colonel.”
“Well . . . ”
Too much? he wondered. No. He said, “I’m service. Sergeant. Army.”
“No! Where you stationed?”
“Special Operations. In New Jersey.” She’d know enough not to ask any more about Special Ops activities. “I’m glad you’ve got a soldier in the family. I sometimes don’t tell people what I do. It’s not too cool. ’Specially around here. New York, I mean.”
“Don’t you worry about that. I think it’s very cool, friend.” She nodded at the Fender case. “And you’re a musician, too?”
“Not really. I volunteer at a day care center. Teach kids music. It’s something the base does.”
Looking outside. Flashing lights. Blue white. A squad car streaked past.
She scooted her chair closer and he detected a repulsive scent. It made him go cringey again and the image came to mind of worms oozing through her greasy hair. He nearly vomited. He excused himself for a moment and spent three minutes scrubbing his hands. When he returned he noticed two things: that the top button of her blouse had been undone and that the back of her vest contained about a thousand cat hairs. Cats, to Stephen, were just four-legged worms.
He looked outside and saw that the line of cops was getting closer. Stephen glanced at his watch and said, “Say, I’ve gotta pick up my cat. He’s at the vet—”
“Oh, you have a cat? What’s his name?” She leaned forward.
“Buddy.”
Her eyes glowed. “Oh, cutey cutey cute. You have a picture?”
Of a fucking cat?
“Not on me,” Stephen said, clicked his tongue regretfully.
“Is poor Buddy sicky-wicky?”
“Just a checkup.”
“Oh, good for you. Watch out for those worms.”
“How’s that?” he asked, alarmed.
“You know, like heartworm.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Uhm, if you’re good, friend,” Sheila said, singsongy again, “maybe I’ll introduce you to Garfield, Andrea, and Essie. Well, it’s really Esmeralda but she’d never approve of that, of course.”
“They sound so wonderful,” he said, gazing at the pictures Sheila’d dug from her wallet. “I’d love to meet them.”
“You know,” she blurted, “I only live three blocks away.”
“Hey, got an idea.” He looked bright. “Maybe I could drop this stuff off and meet your babies. Then you could help me collect Buddy.”
“Neat-o,” Sheila said.
“Let’s go.”
Outside, she said, “Ooo, look at all the police. What’s going on?”
“Wow. Dunno.” Stephen slung the backpack over his shoulder. Something metal clinked. Maybe a flash grenade banged against his Beretta.
“What’s in there?”
“Musical instruments. For the kids.”
“Oh, like triangles?”
“Yeah, like triangles.”
“You want me to carry your guitar?”
“You mind?”
“Uhm, I think it’d be neat.”
She took the Fender case and slipped her arm through his and they walked past a cluster of cops, blind to the loving couple, and continued down the street, laughing and talking about those crazy cats.
. . . Chapter Six
Hour 1 of 45
T hom appeared in Lincoln Rhyme’s doorway and motioned someone inside.
A trim, crew-cut man in his fifties. Captain Bo Haumann, head of the NYPD’s Emergency Services Unit—the police’s SWAT team. Grizzled and tendony, Haumann looked like the drill sergeant he’d been in the service. He spoke slowly and reasonably, and he looked you dead in the eye, with a faint smile, when he talked. In tactical operations he was often suited up in flak jacket and Nomex hood and was usually one of the first officers through the door in a dynamic barricade entry.
“It’s really him?” the captain asked. “The Dancer?”
“S’what we heard,” Sellitto said.
The slight pause, which from the gray-haired cop was like a loud sigh from anyone else. Then he said,“I’ve got a couple of Thirty-two-E teams dedicated.”
Thirty-two-E officers, nicknamed after their operations room at Police Plaza, were an unkept secret. Officially
“Well . . . ”
Too much? he wondered. No. He said, “I’m service. Sergeant. Army.”
“No! Where you stationed?”
“Special Operations. In New Jersey.” She’d know enough not to ask any more about Special Ops activities. “I’m glad you’ve got a soldier in the family. I sometimes don’t tell people what I do. It’s not too cool. ’Specially around here. New York, I mean.”
“Don’t you worry about that. I think it’s very cool, friend.” She nodded at the Fender case. “And you’re a musician, too?”
“Not really. I volunteer at a day care center. Teach kids music. It’s something the base does.”
Looking outside. Flashing lights. Blue white. A squad car streaked past.
She scooted her chair closer and he detected a repulsive scent. It made him go cringey again and the image came to mind of worms oozing through her greasy hair. He nearly vomited. He excused himself for a moment and spent three minutes scrubbing his hands. When he returned he noticed two things: that the top button of her blouse had been undone and that the back of her vest contained about a thousand cat hairs. Cats, to Stephen, were just four-legged worms.
He looked outside and saw that the line of cops was getting closer. Stephen glanced at his watch and said, “Say, I’ve gotta pick up my cat. He’s at the vet—”
“Oh, you have a cat? What’s his name?” She leaned forward.
“Buddy.”
Her eyes glowed. “Oh, cutey cutey cute. You have a picture?”
Of a fucking cat?
“Not on me,” Stephen said, clicked his tongue regretfully.
“Is poor Buddy sicky-wicky?”
“Just a checkup.”
“Oh, good for you. Watch out for those worms.”
“How’s that?” he asked, alarmed.
“You know, like heartworm.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Uhm, if you’re good, friend,” Sheila said, singsongy again, “maybe I’ll introduce you to Garfield, Andrea, and Essie. Well, it’s really Esmeralda but she’d never approve of that, of course.”
“They sound so wonderful,” he said, gazing at the pictures Sheila’d dug from her wallet. “I’d love to meet them.”
“You know,” she blurted, “I only live three blocks away.”
“Hey, got an idea.” He looked bright. “Maybe I could drop this stuff off and meet your babies. Then you could help me collect Buddy.”
“Neat-o,” Sheila said.
“Let’s go.”
Outside, she said, “Ooo, look at all the police. What’s going on?”
“Wow. Dunno.” Stephen slung the backpack over his shoulder. Something metal clinked. Maybe a flash grenade banged against his Beretta.
“What’s in there?”
“Musical instruments. For the kids.”
“Oh, like triangles?”
“Yeah, like triangles.”
“You want me to carry your guitar?”
“You mind?”
“Uhm, I think it’d be neat.”
She took the Fender case and slipped her arm through his and they walked past a cluster of cops, blind to the loving couple, and continued down the street, laughing and talking about those crazy cats.
. . . Chapter Six
Hour 1 of 45
T hom appeared in Lincoln Rhyme’s doorway and motioned someone inside.
A trim, crew-cut man in his fifties. Captain Bo Haumann, head of the NYPD’s Emergency Services Unit—the police’s SWAT team. Grizzled and tendony, Haumann looked like the drill sergeant he’d been in the service. He spoke slowly and reasonably, and he looked you dead in the eye, with a faint smile, when he talked. In tactical operations he was often suited up in flak jacket and Nomex hood and was usually one of the first officers through the door in a dynamic barricade entry.
“It’s really him?” the captain asked. “The Dancer?”
“S’what we heard,” Sellitto said.
The slight pause, which from the gray-haired cop was like a loud sigh from anyone else. Then he said,“I’ve got a couple of Thirty-two-E teams dedicated.”
Thirty-two-E officers, nicknamed after their operations room at Police Plaza, were an unkept secret. Officially
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