Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

Sachs walked quickly to the town house and let herself in. Bypassing the parlor, where Nance Laurel was still typing away, exactly as the detective had left her hours ago, she walked into Rhyme’s rehab room—one of the bedrooms on the first floor—where he was working out.

With Thom nearby as a spotter, Rhyme was in a sitting position, strapped into an elaborate stationary bicycle, a functional electrical stimulation model. The unit sent electrical impulses into his muscles via wires to mimic brain signals and made his legs operate the pedals. He was presently pumping away like a Tour de France competitor.

She smiled and kissed him.

“I’m sweaty,” he announced.

He was.

She kissed him again, longer this time.

Although the FES workout would not cure his quadriplegia it kept the muscles and vascular system in shape and improved the condition of his skin, which was important to avoid sores that were common among those with severe disabilities. As Rhyme often announced, sometimes for pure shock value, “Gimps spend a lot of time on their asses.”

The exercise had also enhanced nerve functioning.

This was the aerobic portion of his exercise. The other part involved building up the muscles in his neck and shoulders; it was these elements of his body that would largely control the movement of his left hand and arm, as they now did his right, after his surgery in several weeks, if all went well.

Sachs wished she hadn’t thought that last clause.

“Anything?” he called, breathing heavily.

She gave him a rundown of the chauffeur trip, explaining about Moreno’s close childhood friend dying at the hands of the American invaders in Panama.

“Grudges can run deep.” But he wasn’t interested in what he would consider the mumbo-jumbo of the man’s psyche; Rhyme never was. More interesting was what she’d learned about Lydia, the closed bank accounts, the mysterious meeting, Moreno’s planned self-imposed exile from the United States—his vanishing into “thin air”—and some possible connection with explosions in Mexico City on May 13.

“Fred’s going to keep digging. Any luck in the Bahamas?”

“Crap all,” he snapped, panting. “I don’t know whether it’s incompetence or politics—probably both—but I’ve called back three times and ended up on hold again until I hang up. That’s seven times today. I truly resent hold. I was going to call our embassy there or consulate or whatever they have to intervene. But Nance didn’t think that was a good idea.”

“Why? Word would get back to NIOS?”

“Yeah. I can’t disagree, I suppose. She’s sure evidence is going to start disappearing the minute they find out. The problem is…” He drew a deep breath and with his functioning right hand turned the speed of the bike up a bit higher. “…there is no goddamn evidence.”

Thom said, “Slow down a bit there.”

“What, my diatribe, or my exercise? That’s rather poetic, don’t you think?”

“Lincoln.”

The criminalist gave it a defiant thirty seconds more and lowered the speed. “Three miles,” he announced. “Somewhat uphill.”

Sachs took a cloth and wiped a bit of sweat that ran down his temple. “I think somebody might’ve already found out about the investigation.”

He turned those dark, radar eyes her way.

She told him about the car she thought might have been tailing her.

“So our sniper has found out about us already? Any ID?”

“No. Either he was real good, or my imagination was working overtime.”

“I don’t think we can be too paranoid in this case, Sachs. You should tell our friend in the parlor. And have you told her that Saint Moreno might not be so saintly?”

“Not yet.”

She found Rhyme looking at her with a particular expression.

“And that means what?” she asked.

“Why don’t you like her?”

“Oil and water.”

Rhyme chuckled. “The hydrophobia myth! They do mix, Sachs. Simply remove gases from the water and it will blend perfectly well with the oil.”

“I should know not to offer a cliché to a scientist.”

“Especially when it doesn’t answer his question.”

It was a thick five seconds before she answered. “I don’t know why I don’t like her. I’m no good with being micromanaged, for one thing. She leaves you alone. Maybe it’s a woman thing.”

“I have no opinion on the subject.”

Digging into her scalp, she sighed. “I’ll go tell her now.”

She walked to the door and paused, looking back at Rhyme hard at work on the bicycle.

Sachs had mixed feelings about his plans for the forthcoming surgery. The operation was risky. Quads start with a hampered physiological system to begin with; an operation could lead to severe complications that wouldn’t be an issue with the non-disabled.

Yes, she certainly wanted her partner to feel good about himself. But didn’t he know the truth—that he, like everyone else, was mind and heart first, before he was body? That our physical incarnations always disappoint in one way or another? So he got stared at on the street. He wasn’t the only one; when she was perused, it was usually by an observer who was a lot creepier than in his case.

She thought now of those days as a fashion model, marginalized because of her good looks and height and flowing red hair. She’d grown angry—even hurt—at being treated like nothing more than a pricey collectible. She’d risked the wrath of her mother to leave the profession and join the NYPD, following in her father’s footsteps.

What you believed, what you knew, how you made choices, when you stood your ground…those were the qualities that defined you as a cop. Not what you looked like.

Of course, Lincoln Rhyme was severely disabled. Who in his condition wouldn’t want to be better, to grasp with both hands, to walk? But she sometimes wondered if he was undergoing the risky surgery not for himself but for her. This was a topic that had rarely come up and when it did, their words glanced off the subject like bullets on flat rock. But the understood meaning was clear: What the hell are you hanging around with a crip for, Sachs? You can do better than me.

For one thing, “doing better” suggested she was in the market for Mr. Perfect, which was simply not the case and never had been. She’d been in only one other serious relationship—with another cop—and it had ended disastrously (though Nick was finally out of prison). She’d dated some, usually to fill time, until she realized that the boredom of being with someone is exponentially worse than the boredom of solitude.

She was content with her independence and, if Rhyme weren’t in the picture, she’d be comfortable on her own—forever, if no one else came along.

Do what you want, she thought. Have the surgery or not. But do it for yourself. Whatever the decision, I’ll be there.

She watched him for a few moments more, a faint smile on her face. Then the smile faded and she walked to the parlor to meet the Overseer and deliver the news.

Saint Moreno might not be so saintly…

CHAPTER 21

AS SACHS JOTTED ON THE WHITEBOARDS the information she’d learned on the drive with Tash Farada, Nance Laurel turned her chair toward the detective.

She’d been digesting what Sachs had told her. “An escort?” the prosecutor asked. “You’re sure?”

“No. It’s a possibility, though. I’ve called Lon. He’s got some of Myers’s portables canvassing to see if they can find her.”

“A call girl.” Laurel sounded perplexed.

Sachs would have thought she’d be more dismayed. Learning that a hooker had accompanied your married victim around New York wasn’t going to win the jury’s sympathy.