He shot back with, "White king's knight to f3."
Archer: "Black queen's knight to c6. You're seeing it clearly?"
"Yes."
Well, she was certainly aggressive. Rhyme was pleased. No uncertainty. No hemming or hawing. He said, "White king's bishop to c4."
Archer snapped, "Black queen's knight to d4."
Her knight was now nestling between Rhyme's bishop and pawn.
How many moves were they up to? he wondered.
"Six moves," Archer said, unknowingly responding to his question.
He said, "White king's knight takes black pawn on e5."
"Ah, yes, yes." Archer then said, "Black queen to g5." Bringing her most powerful piece into the middle of the field. Vulnerable. Rhyme was tempted to open his eyes and see her expression. He opted for concentration.
Rhyme saw an opportunity. "White king's knight takes black pawn on f7." In position to take her rook. And safe from her king, because the piece was guarded by his bishop.
"Black queen takes white pawn on g2."
Rhyme frowned. He'd have to abandon his tactics in the upper right-hand corner of the board. Her brash moves were bringing the assault to his home territory--with most of his pieces not even in play.
He said, "White king's rook to f1."
Archer's buoyant voice said, "Black queen takes white pawn on e4. Check."
Eyes still closed, Rhyme could clearly see where this was going. He chuckled. And said what he had to: "White king's bishop to e2 to block the check."
And there was no surprise when Juliette Archer said, "Black queen's knight to f3. Checkmate."
Rhyme studied the board tucked into his mind. "Fourteen moves, I think."
"That's right," Archer confirmed.
"Is that a record?"
"Oh, no. I've won in nine. My ex in eight."
"The game, it was elegant." Lincoln Rhyme was a loser gracious on the surface but filled with knobby resolve not to be one again. "A rematch soon?"
After he'd practiced.
"Love to."
"But now--the bar's open! Thom!"
She laughed. "You're teaching me forensics. You're teaching me how to be a productive gimp. But I think you're also teaching me some bad habits. I'll pass."
"You're not driving," Rhyme said. "Well, not exactly." A nod at the Storm Arrow motor, which could propel her along the pavement at a zippy seven mph.
"Better keep a clear head anyway. I'm seeing my son tonight."
Thom poured Rhyme's Glenmorangie and glanced at Archer, who shook her head. The doorbell hummed. It was Archer's brother, who, when Thom escorted him into the parlor, greeted them cheerfully. He seemed like a nice guy. "Fellow" was the word that fit. Rhyme wouldn't want to spend much time with him, but he seemed the rock that his sister would need facing life as a quad.
She wheeled toward the archway. "I'll be back early tomorrow," she said, echoing Sachs's farewell.
He nodded.
She wheeled out the door, her brother behind her.
The door closed. Rhyme was suddenly aware of the immense silence of the room. He had a curious feeling. "Hollowness" was the word that came to him.
Thom was back in the kitchen. The sound of metal against metal, wood against ceramic, water filling pots, emanated from there into the parlor. But no sound of human voices. Unusual for him, Rhyme didn't care for this manifestation of solitude.
A sip of the scotch. Rhyme was aware of the scent of garlic, meat and the perfume of vermouth, heated.
Something else too. A fragrant smell. Appealing, comforting. Ah, Sachs's perfume.
But then he recalled that she didn't wear any--why give the perp a clue as to your position in a potential firefight? No, the scent would have to be that, of course, of whatever Juliette Archer had worn that day.
"Dinner is served," Thom said.
"On my way," Rhyme said and left the parlor, instructing the controller to shut out the lights as he did so. He wondered if the voice-controlled lighting system in the town house happened to be embedded with a DataWise5000.
CHAPTER 37
Just a fast one."
"Honey, no."
Her husband persisted, "Twenty minutes. Arnie said he's got a new scotch. From the Isle of Skye. Never heard of it before."
If there was a scotch that Henry was unfamiliar with it must've been something.
They'd finished dinner, Ginnie surprised that he'd actually complimented her on the chicken fricassee (though there had been: "Good fix over last time, dear"), and she was rinsing dishes.
"You go," Ginnie told him.
"Carole wanted you to come too. They're starting to think you don't like them."
I don't, Ginnie thought. While she and Henry were transplants to the Upper East Side, Arnie and Carole were natural products of the effete neighborhood. She found these neighbors up the hall arrogant and pretentious.
"I really don't want to. I've got to clean up here. There's that project for work."
"Just thirty, forty-five minutes."
Double what it had been a moment ago.
Of course there was more to this than a neighborly visit. Arnie was head of a small tech start-up and Henry wanted him as a client for his law firm. Her husband didn't admit it but this was obvious to her. She knew too that he liked to have Ginnie accompany him as he tried to win over people like Arnie--and not because she smart and funny, but because of what she'd overheard him say once to a fellow attorney, when he didn't know she was nearby: "Let's face it, a potential client's on the borderline, who's he going to sign with? The partner with the wife he can fantasize about fucking."
The absolute last thing that Ginnie wanted to do, go have drinks with the Bassetts. He'd probably make her try the scotch, which however expensive all tasted like dish soap to her.
"But we just got Trudy down." The two-year-old could be a fitful sleeper and sometimes impossible to get to fall asleep at a reasonable hour. Tonight, the 7 p.m. target had been a bull's-eye.
"We've got the Nanny."
"But still, you know I don't like leaving her."
"Forty-five minutes, an hour. Just to say hi. Sip a little whisky. Did you know about the spelling. Whiskey with an 'e' is bourbon. Irish too. Without it is scotch. Who thought that up?"
Henry was oh-so good at deflecting.
"Really, can't we take a pass, honey?"
"No," Henry said, grit to his voice. "I told them yes. So. Go scoot and throw something on."
"It's just drinks," Ginnie said. Glancing at her jeans and sweatshirt. Then realizing she'd caved.
Henry turned his handsome face toward her (yeah, yeah, they were the perfect-looking couple). "Ah, for me, honey? Please. That little blue thing."
Gaultier. Thing.
He gave her a seductive wink. "You know I like it."
Ginnie went into the bedroom and changed, peeked at their daughter, still asleep, an angel with golden ringlets of hair, and then walked silently to the window, which faced a quiet side street, one flight below. Made sure the window was locked--though she'd checked it earlier--and drew the shades. Curiously Trudy might wake up at the sound of a cooing pigeon on the sill but would sleep through a fire engine siren and blaring intersection horn. She wanted to kiss the girl or touch her cheek. But that might wake her and disrupt the impromptu get-together. Henry wouldn't be happy.
Of course, if the child were to wake, that would be an excuse for Ginnie not to go.
Yes, no?
But she couldn't do it, use her daughter as a ploy against her husband. Still, she smiled to herself, thinking: It had been a good plan.
Five minutes later they were up the dimly lit hall, ringing the Bassetts' doorbell. The door opened. Cheeks were bussed, hands gripped, pleasantries exchanged.
Carole Bassett was in jeans and T-shirt. Ginnie's eyes dipped to the outfit then to Henry but he missed the telling glance and accompanying grimace of her thin glossy lips. The men veered to the bar, where the magic potion sat, and--th
ank goodness--Carole apparently remembered that Ginnie drank wine exclusively and thrust a Pinot Gris into her hand. They clinked, sipped and headed into the living room, which offered a partial view of Central Park. (Henry was resentful that the Bassetts, new to the building, had happened to decide to move here just as that particular unit became vacant. Henry's and Ginnie's faced plebian 81st Street.) The men rejoined their mates.
"Ginnie, you want to try some?"
"Sure, she will. She loves scotch."
And Palmolive is my favorite label. Right next to Duz. "Already have wine. Don't want to spoil the experience."
"You're sure?" Arnie said. "Cost eight hundred a bottle. And that's because my guy got me a deal. And I mean deal."
Carole said in a low voice, eyes wide, "He got us a Petrus for a thousand."
Henry barked a laugh. "You are shitting me?"
"Cross my heart."
Ginnie noted her husband glance at the spot on her body where Carole was doing just that. It was just a T-shirt, yes, but quite tight and made of thin silk.
Arnie: "The Petrus? It was heaven. I nearly came." He pretended to look shocked at his own words. "Listen to this: We bribed the maitre d' to let us sneak it into Romanee. They don't have a corkage policy, you know."
"I didn't," Ginnie said with mock astonishment. "Oh, my God."
Arnie added, "I know. A restaurant like that."
The couples sat and conversation meandered. Carole asked about Trudy and the schools they had planned for her (not as outrageous as it seemed, Ginnie had learned; Manhattan parents must plan early for their offsprings' education). The Bassetts were a few years younger--early thirties--and were just thinking about children now.
Carole added, "Next year sounds good. For conceiving, I mean. It'll be a convenient time. The company's putting a new maternity leave plan in place. A friend of mine in HR told me about it. He said he wasn't supposed to say anything, but I should wait to get pregnant." She laughed wickedly. "It's sort of like insider trading!" and studied Ginnie's face to see if she got the risque joke.
Got it and stepped on it till it was dead.
"Have to give up the wine," Carole had said. "That'll be hard."
"You won't miss it. Only eighteen months."
"Eighteen?" Carole asked.
"Breast-feeding."
"Oh. That. Well. It's pretty much optional nowadays, isn't it?"
The men talked about business and Washington and all the while examined their glasses as if the amber liquid inside were unicorn blood.
Carole rose, saying she wanted to show off a new print she'd gotten from her "favorite" gallery in SoHo. Ginnie wondered: How many galleries did she have?
They were halfway across the living room floor when a man's voice intruded.
"Hi, there, little one."
Everyone froze. Looking around.
"Aren't you a cute little petunia."
The baritone words oozed from the speaker of Ginnie's phone, sitting on the coffee table. Her wineglass tumbled to the floor and shattered into a hundred pieces and she lunged for the Samsung.
Arnie said, "Wasn't the Waterford. Don't worry--"
"What is that?" Carole asked, nodding to the phone.
It was what Henry and Ginnie called the "Nanny"--actually a state-of-the-art baby monitor. The microphone was next to Trudy's crib and sensitive enough to pick up the child's breathing and heartbeat.
And could also pick up the voices of anyone in the room.
"You're coming with me, honeybun. I know somebody who wants to give you a whole new home."
Ginnie screamed.
She and Henry bolted for the door, flung it open and sprinted down the hall, followed by the Bassetts. Henry raged at her, "Did you lock the fucking window?"
"Yes, yes, yes!"
"Stay asleep, little one."
Ginnie's mind was a swirling tornado. Tears streamed and her heart vibrated in her chest. She lifted her phone and touched VOICE on the monitor app. She shouted into the microphone--it was a two-way system: "The police are here, you son of a bitch. Don't you touch her. I'll kill you if you touch her."
A pause, as perhaps the intruder was noticing the monitor. He chuckled. "Police? Really? I'm looking out Trudy's right window and there's not a cop to be found. Better be going. Sorry, your little dear's still snoozing; I'll have to say goodbye for her. Bye-bye, Mommy. Bye-bye Daddy."
Ginnie screamed again. Then: "Now! Now! Open the door!"
Henry fumbled the keys and Ginnie ripped them out of his hand, shoving him aside. She unlatched the door and pushed it in. She detoured into the kitchen to grab the first butcher knife in the block and charged to her daughter's room, swung it open, flipped the overhead light on.
Trudy stirred slightly at the intrusion. But didn't wake.
Henry pushed inside an instant later and they both scanned the small room. No one. The window was still locked. And the closet was empty.
"But..."
She handed the husband the knife and picked up and clutched her child.
Arnie and Carole were right behind them. Relief flooded their faces, seeing the baby girl.
"Is he here?" Carole asked in a tremulous voice, looking around.
But Arnie, the high-tech entrepreneur, was shaking his head, picking up the monitor near Trudy's crib. "No, he's not. He could be a hundred miles away. He hacked into the server." He set the device back onto the table.
"So he could hear us now?" Ginnie cried, shutting it off.
Arnie said, "That doesn't always cut the connection." He unplugged it and added, "People do it just to mess with you. Sometimes if there's a video monitor they do screenshots of the kids or videos and post them online."
"What kind of sick fuck'd do that?"
"I don't know what kind. I just know how many. A lot of them."
Arnie asked, "You want me to call the police?"
"I'll take care of that," Ginnie said. "Just leave, please."
Henry said, "Honey, really." Glancing at his friends.
"Now," she snapped.
"Sure. Really sorry," Carole said. She embraced Ginnie with what seemed to be true concern.
"And," Arnie offered, "don't worry about the wineglass."
After they were gone, Ginnie took the knife once more and, carrying still-snoozing Trudy, checked every room, Henry with her. Yes, all the windows were locked. There could have been no physical intrusion.
Back in their bedroom, Ginnie sat on the bed, wiped tears and fiercely cradled her daughter. She glanced up and saw her husband dial three numbers on his mobile.
"No." She half rose and took it from him. Hit disconnect.
"What're you doing?" he snapped.
She said, "It's going to ring in a minute. Nine one one'll call back. You tell them you hit it by mistake."
"The fuck would I do that for?"
"If I talk to them, a woman, they'll think it's a domestic and might send somebody anyway. You have to tell them it was a mistake."
"Are you crazy?" Henry raged. "We want them to send somebody. We got hacked. That asshole fucked up our evening."
"The police are not going to hear that we left our daughter alone to go drink some overpriced liquor with two idiots just because you want a new client. Do you really think that's a good idea, Henry?"
The phone rang. No caller ID number. She handed the unit to him. Glared into his eyes.
He sighed. And hit accept call. "Hello?" he answered pleasantly. "Oh, I'm really sorry. Nine one one is first on my speed dial, I hit it by mistake, calling my mother. She's number two... Yes, it's Henry Sutter..." He gave the address, apparently in response to another question. "I'm really sorry... Appreciate your following up like this, though. Good night."
Ginnie walked into Trudy's nursery and, one-handed, pulled the crib after her into the guest room. "I'll sleep here tonight."
"I think we should--"
She closed the door.
Ginnie tucked her daughter into the crib, nearly--
but not quite--smiling that the girl had managed to sleep through the excitement. She pulled off the thousand-dollar dress and angrily flung it into the corner of the room. Then she climbed into bed without moisturizing her face or brushing her teeth. She shut out the light, knowing that, unlike for her daughter, sleep would be a long time in coming tonight. If at all.
But that was okay. She had lots to think about. Most important: what she would say to the lawyer tomorrow, the one she'd talked to a couple of times about the possibility of divorce. Until tonight she'd waffled. Tomorrow she would be telling him to proceed as quickly and as relentlessly and brutally as he could.
CHAPTER 38
Unprofessional, I guess.
But sometimes you do things for yourself. Because you have to.
I'm walking away from the Upper East Side coffee shop, near Henry and Virginia Sutter's apartment. I was across the street. It was some building, I'll tell you. Can't imagine living in a place like that. Wouldn't want to, probably. Beautiful people live there. I wouldn't be welcome. A den of Shoppers.
Doing things for yourself.
It was all pretty easy, visiting vengeance on the Shopper. I'd simply followed Henry home from the Starbucks in Times Square where we'd collided that afternoon.
You'd spilled this on me, it would've cost you big time, you Walking Dead asshole. This shirt cost more'n you make in a month. I'm a lawyer...
Once I found his address, I cross-referenced deeds with DMV pictures. And got his ID. Mr. Henry Sutter. Married to Virginia. I was stymied briefly--data mining records didn't show they own anything with a CIR DataWise5000 inside. But then I peeked at Facebook. Henry and Ginnie, her preferred nic, had actually posted pictures of two-year-old Trudy? Fools... but good for me. Babies in the city equal baby monitors. And, yep, a simple scan of the house revealed the IP address and a brand name. I executed a handshake exploit with the network then ran Pass Breaker on my tablet and in no time at all, I was in. Listening to Trudy's soft breath and coming up with a script for my conversation with the young 'un that was sure to destroy Mom's and Dad's peace of mind for the immediate future.
(Opens up a world of possibilities. After all, I'm not wedded to the DataWise5000 idea. Other options are good too.) I keep walking, loping really. I pass by the subway entrance. It's a long way to Chelsea but I have to use shank's mare (my mother's mother's expression, even though I don't think she ever saw a mare in the flesh or walked more than a few hundred feet from car to her Indiana Piggly Wiggly); I'm worried about getting recognized. Those damn CCTVs. Everywhere.
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