fades as a brilliant idea comes to mind.
“Hey, I don’t know if you have plans but we’re having a late brunch. You want to join us?”
“Oh, thanks, but I’m a mess.”
“Please… we were out all day on a Walk for the Cure, my partner and me.” Nice touch, I think. And wholly improvised. “We’re sweatier than you, believe me. This is way casual. It’ll be fun. There’s a senior AE from Thompson there. And a couple guys from Burston. Cute but straight.” I shrug mournfully.
“And we’ve got a surprise actor too. I won’t tell you who.”
“Well…”
“Oh, come on. You look like you need a Cosmo… At the photo shoot, didn’t we both decide that was our favorite drink?”
Chapter Six
The Tombs.
Okay, it wasn’t the Tombs any longer, the original one from the 1800s. That building was long gone, but everybody still used the name when describing this place: the Manhattan Detention Center, downtown, in which Arthur Rhyme was now sitting, his heart doing the same despairing thud, thud, thud it had regularly since he was arrested.
But whether the place was called the Tombs, the MDC or the Bernard Kerik Center (as it had been temporarily until the former police chief and corrections head went down in flames) to Arthur the place was simply hell.
Absolute hell.
He was in an orange jumpsuit like everyone else but there the similarity with his fellow cons ended. The five-foot-eleven man, 190 pounds, with corporate-clipped brown hair was as different as could be from Page 32
the other souls awaiting trial here. No, he wasn’t big and inked (he’d learned that meant tattooed) or shaved or stupid or black or Latino. The sort of criminal Arthur would resemble—businessmen charged with white-collar crimes—didn’t reside in the Tombs until trial; they were out on bond. Whatever sins they’d committed, the infractions didn’t warrant the two-million-dollar bail set for Arthur.
So the Tombs had been his home since May 13—the longest and most wrenchingly difficult period of his life.
And bewildering.
Arthur might have met the woman he was supposed to have killed, but he couldn’t even recall her. Yes, he’d been to that gallery in SoHo, where apparently she’d browsed too, though he couldn’t remember talking to her. And, yes, he loved the work of Harvey Prescott and had been sick at heart when he’d had to sell his canvas after losing his job. But stealing one? Killing someone? Were they fucking mad? Do I look like a killer?
It was a hopeless mystery to him, like Fermat’s theorem, the mathematical proof that, even after learning the explanation, he still didn’t get. Her blood in his car? He was being framed, of course. Even thinking the police might have done it themselves.
After ten days in the Tombs, O.J.’s defense seems a bit less Twilight Zone .
Why, why, why? Who was behind this? He thought of the angry letters he’d written when Princeton passed him over. Some were stupid and petty and threatening. Well, there were plenty of unstable people in the academic field. Maybe they wanted revenge for the stink he’d made. And then that student in his class who’d come on to him. He’d told her, no, he didn’t want to have an affair. She’d gone ballistic.
Fatal Attraction…
The police had checked her out and decided she wasn’t behind the killing but how hard had they worked to verify her alibi?
He looked around the large common area now, the dozens of nearby cons—the inside word for prisoners. At first he’d been regarded as a curiosity. His stock seemed to rise when they’d learned he’d been arrested for murder but then it fell at the news that the victim hadn’t tried to steal his drugs or cheat on him—two acceptable reasons for killing a woman.
Then when it was clear he was just one of those white guys who’d fucked up, life got ugly.
Jostling, challenges, taking his milk carton—just like in middle school. The sex thing wasn’t what people thought. Not
“Hey, I don’t know if you have plans but we’re having a late brunch. You want to join us?”
“Oh, thanks, but I’m a mess.”
“Please… we were out all day on a Walk for the Cure, my partner and me.” Nice touch, I think. And wholly improvised. “We’re sweatier than you, believe me. This is way casual. It’ll be fun. There’s a senior AE from Thompson there. And a couple guys from Burston. Cute but straight.” I shrug mournfully.
“And we’ve got a surprise actor too. I won’t tell you who.”
“Well…”
“Oh, come on. You look like you need a Cosmo… At the photo shoot, didn’t we both decide that was our favorite drink?”
Chapter Six
The Tombs.
Okay, it wasn’t the Tombs any longer, the original one from the 1800s. That building was long gone, but everybody still used the name when describing this place: the Manhattan Detention Center, downtown, in which Arthur Rhyme was now sitting, his heart doing the same despairing thud, thud, thud it had regularly since he was arrested.
But whether the place was called the Tombs, the MDC or the Bernard Kerik Center (as it had been temporarily until the former police chief and corrections head went down in flames) to Arthur the place was simply hell.
Absolute hell.
He was in an orange jumpsuit like everyone else but there the similarity with his fellow cons ended. The five-foot-eleven man, 190 pounds, with corporate-clipped brown hair was as different as could be from Page 32
the other souls awaiting trial here. No, he wasn’t big and inked (he’d learned that meant tattooed) or shaved or stupid or black or Latino. The sort of criminal Arthur would resemble—businessmen charged with white-collar crimes—didn’t reside in the Tombs until trial; they were out on bond. Whatever sins they’d committed, the infractions didn’t warrant the two-million-dollar bail set for Arthur.
So the Tombs had been his home since May 13—the longest and most wrenchingly difficult period of his life.
And bewildering.
Arthur might have met the woman he was supposed to have killed, but he couldn’t even recall her. Yes, he’d been to that gallery in SoHo, where apparently she’d browsed too, though he couldn’t remember talking to her. And, yes, he loved the work of Harvey Prescott and had been sick at heart when he’d had to sell his canvas after losing his job. But stealing one? Killing someone? Were they fucking mad? Do I look like a killer?
It was a hopeless mystery to him, like Fermat’s theorem, the mathematical proof that, even after learning the explanation, he still didn’t get. Her blood in his car? He was being framed, of course. Even thinking the police might have done it themselves.
After ten days in the Tombs, O.J.’s defense seems a bit less Twilight Zone .
Why, why, why? Who was behind this? He thought of the angry letters he’d written when Princeton passed him over. Some were stupid and petty and threatening. Well, there were plenty of unstable people in the academic field. Maybe they wanted revenge for the stink he’d made. And then that student in his class who’d come on to him. He’d told her, no, he didn’t want to have an affair. She’d gone ballistic.
Fatal Attraction…
The police had checked her out and decided she wasn’t behind the killing but how hard had they worked to verify her alibi?
He looked around the large common area now, the dozens of nearby cons—the inside word for prisoners. At first he’d been regarded as a curiosity. His stock seemed to rise when they’d learned he’d been arrested for murder but then it fell at the news that the victim hadn’t tried to steal his drugs or cheat on him—two acceptable reasons for killing a woman.
Then when it was clear he was just one of those white guys who’d fucked up, life got ugly.
Jostling, challenges, taking his milk carton—just like in middle school. The sex thing wasn’t what people thought. Not
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