"It is best, I'm afraid."
Randy said, "I'll get the car, bring it around. Really, Jule. And wait at the top of the ramp." Turning to Rhyme: "Thanks," he said, nodding effusively. "Appreciate all you're doing for her."
"Don't mention it."
"I'll see you out," Thom said.
"Mel, get back to work," Rhyme grumbled.
The tech climbed into the scaffolding once more. The camera flashes resumed.
Archer said, "See you in class next week, Lincoln."
"You can come back, of course. Intern here. Just a different time."
"Sure," she said flatly. And wheeled into the hallway with Thom. A moment later Rhyme heard the door close. He wheeled to the video screen and watched Archer, in defiance of her brother, tool easily down the ramp and park on the sidewalk. She looked back and up at the town house.
Rhyme wheeled to the computer monitor, on which were displayed the pictures Amelia Sachs had taken. He studied them for a few minutes.
Then exhaled a long sigh.
"Thom! Thom! I'm calling you! Where the hell are you?"
"About eight feet away, Lincoln. And, no, I haven't gone deaf recently. What are you so politely requesting?"
"Get her back in here."
"Who?"
"That woman who was just here. Ten seconds ago. Who else would I be talking about? I want her back. Now."
Ron Pulaski was on a sidewalk that was cracked into trapezoids and triangles of concrete rising like bergs in an ice floe. The chain link he stood beside was topped with razor wire and was graffiti'd, defaced with letters and symbols more cryptic than usual because the tagger's canvas was mesh. Who would deface chain link? he wondered. Maybe all the good brick walls and concrete abutments were taken.
Listening to his voice mail.
Amelia Sachs wanted him. He'd snuck away from their war room in One PP, believing that she'd follow up on the White Castle lead and return to Manhattan in a few hours. But apparently she'd found something to move the case forward. He listened to the message again. Decided she didn't need him immediately. Not like there was an emergency. She wanted him to aid in a canvass of an area where Unsub 40 had been spotted a few days ago and to which he returned from time to time. Maybe he lived there, maybe shopped.
Pulaski didn't want to talk to her. He texted. Lying was easier when your thumbs, not your voice, communicated. He'd get there as soon as he could, he said. He was out of the office briefly.
Nothing more than that.
His message, though, when he thought about it, wasn't exactly lying. He wasn't in the office and as soon as his business was completed he'd join her for the canvass. Still, when he was on the street, patrolling, his approach was: Failure to disclose is deception too.
Phone duty finished, the young officer was back to being vigilant. Extremely so. He was in the 33, after all, and so he had to be.
Pulaski had just hit the sidewalk from the transit complex of Broadway Junction and was walking along Van Sinderen Avenue. This part of Brooklyn was a mess. Not particularly filthy, no more so than other parts of the city, just chaotic. Canarsie and Jamaica trains rattling overheard. The IND underground. Autos and trucks aplenty, edging past, honking, cutting in and out. Hordes of people on the sidewalks. Bicycles.
The officer stood out--his race was represented by about 2 percent of the residents here, where Ocean Hill, Brownsville and Bed-Stuy merged. Nobody hassled him, nobody seemed even to notice him, everyone being on their own missions, which in New York City always seemed urgent. Or they were focused on their mobiles or conversations with their friends. As in most 'hoods, the majority, vast majority, of locals just wanted to get to and from work, hang with people they knew in bars or coffeehouses or restaurants, go shopping, take walks with the kids and dogs, get home.
But that didn't mean he could ignore those here who might take more than a casual interest and wonder why this scrubbed white boy with a suburban haircut and a baby-smooth face was sauntering down the broken pavement in a hard, black and brown part of town. The 33, as in the last digits of its ZIP code, was statistically the most dangerous part of New York City.
After Amelia Sachs had left One PP, Pulaski had given it a few minutes and then lost his NYPD uniform and dressed down. Jeans, running shoes, combat-green T-shirt and black leather jacket, shabby. Head down, he'd left headquarters. He'd hit a nearby ATM, cringing mentally as he saw the bills flip. Am I really fucking doing this? he thought, using a modifier that would only rarely, and in extreme situations, escape his rosy lips.
Over the river and through the woods... to bad guys we will go...
Leaving behind the transit hub now, he walked to Broadway, past the car repair garages, building supply outfits, real estate offices, check cashing and salary advance storefronts, bodegas, cheap diners with flyblown, handwritten menus on cards in windows. As he moved farther away from the commercial streets, he passed apartment blocks, mostly three-or four-story. Lots of red brick, lots of painted stone in beige and brown, lots of graffiti. On the horizon were the towering projects of Brownsville, not far away. On the sidewalk were cigarette butts, trash, malt liquor cans and a few condoms and needles... and even crack tubes, which seemed almost nostalgic; you didn't see that scourge much anymore.
The 33...
Pulaski was walking fast.
One block, two blocks, three blocks, four.
Where the hell is Alpho?
Ahead, on the same sidewalk, two kids--yeah, young but together weighing four Pulaskis--eyed him hostilely. He had his Smith & Wesson Bodyguard on his ankle, his private weapon. But if they wanted to perp him, they'd perp him and he'd be on the ground and bleeding before he could snag the punchy gun from its holster. But they turned back to their joints and grave conversation, letting him pass without another look.
Two more blocks and, finally, he spotted the young man he'd been searching for. Back at One PP he'd taken a furtive look at a precinct activity report from the 73 and had a rough idea of where to go, where Alpho might be hanging. The kid was on his mobile and smoking, a cigarette, not weed, in front of GW Deli and Phone Card store.
GW. George Washington? Then Pulaski thought, for some reason: Gee Whiz?
The skinny Latino was in a wife-beater T-shirt, exposing arms that didn't see a lot of pushups. Street Crimes surveillance had gotten some solid pix of him, which was why Pulaski recognized him immediately. Alpho had been brought in, questioned and released a few times. But he'd never been busted and was still, Narcotics believed, in business. Had to be true. You could tell. From the posture, from the wariness, even while concentrating on the phone call.
Pulaski looked around. No obvious threats.
So get this over with. Pulaski strode toward Alpho, glanced his way and slowed.
The young man, a grayish tint to his dark skin, lifted his head. Said something into the mobile by way of farewell and slipped the cheap flip phone away.
Pulaski eased closer. "Hey."
"Yo."
Alpho's eyes scanned up and down the street, like skittish animals. Didn't spot anything worrisome. Then back to Pulaski.
"Nice day, huh?"
"S'all right. Guess. I know you?"
Pulaski said, "Alphonse, right?"
A stare in response.
"I'm Ron."
"So who?"
"Kett. At Richie's in Bed-Stuy."
"He cool. How you know him?"
Pulaski said, "Just know him. Hang with him some. He'll vouch."
Eddie Kett would vouch for Ron Pulaski, not because they were buddies but because a few days ago, while breaking up a fight, off duty, Pulaski had found out that Eddie had been carrying a pistol when he shouldn't've been, which was never. He also had some pills on him. The meds had interested Pulaski, who'd suggested he could forget about the weapon and Oxy charges in return for a favor, provided Kett never said a word about it. Kett had wisely chosen that route and had pointed him in Alphonse's direction, happy to play character referenc
e.
Looking up and down the street, both men now.
"Kett, he okay." Repeating. Stalling. Alphonse was his name but on the street it was mostly Alpho or, to cops and gangbangers, Alpo, after the dog food.
"Yeah, he's okay."
"I'ma call him."
"Why I mentioned him, why I came to you. He said you could hook me up."
"Why not him? Help you, I mean." Alpho wasn't calling Eddie Kett, Pulaski noticed. Probably believes me. You'd have to be an idiot to come to the 33 without somebody vouching.
"Eddie doesn't have what I need."
"I'ma say, brother, you ain't lookin' fuckin' strung out. Whatchu want?"
"No brown. No C. Nothing like that." Pulaski shook his head, looking around again for threats from anyone. Male or female. Girls were dangerous too.
Pulaski also scanned for uniforms and plainclothes and unmarked Dodges. He sure didn't want to run into any compatriots.
But the streets were clear.
He said in a low voice, "There's some new shit I heard about. It's not Oxy but it's like Oxy."
"I ain't hear about that, brother. I hook you up with weed, with C, with speed, methballs." Alpho was relaxing. This wasn't the way undercover busts worked.
Pulaski pointed to his forehead. "I got this thing happened to me. Crap beat out of me, a couple years ago. I started getting these headaches again. They came back. I mean, big time. They're crap, totally. You get headaches?"
"Ciroc, Smirny." Alpho smiled.
Pulaski didn't. He whispered, "These are so bad. I can't do my job right. Can't concentrate."
"What you do?"
"Construction. Crew in the city. Ironwork."
"Man, those skyscrapers? How you fuckers do that? Climb up there? Fuck."
"Almost fell a couple times."
"Shit. Oxy fuck you up too."
"No, no, this new stuff's different. Just takes the pain away, doesn't mess with your mind, doesn't make you woozy, you know?"
"Woozy?" Alpho had no clue. "Why you ain't get a prescription?"
"This stuff they don't write paper for. It's new, underground labs. Heard you could get it here, in BK. East New York, mostly. Guy named Oden? Something. He makes it himself or runs it in from Canada or Mexico. You know him?"
"Oden? No. Ain't hear of him. What's this new shit called?"
"Heard a name. Catch."
"It's called Catch?"
"What I'm saying."
Alpho seemed to like the name. "Like it grabs you, you know, catches you, it's so strong."
"Fuck. I don't know. Anyway, I want some. Bad, man. I need it. Gotta get these headaches under control."
"Well, I ain't got none. Never hear of it. But hook you up a dozen. Regular, I mean. One bill."
Little lower than the general street price. Oxy went for about ten bucks per. Alpho was grooming for future sales.
"Yeah, okay."
The exchange happened fast. As they always should. The plastic bag of OxyContin swapped for a handful of twenties. Then the dealer blinked as he looked at the wad Pulaski had slipped him. "Brother, I telling you: one bill. That five right there."
"Tip."
"Tip?"
"Like a tip at a restaurant."
Confused.
Pulaski smiled. "Keep it, man. I'm just asking, can you check around? See if you can find this new shit for me. Or, at least, who this Oden guy is, where I can get some Catch from him."
"Dunno, brother."
A nod at Alpho's pocket. "Bigger tip next time, you point me the right way. I mean bigger. M and half. Maybe more, it's righteous information."
Then the skinny man gripped Pulaski's forearm. Leaned close, radiating the smell of tobacco, sweat, garlic, coffee. "You ain't no fuckin' cop?"
Looking him back in the eyes, Pulaski said, "No. I'm a guy gets headaches so bad I can't get it up sometimes, and who lies in the bathroom and pukes for hours. That's what I am. Talk to Eddie. He'll tell you."
Alpho looked once more at the scar on Pulaski's forehead. "I'ma call you, brother. Digits?"
Pulaski punched in Alpho's number, and the gangbanger reciprocated.
Burner phone to burner. The age of trust.
Then Pulaski turned and, head down, walked back in the direction of the Broadway Junction transit complex.
Thinking it was pretty funny that he could very well have said to Alphonse Gravita that yeah, I am a cop, but it doesn't matter because this isn't an undercover operation at all. Not a soul in the NYPD--or in the world--knows about it. That wasn't buy money I just handed over but my own, which Jenny and I can't afford to give away.
But sometimes when you're desperate, you do desperate things.
CHAPTER 10
Not good. Not good at all.
She's ruined it. Red, the cop, the Shopper.
She's taken it away from me. My wonderful White Castle. Stolen it.
And she's walking here and there in Astoria, looking for clues--to me.
A little luck here, just like in the mall--when she was right next to the deadly escalator. Here I was fortunate too, spotting her first, a half block away from White Castle.
Red, walking inside, like a hunter.
My White Castle...
Two minutes later--if I hadn't seen her--and I'd've pushed in, hungry, mouthwatering. Tasting burger and shake. Then eye-to-eye with Red. She could draw her gun faster than I could get my bone cracker out of my backpack, or my razor saw.
Luck saved me again.
Did her luck get her here?
No, no, no. I was careless. That's it.
I am furious.
Remembering, yes: I threw away trash when the Shoppers came after me in the mall. I dumped the Starbucks litter nowhere near Starbucks but somehow they must've found it. And that means they found the other things I'd thrown out too. In the trash bin of that Mexican place behind the mall. I thought the help would grow blind and mute, or get shipped back to Juarez. It didn't occur to me that Red would stoop to garbage. She'd have nabbed a White Castle napkin or receipt. Fingerprints? I'm pretty careful. When I'm in public I try to use far ends of fingers (the top quarter of tips are pretty useless for prints, oh, I know my stuff) or I dunk napkins in soda or coffee, turn them to mush.
But I didn't think that time.
Speaking of hands: My palms're nice and sweaty now, fingers--my long, long fingers--shaking a little. I'm mad at myself but mad at her mostly. Red... Taking my White Castle away, making me finish up too fast with Alicia.
Now, watching her at some distance, I see her move sveltely down the street. Into and out of stores. I know what she's done: asked a server at White Castle or all the servers and customers too, Hey, did you see the bean boy? The praying mantis? Long John, Slim Jim? Oh, sure we did. Funny, funny looking. Hard to miss.
Now, the good news is that she won't find my favorite store where I often go before or after my burgers, not on this street, not nearby. It's a subway stop away. Still, there are other connections she might make.
Have to take care of this.
Everything good in my mind's now knocked aside: the visit to my brother later today, fun fun fun with Alicia tonight, the next death on my schedule.
Plans have changed.
So has your luck, Red. Get yourself red-y. The joke sours, I'm so angry. When she steps into a bodega to ask some questions about the bean boy I step out onto the sidewalk. Moving wide around the White Castle, where they know about me now.
My wonderful White Castle. Where I can never go again.
I hike my backpack higher on my shoulder. And move fast.
"You were right," Rhyme was saying. "Your deductions."
Though he reflected he hardly needed to tell her this. Juliette Archer, he'd decided, was somebody who wouldn't draw conclusions unless she had a good--no, extremely good--basis for knowing they were accurate.
She wheeled closer.
Rhyme continued, "Though the reason we have to sue right away isn't other plaintiffs.
Or only that. It's that the victim's widow and her son are in a bad way." He explained about the lack of insurance, their debt. About the garage in upstate New York, their soon-to-be--perhaps long-term--home.
Archer offered no opinion about Schenectady but the stillness in her face suggested she appreciated the hardship that loomed. He described the additional issue of Frommer's complicated employment history. "The attorney's building the case to prove that this was a temporary slump. But that might be hard to do."
Archer's eyes shone. "But if you can prove the defendant did something particularly egregious or careless, there may be punitive damages."
Maybe, as Whitmore suggested of Rhyme himself, Archer should have gone to law school as well.
Boston Legal...
"To threaten them with punitive damages," Rhyme reminded. "We want to settle, and settle quickly."
Archer asked, "When can we have access to the real deal? And all the evidence?"
"Could be months."
"But can we make a case for liability from just the mock-up?"
Rhyme said, "We'll see." He explained what Whitmore had told him about strict products liability and negligence, the possibility of an intervening cause that would shift liability away from the manufacturer.
"Our job, first, is to pinpoint the defect."
"And find a very careless and a very rich defendant," she said wryly.
"That's the strategy. Thom!"
The aide appeared.
Rhyme said to Archer, "Why don't you explain your medical situation to him?"
She did. Unlike Rhyme, she had not suffered a trauma to her spine; doctors had discovered a tumor that wound around the fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae (Rhyme's injury had been at the fourth). Archer explained about the series of treatments and surgery that would ultimately render her as disabled as Rhyme, if not more so. Her life at the moment was consumed with adapting to the condition by changing careers to one more suitable to a quadriplegic and learning from an experienced patient--Lincoln Rhyme, as it turned out--what to expect and how to cope.
Thom said, "I'm happy to play the role of your caregiver too if you like, while you're here."
"Would you?"
"Delighted to," he said.
She wheeled about and faced Rhyme. "Now what can I do?"
"Research escalator accidents, particularly this model. Whitmore said that might be admissible. And get the maintenance manuals. A contractor leased us a part of the escalator but they haven't delivered the documents yet. I want to know everything about it."
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