"No, Rhyme, looks like the cutting was postmortem."
She vaguely heard the criminalist's voice talking to his aide, telling Thom
to write this on the evidence chart. He was saying something else but she wasn't paying any attention. The sight of the victim gripped her hard and wouldn't let go. But this was as she wanted it. Yes, she could give up the dead-the way all crime scene cops had to do-and in a moment she would. But death, she felt, deserved a moment of stillness. Sachs did this not out of any sense of spirituality, though, or abstract respect for the dead; no, it was for herself, so that her heart would resist hardening to stone, a process that happened all too frequently in this calling.
She realized that Rhyme was talking to her. 'What?" she asked.
"1 was wondering, any weapons?"
"No sign of them. But 1 haven't searched yet."
A sergeant and a uniformed officer joined Sellitto in the doorway. "Been
talking to the neighbors," one of them said. Nodding toward the body then doing a double take. She guessed he hadn't seen the carnage up close yet.
"Vic was a nice, quiet guy. Everybody liked him. Gay but not into rough trade or anything. Hadn't been seeing anybody for a while."
Sachs nodded then said into her mike, "Doesn't sound like he knew the
killer, Rhyme." 'We didn't think that was likely now, did we?" the criminalist said. "The
Conjurer's got a different agenda-whatever the hell it is."
'What line of work?" she asked the officers.
"Makeup artist and stylist for one of the theaters on Broadway. We
found his case in the alley. You know, hair spray, makeup, brushes." Sachs wondered if Calvert had ever been hired by commercial photographers and, if so, if he'd worked on her when she'd been with the Chantelle modeling agency on Madison Avenue. Unlike many photographers and the ad agency account people, makeup artists treated models as if they were human beings. An account exec might offer, "All right, let's get her painted and see what she looks like," and the makeup artist would mutter, "Excuse me, I didn't know she was a picket fence."
An Asian-American detective from the Ninth Precinct, which covered this part of town, walked up to the doorway, hanging up his cell phone. "How 'bout this one, huh?" he asked breezily.
"How 'bout it," Sellitto muttered. "Any idea how he got away? The vic called nine-one-one himself. Your respondings must've got to the scene in ten minutes."
"Six," the detective said.
A sergeant said, 'We rolled up silent and covered all the doors and win
dows. When we got inside, the body was still warm. I'm talking ninety-eight point six. We did a door-to-door but no sign of the doer."
'Wits?"
The sergeant nodded. "The only person in the hall when we got here
was this old lady. She was the one let us in. When she gets back we'll talk to her. Maybe she got a look at him."
"She left?" Sellitto asked.
"Yeah."
Rhyme had heard. "You know who it was, don't you?"
"Goddamn," the policewoman snapped.
The detective said, "No, it's okay. We left cards under everybody's door. She'll call us back."
"No, she won't," Sachs said, sighing. "That was the doer."
"Her?" the sergeant asked, his voice high. He laughed.
"She wasn't a her," Sachs explained. "She only looked like an old lady." "Hey, Officer," Sellitto said, "let's not get too paranoid. The guy can't do a sex-change operation or anything." "Yes, he can. Remember what Kara told us. It was her, Lieutenant. Want
to bet?"
In her ear Rhyme's voice said, 'Tm not taking odds on that one, Sachs."
The sergeant said defensively, "She was, like, seventy years old or some
thing. And carrying a big bag of groceries. A pineapple-" "Look," she said and pointed to the kitchen counter, on which were two spiky leaves. Next to them was a little card on a rubber band, courtesy of Dole, offering tasty recipes for fresh pineapple.
Hell. They'd had him-he was inches away from them.
"And," Rhyme continued, "he probably had the murder weapon in the
grocery bag."
She repeated this to the increasingly sullen detective from the Nine. "You didn't see her face, right?" she asked the sergeant.
"Not really. Just glanced at her. It was like, you know, all made up. Covered with, what's that stuff? My grandmother used to wear it?"
"Rouge?" Sachs asked..
"Yeah. And painted-on eyebrows.... Well, we'll find her now. She... he can't've got that far." Rhyme said, "He's changed clothes again, Sachs. Probably dumped
them nearby." She said to the Asian detective, "He's wearing something else now. But the sergeant here can give you a description of the clothes. You should send a detail to check out the Dumpsters and the alleyways around here." The detective frowned coolly and looked Sachs up and down. A cautionary glance from Sellitto reminded her that an important part of becoming sergeant was not acting like one until you actually were. He then authorized the search and the detective picked up his radio and called it in.
Sachs suited up in the Tyvek overalls and walked the grid in the hall and the alleyway (where she found the strangest bit of evidence she'd ever come across: a toy black cat). She then ran the gruesome scene in the young man's apartment, processed the body and assembled the evidence.
She was heading for her car when Sellitto stopped her.
"Hey, hold on, Officer." He hung up his phone, on which he'd apparently just had a difficult conversation, to judge from his scowl. 'I've gotta
meet with the captain and dep com about the Conjurer case. But I need you to do something for me. We're going to add somebody to the team. I want you to pick him up."
"Sure. But why somebody else?"
"'Cause we've had two bodies in four hours and there're no fucking sus
pects," he snapped. "And that means the brass aren't happy. And here's your first lesson about being a sergeant-when the brass ain't happy, you ain't happy. "
The Bridge of Sighs. This was the aerial walkway connecting the two soaring towers of the
Manhattan Detention Center on Centre Street in downtown Manhattan. The Bridge of Sighs-the route walked by the grandest Mafiosos with a hundred hired kills to their names. Walked by terrified young men who'd done nothing more than take a Sammy Sosa baseball bat to the asshole who'd knocked up their sister or cousin. By edgy cluckheads who'd killed a tourist for forty-two dollars' cause I needed the crack, needed the rock, needed it, man, I needed it....
Amelia Sachs crossed the bridge now, on her way to detention-technically the Bernard B. Kerik Complex but still known informally as the Tombs, a nickname inherited from the original city jail located across the street. Here, high above the governmental 'hood of the city, Sachs gave her name to a guard, surrendered her Glock (she'd left her unofficial weapona switchblade-in the Camaro) and entered the secure lobby on the other side of a noisy, electric door. It groaned shut.
A few minutes later the man she was here to pick up came out of a nearby prisoner interview room. Trim, in his late thirties, with thinning brown hair and a faint grin molded into his easygoing face. He wore a black sportscoat over a blue dress shirt and jeans.
"Amelia, hey there," came the drawl. "So I can hitch a ride with you up
to Lincoln's place?"
"Hi, Rol. You bet."
Detective Roland Bell unbuttoned his jacket and she caught a glimpse of his belt. He, too, in accordance with regs, was weaponless but she noticed two empty holsters on Bell's midriff. She remembered when they worked together they often compared stories of "driving nails," a southernism for shooting-one of his hobbies and for Sachs a competitive sport.
Two men who'd also been in the prisoner interview room joined them. One was in a suit, a detective she'd met before. Crew cut Luis Martinez, a quiet man with fast, careful eyes.
The second man wore Saturday business clothes: khaki slacks and a black Izod shirt, under a faded windbreaker. He was introduced to Sachs as Charles Grady though Sachs knew him by sight; the assistant district attorney was a celebrity among New York law enforcers. The lean, middle-aged Harvard Law grad had remained in the D.A.'s office long after most prosecutors had fled to more lucrative pastures. "Pit bull" and "tenacious" were just two of the many cliches the press regularly applied to him. He was likened favorably to Rudolph Giuliani; unlike the former mayor, however, Grady had no political aspirations. He was content to stay in the prosecutor's office and pursue his passion, which he described simply as "putting bad guys in jail."
And which he happened to be damn good at; his conviction record was one of the best in the history of the city.
Bell was here thanks to Grady's current case. The state was prosecuting a forty-five-year-old insurance agent who lived in a small rural town in upstate New York. Andrew Constable was known less for writing homeowner's policies, though, than for his local militia group, the 'Patriot Assembly. He was charged with conspiracy to commit murder and hate crimes and the case had been moved down here on a change of venue motion.
As the trial date approached, Grady had begun to get death threats. Then a few days ago the prosecutor had received a call from the office of Fred Dellray, an FBI agent who often worked with Rhyme and Sellitto. Dellray was currently in parts unknown on a classified anti-terrorist assignment but fellow agents had learned that a serious attempt on Grady's life might be imminent. Thursday night or early Friday morning Grady's office had been burglarized. At that point the decision was made to call Roland Bell.
The soft-spoken North Carolina native's official assignment was working Homicide and other major crimes with Lon Sellitto. But he also headed up an unofficial division of NYPD detectives known as SWAT, which wasn't the same famous acronym that every viewer of Cops knows; this version stood for the "Saving the Witness's Ass Team."
Bell had, as he expressed it, "this sorta knack for keeping people alive other people want dead." The result was that in addition to his regular investigation caseload with
Sellitto and Rhyme, Bell ended up doing double duty manning the protection detail.
But now Grady's bodyguards were in place and the brass downtown the unhappy brass-had decided to gear up the effort to nail the Conjurer. More muscle was needed on the Sellitto-Rhyme team and Bell was a logical choice.
"So that was Andrew Constable," Grady said to Bell, with a nod through
the greasy window into the interview room. Sachs stepped to the window and saw a slim, rather distinguishedlooking prisoner in an orange jumpsuit, sitting at a table, his head down, nodding slowly. "He what you expected?" Grady continued.
"Don't reckon'," Bell drawled. 'Was thinkin' he'd be more hill country. More of a blueprint bigot, you know what I mean? But that fella, he's fair mannerable. Fact is, Charles, I have to say, he didn't feel guilty." "Sure doesn't." Grady grimaced. "Gonna be hard to get a conviction." Then a wry laugh. "But that's what they pay me the big bucks for." Grady's salary was less than that of a first-year associate at a Wall Street law firm. Bell asked, "Anything more about the break-in at your office? The preliminary crime scene report ready yet? I need to see it."
"It's being expedited. We'll make sure you get a copy."
Bell said, 'We got another situation needs looking into. I'll leave my fellows and girls with you and your family. But I'll be a phone call away." "Thanks, Detective," Grady said. He then added, "My daughter says hi. We've got to get her together with your boys. And meet that lady friend of yours. Where's she live again?"
"Lucy's down in North Carolina."
"She's police too, right?"
"Yep, acting head of the sheriff's department. Metropolis of Tanner's Comer."
Luis Martinez noticed Grady start for the door and he was instantly at the prosecutor's side. "You just want to wait here for a minute, Charles?" The bodyguard left the secure area and retrieved his pistol from the guard who oversaw the lockbox behind the desk and looked over the hallway and bridge carefully.
It was then that a soft voice sounded behind them.
"Hello, miss."
Sachs detected in the words a particular lilt, formed by a history of ser
vice labor and contact with the public. She turned and saw Andrew Constable standing next to a huge guard. The prisoner was quite tall, his posture completely erect. His salt-and-pepper hair was wavy and thick. His short, round lawyer stood next to him.
He continued, "Are you part of the team looking out for Mr. Grady?" "Andrew," his lawyer cautioned.
