Come on, Rhyme . . .
She needed somebody to brainstorm with. But it can’t be you now, can it?
Out of the business . . .
And what was up with Ron Pulaski? He’d been acting particularly odd. He’d questioned the wisdom of Rhyme’s retirement, firmly calling his boss on the decision. (“It’s crazy!” To which he received back: “I’ve decided, Rookie. Why bring it up for the thousandth time. Quit. Asking.”)
Was this his distraction? Though maybe Ron’s mood had nothing to do with Rhyme. She again considered illness in the family. Or the officer himself. His head injury. Then too: He was a husband and father, trying to make ends meet on a patrolman’s salary. God bless . . .
Her phone buzzed. She looked down and felt a prickle along her scalp.
Nick.
Sachs didn’t hit answer. She closed her eyes.
After the humming stopped, she glanced at the phone. He’d left no message.
What to do, what to do?
In days past, Sachs might have wandered down to the file room at One PP or, depending on where the People of the State of New York v. Nicholas J. Carelli files were stored, driven to the archives in New Jersey. In either case she might have dawdled outside the room downstairs—or spent the drive—pondering Nick’s request. Yes or no?
Now, with every case file for the past twenty-five years scanned and sitting in a big fat database somewhere, this debate occurred here, at her desk, as she looked over a sliver of vessel-filled New York Harbor. Leaning back in lazy posture, staring at the screen.
The propriety of downloading the file? No objections she could see. Sachs was an active-duty officer, so she had legitimate access to all files and there were no regulations about sharing them with civilians in closed cases. And if Nick found something that proved his innocence, he could come to her and she could tell the brass she’d decided to look into the matter on her own initiative. And then—this was non-negotiable in her heart—hand the matter over to an Internal Affairs investigator and step away entirely.
No, legality wasn’t really the issue. Some endeavors, of course, could be completely legal yet stunningly bad ideas.
Nick’s other options would be to find a lawyer to reopen the case and petition the court for review. Though, Sachs had to admit, her handing him the file would make his quest a thousand times easier.
Yet why had it fallen to her to help him?
Their years together—not so many in number but intense, consuming—flashed past. She couldn’t deny that the memories were tugging her in the direction of doing what he’d asked of her. But there was a broader issue. Even if she hadn’t known him, his story was compelling. Earlier this evening she’d looked up Vincent Delgado. Unlike high-level organized crime figures, who were essentially businessmen, Delgado was a megalomaniac, probably borderline psychotic. Vicious, prone to torture. He would have killed Donnie Carelli without blinking an eye, might even have threatened to kill their mother, Harriet, if Nick didn’t roll over to the Gowanus ’jacking. Yes, if everything he said was true, he was guilty of obstructing justice, though the statute of limitations would have run out a long time ago. So he was in all ways innocent.
Yes, no?
What bad could come of it?
Sachs turned from the computer to the evidence boards on the Unsub 40 case.
And what would you say, Rhyme, if you were here? What insights?
But you’re not here. You’re hanging with the ambulance chasers.
Then her eyes slipped to the unblinking cursor.
Archived File Request
Case File Name: People v. Carelli
Case File Number: 24-543676F
Requesting Officer Shield: D5885
Passcode: ********
Yes, no?
What bad could come of it? she asked herself again.
Sachs removed her hands from the keyboard, closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair once more.
CHAPTER 15
Juliette Archer and Lincoln Rhyme were alone in the parlor.
The notes from the now-defunct Frommer v. Midwest Conveyance—the hard copies of the pictures Sachs and Cooper had snapped, the printouts from Archer’s research—sat in ordered rows. Even in defeat Mel Cooper was as organized as an operating room nurse.
Earlier today, upon hearing that the case was over, Rhyme indulged himself with an encouraging thought: that he was relieved of the burden of mentoring his student. Yet now he wasn’t as buoyed by that idea as he initially was. He found himself saying to her, “There are a few things you could help with, if you’re interested, a couple of other projects I’m working on. Not as intriguing as a case. Research. Esoteric elements of forensics. Academia. But still.”
She maneuvered her chair to face him and her countenance suggested she was surprised. “You didn’t think I was going to leave, did you?”
“No. I was just saying.” An expression he detested when coming from someone else’s lips and he liked it no more now that he’d uttered it.
“Or you were hoping?” Her smile was coy.
“Your presence was helpful.”
His highest compliment, though she wouldn’t know that.
“It’s unfair what happened. No money, no recourse for Sandy Frommer.”
Rhyme said, “But that’s your situation.” A nod at the wheelchair. Because her disability stemmed from the tumor, not an accident, she had no one to recover settlement money from. “I was lucky. I got a large settlement from the construction company that built the scaffolding the pipe fell from.”
“Pipe? Is that what happened?”
He laughed. “I was playing rookie. At the time I was head of the Crime Scene Unit but I couldn’t keep from searching a scene myself. A killer was murdering police officers. I had to get down in the site and dig for evidence. I was sure I could find the clue that would lead to him, and no one else could. A good example of the adage: One’s character is one’s fate.”
“Heraclitus,” she said, her eyes amused. “They’d be so proud, the good sisters of Immaculata, my remembering something they taught me. Of course, fate sometimes has nothing to do with who you are and what you do. Two assassination attempts on Hitler. They both were perfectly planned and they both failed. There’s fate for you. No design, no justice. Sometimes you get the golden apple. Sometimes you’re screwed. Either way . . .”
“. . . you cope.”
Archer nodded.
“Something I’ve been wondering.”
“Yes, it’s true,” Rhyme announced in a bold voice. “ ‘A ninhydrin solution can indeed be prepared in a mixture of non-polar solvents. The exhibit is immersed in the working solution and allowed to develop in dark, humid conditions for two to three days, avoiding high temperatures.’ That’s a quotation from the Department of Justice’s fingerprint manual. I tested it. They’re accurate.”
She fell silent as she looked around the lab, congested with equipment and tools and instruments. Finally: “You’re avoiding the question that’s coming, aren’t you?”
“Why I quit working for the police.”
Archer smiled. “Answer or not. Just curious.”
He gestured with his working hand toward one of the whiteboards in the far corner of the room, snubbing them with their backs. He said, “That was a case about a month ago. There’s a notation at the bottom of the board. Suspect deceased. Prosecution terminated.”
“That’s why you quit?”
“Yes.”
“So you made a mistake and somebody died.”
Inflection is everything. Archer’s comment ended in a lazy question mark; she might have been asking legitimately if this was the case. Or she might have been dismissing what happened and chiding him for backing away from a profession in which death was a natural part of the process: A human’s ceasing to exist is, of course, the prime mover of a homicide case. A corollary is the possible death of the suspect during apprehension . . . or, occasionally, a lethal injection gurney.
But Rhyme gave a shallow laugh. “No. In fact, the opposite happened.”
“Opposite?”
He adjusted the chair slightly. They were now facing each other. “I didn’t make a mistake at all. I was one hundred percent accurate.” He sipped from the tumbler of Glenmorangie that Thom had poured ten minutes before. He nodded toward the liquor and then turned to Archer but again she declined a beverage. He continued, “The suspect—a businessman named Charles Baxter . . . You ever hear of him?”
“No.”
“The case was in the news. Baxter defrauded a few rich folks out of about ten million that, frankly, they would hardly’ve noticed. It’s all about the decimal point, of course. Who really cared? But that’s not the prosecutor’s—or my—call. Baxter broke the law and the assistant district attorney brought the case, got me on board to help find the cash and analyze the physical evidence—handwriting, ink, GPS logs that let us follow him to banks, trace evidence from where the meetings took place, false identity documents, soil from where money was buried. It was easy to run. I found plenty of admissible evidence to support grand theft, wire fraud, a few other counts. The ADA was happy. The perp was looking at three to five years, soft time.
“But there were some questions about the evidence that I didn’t find the answers to. Eating at me. I kept analyzing, getting more and more evidence. The prosecutor said don’t bother; she had all she needed for the conviction she was after. But I couldn’t stop.
“I found a very small amount of lubricant in his personal effects, oil that’s used almost exclusively in firearms. And some gunshot residue. And several different kinds of trace that led to a particular location in Long Island City. There was a big self-storage facility in the neighborhood. The detective I was working with found that Baxter had a unit there. Baxter didn’t tell us about it because there was nothing there that had to do with the financial fraud, just personal things. But we got a warrant and found an unregistered handgun. That moved the charge up to a different class of felony and, even though the ADA didn’t want to pursue it—Baxter had no history of violence—she didn’t have any choice. Firearms possession carries a mandatory sentence in New York. DAs have to prosecute it.”
Archer said, “He killed himself. Facing that.”
“No. He went to the violent felons’ wing on Rikers Island, got into a fight and was killed by another prisoner.”
The facts sat between them, in silence, for a moment.
“You did everything right,” Archer said, her voice analytical, not softened to convey reassurance.
“Too right,” Rhyme said.
“But the gun? He shouldn’t have had it.”
“Well, yes and no. True, it was unregistered so it technically fell within the law. But it was his father’s from Vietnam. He’d never shot it, he claimed. Didn’t even know he still had it. It was just stored away with a bunch of memorabilia from the sixties. The gun oil I’d found he said he probably picked up at a sporting goods store buying a present for his son a week before. The gunshot residue could have been transferred from the cash. The same with the drugs. Half the twenties in the New York metro area have traces of cocaine, meth and heroin on them and a lot also have GSR. Gunshot residue. He never tested positive for any controlled substances and he’d never been arrested on any drug charges. Never been arrested before at all.” Rhyme offered what he knew was a rare smile. “Gets worse. One of the reasons for the fraud—his daughter needed a bone marrow transplant.”
“Ah. I’m sorry. But . . . You were a cop. Isn’t that the cost of doing business?”
Exactly Amelia Sachs’s argument. She might have used those very words. Rhyme couldn’t remember.
“It is. And am I traumatized and lying—well, sitting—in a therapist’s office? No. But there comes a time when you get off the carousel. Everything comes to an end.”
“You needed to find the solution.”
“Had to have it.”
“I understand that, Lincoln. Epidemiology’s the same. There’s always a question—what’s the virus, where’s it going to hit next, how do you inoculate, who’s susceptible?—and I always had to find the answer.” She’d loved the field of epidemiology, she’d told him when first asking about being his intern. But she could hardly continue to be a field agent. And the office work in that endeavor was far too uniform and boring to hold her attention. Crime scene, even in the lab, she reasoned, would keep her engaged. As with Rhyme, boredom was a demon to Juliette Archer.
She continued, “I got dengue fever once. Pretty serious. I had to find out how the mosquitoes were infecting people in Maine, of all places. You know dengue’s a tropical disease.”
“Don’t know much about it.”
“How on earth could people in New England get dengue? I searched for months. Finally found the answer: a rain forest exhibit in a zoo. I traced the victims back to visits to the place. And, wouldn’t you know, I got bit while I was there.”
Character is fate . . .
Archer continued, “It’s a compulsion. You had to search the crime scene where you were injured and find out the answer to the gun oil and cocaine. I had to find those goddamn mosquitoes. An unanswered riddle is the worst thing in the world for me.” Her striking blue eyes lit up again. “I love riddles. You?”
“Games? Or life?”
“Games.”
“No. I don’t do that.”
“I’ve found they help you expand your thinking. I collect them. Want to try?”
“That’s all right.” Meaning absolutely not. His eyes were on the evidence boards whose backs were to them. Another sip of whisky.
Archer nonetheless said, “Okay. Two sons and two fathers go fishing. Each one catches a fish. They return from the trip with only three fish, though. How can that be?”
“I don’t know. Really, I—”
“Come on. Try.” She repeated it.
Rhyme grimaced but he found himself thinking: One got away? They ate one for lunch? One fish ate another?
Archer was smiling. “The thing about riddles is that you never need more information than you’re given. No fish sandwiches, no escapes.”
He shrugged. “Give up.”
“You’re not trying very hard. All right, the answer?”
“Sure.”
“The fishing party included a grandfather, his son and grandson. Two fathers, two sons, but only three people.”
Rhyme barked an involuntary laugh. Clever. He liked it.
“As soon as you got the idea of four people in your head, it’s almost impossible to dislodge it, right? Remember: The answers to riddles are always simple—given the right mind-set.”
The doorbell hummed. Rhyme looked at the video monitor. Archer’s brother, Randy. Rhyme was mildly disappointed she’d be leaving. Thom went to answer the door.
She said, “One more.”
“All right.”
“What one thing do you find at the beginning of eternity and at the end of time and space?”
“Matter.”
“No.”
“Black hole.”
“No.”
“Wormhole.”
“You’re guessing. Do you even know what a wormhole is?” she asked.
He did. But he hadn’t really thought that was the answer.
Simple . . .
“Give up?”
“No. I’m going to keep working at it.”
Thom appeared a moment later with Archer’s brother. They spoke for a few minutes, polite but pointless conversation. Then brief goodbyes and brother and sister headed out of the arched doorway of the parlor. Halfway through Archer stopped. She wheeled around. “Just curious about one thing, Lincoln.”
