Ferguson muttered. “Insane.”
“Ah, madness and brilliance—they’re not mutually exclusive,” Rhyme replied. “I think we can agree on that.”
Then Marko rubbed his close-cropped head and laughed. “I’m sort of surprised you didn’t suspect me. I mean, think about it. I was first on the scene at the Twenty-sixth Street homicide, I knew forensics, I’d taken your course and you could assume I’d read your book.”
Rhyme grunted. “Well, sorry to say, Kid, but you
were
a suspect. The first one.”
“Me?”
“Sure. For the reasons you just mentioned.”
Sellitto said, “But Linc had me check you out. You were in the lab in Queens, working late, when the first vic was killed.”
“We had to check. No offense,” Rhyme said.
“It’s cool, sir… Lincoln.”
“All right,” Sellitto muttered. “I got paperwork to do.” He left with Ferguson, who would go downtown to dictate his statement. Marko, too, left for the night.
“That his first name or last?” Rhyme asked.
“Don’t know,” Sachs replied.
An hour later, she’d finished bundling up the last of the evidence collection bags and jars and boxes for transport to the evidence storage facility in Queens.
“We’ll definitely need to air the place out,” Rhyme muttered. “Smells like an alleyway in here.”
Sachs agreed. She flung open the windows and poured them each a Glenmorangie scotch. She dropped into the rattan chair beside Rhyme’s Storm Arrow. His drink was in a tumbler, sprouting a straw. She placed it in a cup holder near his mouth. He had good movement of his right arm and hand, thanks to the surgery, but he was still learning the subtleties of control and didn’t want to risk spilling valuable single-malt.
“So,” she said, regarding him with a gleam in her eye.
“You’re looking coy, Sachs.”
“Well, I was just thinking. Are you finally going to admit that there’s more to policing than physical evidence?”
Rhyme thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”
She laughed. “Rhyme, we closed this one because of deductions from witness statements and observations… and a little profiling. Evidence didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Ah,” Rhyme said, “but there’s a flaw in your logic, Sachs.”
“Which is?”
“Those deductions and observations all came from the fact that somebody bought a textbook of mine, correct?”
“True.”
“And what was the book about?”
She shrugged. “Evidence.”
“Ergo, physical evidence was the basis for closing the case.”
“You’re not going to concede this one, are you, Rhyme?”
“Do I ever?” he asked and, placing his hand on hers, enjoyed a long sip of the smoky liquor.
Please read on for a preview of
THE KILL ROOM
the new Lincoln Rhyme novel
On sale June 4, 2013.
Chapter 1
The flash of light troubled him.
A glint, white or pale yellow, in the distance.
From the water? From the strip of land across the peaceful turquoise bay?
But here, there could be no danger. Here, he was in a beautiful and isolated resort. Here, he was out of the glare of media and the gaze of enemies.
Roberto Moreno squinted out the window. He was merely in his late thirties but his eyes were not good and he pushed the frames higher on his nose and scanned the vista—the garden outside the suite’s window, the narrow white beach, the pulsing blue-green sea. Beautiful, isolated… and protected. No vessels bobbed within sight. And even if an enemy with a rifle could have learned he was here and made his way unseen through the industrial plants on that spit of land a mile away across the water, the distance and the pollution clouding the view would have made a shot impossible.
No more flashes, no more glints.
You’re safe. Of course you are.
But still Moreno remained wary. Like Martin Luther King, like Gandhi, he was always at risk. This was the way of his life. He wasn’t afraid of death. But he was afraid of dying before his work was done. And at
“Ah, madness and brilliance—they’re not mutually exclusive,” Rhyme replied. “I think we can agree on that.”
Then Marko rubbed his close-cropped head and laughed. “I’m sort of surprised you didn’t suspect me. I mean, think about it. I was first on the scene at the Twenty-sixth Street homicide, I knew forensics, I’d taken your course and you could assume I’d read your book.”
Rhyme grunted. “Well, sorry to say, Kid, but you
were
a suspect. The first one.”
“Me?”
“Sure. For the reasons you just mentioned.”
Sellitto said, “But Linc had me check you out. You were in the lab in Queens, working late, when the first vic was killed.”
“We had to check. No offense,” Rhyme said.
“It’s cool, sir… Lincoln.”
“All right,” Sellitto muttered. “I got paperwork to do.” He left with Ferguson, who would go downtown to dictate his statement. Marko, too, left for the night.
“That his first name or last?” Rhyme asked.
“Don’t know,” Sachs replied.
An hour later, she’d finished bundling up the last of the evidence collection bags and jars and boxes for transport to the evidence storage facility in Queens.
“We’ll definitely need to air the place out,” Rhyme muttered. “Smells like an alleyway in here.”
Sachs agreed. She flung open the windows and poured them each a Glenmorangie scotch. She dropped into the rattan chair beside Rhyme’s Storm Arrow. His drink was in a tumbler, sprouting a straw. She placed it in a cup holder near his mouth. He had good movement of his right arm and hand, thanks to the surgery, but he was still learning the subtleties of control and didn’t want to risk spilling valuable single-malt.
“So,” she said, regarding him with a gleam in her eye.
“You’re looking coy, Sachs.”
“Well, I was just thinking. Are you finally going to admit that there’s more to policing than physical evidence?”
Rhyme thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”
She laughed. “Rhyme, we closed this one because of deductions from witness statements and observations… and a little profiling. Evidence didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Ah,” Rhyme said, “but there’s a flaw in your logic, Sachs.”
“Which is?”
“Those deductions and observations all came from the fact that somebody bought a textbook of mine, correct?”
“True.”
“And what was the book about?”
She shrugged. “Evidence.”
“Ergo, physical evidence was the basis for closing the case.”
“You’re not going to concede this one, are you, Rhyme?”
“Do I ever?” he asked and, placing his hand on hers, enjoyed a long sip of the smoky liquor.
Please read on for a preview of
THE KILL ROOM
the new Lincoln Rhyme novel
On sale June 4, 2013.
Chapter 1
The flash of light troubled him.
A glint, white or pale yellow, in the distance.
From the water? From the strip of land across the peaceful turquoise bay?
But here, there could be no danger. Here, he was in a beautiful and isolated resort. Here, he was out of the glare of media and the gaze of enemies.
Roberto Moreno squinted out the window. He was merely in his late thirties but his eyes were not good and he pushed the frames higher on his nose and scanned the vista—the garden outside the suite’s window, the narrow white beach, the pulsing blue-green sea. Beautiful, isolated… and protected. No vessels bobbed within sight. And even if an enemy with a rifle could have learned he was here and made his way unseen through the industrial plants on that spit of land a mile away across the water, the distance and the pollution clouding the view would have made a shot impossible.
No more flashes, no more glints.
You’re safe. Of course you are.
But still Moreno remained wary. Like Martin Luther King, like Gandhi, he was always at risk. This was the way of his life. He wasn’t afraid of death. But he was afraid of dying before his work was done. And at
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