Now, though, there was no time to brief her because another visitor appeared.