Jeffery Deaver: The Burial Hour

‘Could it be that there’s a practical reason you want to go to Greenland, a professional reason? A useful reason?’

Rhyme glanced at the single-malt scotch bottle sitting just out of reach. He was largely paralyzed, yes. But surgery and daily exercise had returned to him some ability to move his right arm and hand. Fate had helped too. The beam that had tumbled upon his neck from a crime scene many years ago and severed and crushed many nerves had left a few outlying strands intact, if injured and confused. He could grasp objects — like single-malt scotch bottles, to pick a random example — but he could not rise from his complex wheelchair to fetch them if Thom, playing nursemaid, kept them out of goddamn reach.

‘Not cocktail hour yet,’ the aide announced, noting the arc of his boss’s vision. ‘So, Greenland? ’Fess up.’

‘It’s underrated. Named “Greenland” while much of it’s barren. Not the least verdant. Compare Iceland. Quite green. I like the irony.’

‘You’re not answering.’

Rhyme sighed. He disliked being transparent and hugely disliked being caught being transparent. He would appeal to truth. ‘It seems that the Rigspolitiet, the Danish police, have been doing rather important research into a new system of horticultural spectrographic analysis in Greenland. A lab in Nuuk. That’s the capital, by the way. You can situate a sample in a much narrower geographic area than with standard systems.’ Rhyme’s brows rose involuntarily. ‘Nearly the cellular level. Imagine! We think all plants are the same—’

‘Not a sin of mine.’

Rhyme groused, ‘You know what I mean. This new technique can narrow down a target area to three meters!’ He repeated, ‘Imagine.’

‘I’m trying to. Greenland — no. And has Amelia actually deferred to you?’

‘She will. When I tell her about the spectrograph.’

‘How about England? She’d love that. Is that show on still, the one she likes? Top Gear ? I think the original is off the air but I heard there’s a new version. She’d be great on it. They let people go out on the racetrack. She’s always talking about driving a hundred and eighty miles an hour on the wrong side of the road.’

‘England?’ Rhyme mocked. ‘You’ve just lost your argument. Greenland and England offer the same degree of romance.’

‘You’ll find some disagreement there.’

‘Not from the Greenlanders.’

Lincoln Rhyme did not travel much. The practical consequences of his disability added a layer of complication to journeys but physically, his doctors reported, there was no reason not to hit the road. His lungs were fine — he’d weaned himself off a ventilator years ago, the chest scar present but not prominent — and as long as such matters as the piss ’n’ shit details — his words — and low-chafing clothing were attended to, there was little chance of being afflicted by the quad’s bane: autonomic dysreflexia. A good portion of the world was disabled-accessible now — with most enterprises, from restaurants to bars to museums, offering ramps and special restrooms. (Rhyme and Sachs had shared a smile when Thom pointed out an article in the paper about a school that had recently installed a disabled ramp and bathroom; the place taught only one thing: tap dancing.)

No, much of Rhyme’s reluctance to travel and his reclusiveness were simply because he was, well, a recluse. By nature. Working in his laboratory — the parlor here, filled with equipment — and teaching and writing for scientific journals appealed to him far more than tired sights polished for tourists.

But, given what was on his and Sachs’s agenda in the next few weeks, a trip outside Manhattan was necessary; even he admitted that one could not honeymoon in one’s own hometown.

Plans for trips to labs specializing in horticultural spectrometry, or locales of wooing romance, were, though, put on hold for the moment; the door buzzer sounded. Rhyme glanced at the security video and thought: Well.

Thom rose and returned a moment later with a middle-aged man in a camel-tan suit, which he might have slept in, though he probably hadn’t. He moved slowly but with little hesitation, and Rhyme thought that pretty soon he’d be able to discard the cane, which was, however, a pretty nifty accessory. Black with a silver head in the shape of an eagle.

The man looked around the lab. ‘Quiet.’

‘Is. A few small private jobs recently. Nothing fun. Nothing exciting. Nothing since the Steel Kiss killer.’ A recent perpetrator had taken to sabotaging household items and public conveyances — with tragic and occasionally gruesome results.

NYPD detective Lon Sellitto, in the Major Cases Division, had been Rhyme’s partner — before Rhyme had moved up to captain and taken over the Crime Scene Unit. Nowadays Sellitto would occasionally hire Rhyme to consult on cases in which special forensic expertise was needed.

‘What’re you looking at? Tan is all I had.’ Sellitto waved toward his suit.

‘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?’