"Goddamn it," she said.
A silence.
Cooper put an end to it with, "I... Well."
"Put Lincoln on."
"Oh-oh," the tech whispered. "Look, Amelia, the thing is--"
"And not speaker. Headset."
Her finger disappeared into her hair and she scratched. A sign of the tension--frustration at the case. And anger. Rhyme. It was bad enough he'd quit the business; now she had to deal with fucking interference?
There was a rustle through her speaker as Cooper or Thom placed the headset on Rhyme. Most conversations with him, of course, occurred via speakerphone. Not much chance for privacy. She didn't want anyone else to hear what she was about to say.
"Sachs. Where--?"
"What's Mel doing there? I needed him for the Unsub Forty case. You stole him."
A pause. "I asked if he'd help me on the Frommer litigation," Rhyme countered. "There's lab work we have to do. I didn't know you wanted him."
She snapped, "Queens HQ wasn't doing everything it should have."
"I didn't know that. How would I know? You never said anything."
And why would the subject even come up with you? she thought. Then she muttered, "How could you just move him to a civilian case? I'm not even sure you can do that."
"He took some time off. He's not on duty."
"Oh, bullshit, Rhyme. Vacation? I'm running a murder."
"You were at the mall, Sachs. You saw what happened. My victim's as dead as yours." Lincoln Rhyme didn't play defense well.
"The difference is your escalator's not going to kill anyone else."
No response to that.
"Well, I don't think I'll need him for much longer."
"How much is that? In terms of hours? Minutes preferably."
He sighed. "We have to come up with a defendant in the next day or so."
"So, days then," she muttered. "Not hours."
Minutes were off the table.
He tried conciliation, though it dripped insincerity. "I'll make a call or two. Who're you working with at Crime Scene?"
"Who I'm working with is not Mel. That's the problem."
"Look, I--" This was from Mel Cooper, who had surely deduced what was happening.
"It's okay," Rhyme said to him.
No, it wasn't. She fumed silently. Professional and personal partners for years, they never fought about matters close to the heart. But when it came to cases, tempers could flare.
"I'm sure you can run some questions by him. He's nodding. See. He's happy to do that."
"I can't run questions by him. He's not a clerk at Pep Boys." She added, "On speaker."
There was a click.
Cooper was saying, "Amelia--"
"Okay, Mel. Listen. Ron will give you the details. I need some napkins analyzed for friction ridges and DNA. And we need the brand name of some varnish. And the type of wood from sawdust samples." She added firmly, for Rhyme's sake, not Cooper's, "I need somebody really good. As good as you."
The last was a bit petty, sure. She didn't care one iota.
"I'll make a call, Amelia."
"Thanks. Ron will send you the case number."
"Sure, of course."
Then Sachs heard a woman's low voice: "Is there anything I can do?"
Rhyme was saying, "No, keep going with that analysis."
Who was that? Sachs wondered.
Then he said, "Sachs, look--"
"I have to go, Rhyme."
She disconnected. Reflecting that it had been years since she'd hung up on him. She remembered when. During their first case.
At that moment Sachs realized that she'd been so focused on the phone call--and on her anger at Rhyme's "vacationing" the technician she needed--that she'd lost awareness of her surroundings: a mortal sin for any street cop--especially since she'd just seen what might have been a hostile.
Then she heard gritty footsteps coming up behind her, close. Her hand went to her Glock but it was too late to draw the weapon. The assailant was by then only a yard or so away.
CHAPTER 12
So. Didn't work." Juliette Archer was speaking of the experiment to pour Coca-Cola into the escalator, mimicking a clumsy shopper, and short-circuit the switch, opening the access panel.
"Yes, it did," Rhyme said, drawing a frown from her and Cooper. "The experiment was successful. It simply proved a supposition contrary to what we were hoping for: that Midwest Conveyance built an escalator that was not defective in regard to spilled liquids."
The manufacturer had considered that riders might spill drinks on their upward or downward journey and had protected the electronics and motor with a piece of plastic that turned out to be a runoff shield. The liquids would flow into a receptacle, nowhere near the servo motor that released the pin to open the access panel.
"Onward, upward." Rhyme ordered Cooper to continue experimenting: He was to physically strike the switch and servo motor with various objects to simulate mechanical interference: broom handle, hammer, shoe.
No response. The deadly access panel would not open.
Archer suggested the tech jump on the panel over and over again. Not a bad thought, and Rhyme told Cooper to do so, though with Thom standing by on the floor below to spot the man if he fell.
No effect. The locking pin wouldn't retract. The bracket would not shift in position. Nothing they could do would open the door, except pressing the button intended for that purpose, the button tucked safely away in a recessed receptacle, behind a locked cover.
Thinking, thinking...
"Bugs!" Rhyme called.
"You can't put microphones in the Department of Investigations office, Lincoln," Cooper said uneasily.
"My mistake. 'Bugs' is not correct; that's a very limited biological order. Hemiptera. Aphid or cicada, for instance. I should have been more accurate. The broader 'insect,' of which 'bug' is a subcategory. So I want insects. Although a bug would do."
"Oh." Cooper was relieved, though obviously confused.
"Good, Lincoln," Archer said. "A roach could have gotten inside and shorted out the switch or the motor, sure. Midwest Conveyance should have taken that into account and built in screens. They failed to do that, so the escalator's defective."
"Thom! Thom, where are you?"
The aide appeared. "More soda?"
"Dead insects."
"You found a bug in your soda? Impossible."
"'Bugs' again," Rhyme said with a scowl.
After the explanation Thom prowled the town house for critters--he was such a fastidious housekeeper that he had to extend the search to the storage area above the top-floor ceiling and the basement to come up with a few pathetic fly corpses and a desiccated spider.
"No roaches? I'd love a roach."
"Oh, please, Lincoln."
"There's that Chinese place on the cross street... Could you just find me one or two roaches. Dead is fine."
With a grimace, Thom went off on his small-game hunt.
But even rehydrated, the various creatures he came back with couldn't make the switch engage, or short out the servo motor, when they were placed against the contacts in the receptacle containing the plug.
As Cooper and Archer discussed other possible reasons the escalator could be considered legally defective, Rhyme found himself staring at the coatrack on which was hung one of Sachs's jackets. His mind wandered back to her hard words earlier. What the hell was she so upset about? She had no particular claim on Mel Cooper. And how was he supposed to know she was having trouble with the lab?
Then his anger skidded around to himself for wasting time thinking about the frisson between him and Sachs.
Back to work.
Rhyme ordered Cooper to clean all the lubricant off the pin and bracket and then close it again, to see if the pin would not fully extend to the locking position because the fitting was dry and therefore would be more likely to open because of random motion. Even without the grease, though, it secured the door perfectly when clo
sed.
Goddamn it. What had happened? Whitmore had said the product need not have been negligently--carelessly--built but it did have to be defective. They had to find some reason it had opened when it shouldn't have.
He muttered, "It's insect-proof, it's waterproof, it's shockproof... Was there lightning when the accident happened?"
Archer checked the weather. "No. Clear day."
A sigh. "Okay, Mel. Write down our paltry finds on the chart, if you would."
The tech walked to a whiteboard and did so.
The doorbell sounded and Rhyme looked at the monitor. "Ah, our barrister."
A moment later lawyer Evers Whitmore entered, walking perfectly upright, in a sharp navy-blue suit, every button occupying every hole. He carried his anachronistic briefcase in one hand and a shopping bag in the other.
"Mr. Rhyme."
He nodded. "This is Juliette Archer."
"I'm an intern."
"She's helping on the case."
Whitmore didn't even glance at her wheelchair or seem to be curious that the woman was as disabled as her mentor--or how her condition might help or hinder the investigation. He nodded a greeting then turned to Rhyme. "I have this. Mrs. Frommer asked me to deliver it to you. By means of thanks. She made it herself." From the shopping bag he extracted a plastic-wrapped loaf tied with a red ribbon and displayed it as if he were proffering Plaintiff's Exhibit One. "She said it was zucchini bread."
Rhyme wasn't sure what to make of the gift. Until recently his clients had primarily been the NYPD, FBI and other assorted law enforcers, none of whom sent him baked goods in gratitude. "Yes. Well. Thom. Thom!"
The aide appeared a moment later. "Oh, Mr. Whitmore." The reluctance to use first names seemed to be contagious.
"Mr. Reston. Here's a loaf of bread," the lawyer said, handing it over. "From Mrs. Frommer."
Rhyme said, "Refrigerate it or something."
"Zucchini bread. Smells good. I'll serve it."
"That's all right. We don't need any--"
"Of course I will."
"No, of course you won't. We'll save it for later." Rhyme had an ulterior motive for being contrary. He was thinking that the only way Juliette Archer would be able to eat any of the pastry was to have Thom feed her, and this would make her feel self-conscious. She was using the fingers of her right hand but not her arm. The left, with its intricate bracelet, was, of course, strapped to the wheelchair.
However, Archer, who seemed to get Rhyme's strategy and not much care for it, said in a firm voice: "Well, I'd like some."
And Rhyme realized that he'd broken one of his own rules; he'd been coddling her. He said, "Good. I will too. And coffee. Please."
Thom blinked at the reversal... and the politeness.
"I would care for some coffee, as well. Black please." From Whitmore. "If not inconvenient."
"Not at all."
"Any chance of a cappuccino?" Archer asked.
"One of my specialties. And I'll bring some tea, Mel." The aide disappeared.
Whitmore walked to the chart. He and the others looked it over.
WRONGFUL DEATH/PAIN AND SUFFERING CIVIL LAWSUIT
- Location of incident: Heights View Mall, Brooklyn.
- Victim: Greg Frommer, 44, clerk with Pretty Lady Shoes in mall.
- Store clerk, left Patterson Systems as Director of Marketing. Will attempt to show he would have returned to a similar or other higher-income job.
- COD: Loss of blood, internal organ trauma.
- Cause of action:
- Wrongful death/personal injury tort suit.
- Strict products liability.
- Negligence.
- Breach of implied warranty.
- Damages: compensatory, pain and suffering, possibly punitive. To be determined.
- Possible defendants:
- Midwest Conveyance, Inc. (manufacturer of escalator).
- Owner of property mall is located on (to be identified).
- Developer of mall (to be identified).
- Service maintaining escalator if other than manufacturer (to be identified).
- General and subcontractors installing escalator (to be identified).
- Cleaning crew?
- Additional defendants?
- Facts relevant to accident:
- Access panel opened spontaneously, victim fell into gears. Opened about 16 inches.
- Door weighed 42 pounds, sharp teeth on front contributed to death/injury.
- Door secured by latch. On springs. It popped open for unknown reason.
- Switch behind locked panel. On video no one appeared to push switch.
- Reasons for failure?
- switch or servo motor activated spontaneously. Why?
- Shorted out? Other electrical problem?
- Latch failed.
- Metal fatigue--possible, not likely.
- Didn't seat properly.
- Insects, liquid, mechanical contact? Not likely factors.
- Lightning? Not likely factor.
- No access to Dept. of Investigation or FDNY reports or records at this time.
- No access to failing escalator at this time (under quarantine by DOI).
Archer explained to Whitmore that she'd found no other similar accidents--in escalators made by any company, not just those in the product line of Midwest Conveyance. Then Mel Cooper gave the lawyer the details of their attempts to get the door to pop open spontaneously due to some outside factor or a flaw in the manufacturing of the unit.
"None of the theories worked on the mock-up," Rhyme told him.
"It doesn't look very promising, I must say," Whitmore offered. His voice sounded no more discouraged at this bad news than it would be enthusiastic had the conclusions gone in their favor. Still, Rhyme knew he would be troubled. Whitmore wouldn't be a man who took setbacks easily.
Rhyme's eyes were scanning the scaffolding, up and down. He wheeled closer, staring, staring.
He was vaguely aware of Thom arriving with a tray: the baked goods and beverages. Vaguely aware of conversation among Cooper and Archer and Whitmore. Vaguely aware of the lawyer's monotonous voice replying to something Archer had asked.
Then silence.
"Lincoln?" Thom's voice.
"It's defective," Rhyme whispered.
"What's that?" his aide asked.
"It is defective."
Whitmore said, "Yes, Mr. Rhyme. The problem is we don't know how it's defective."
"Oh, yes we do."
"Scared me a bit there," Amelia Sachs snapped, her voice sharp as the wind. "Possibility the perp might've been around." She removed her hand from the grip of her Glock.
The person who'd come up behind her just after her mobile call to Rhyme was Ron Pulaski, not Unsub 40 or any other assailant.
The young officer said, "Sorry. You were on the phone. Didn't want to interrupt."
"Well, next time circle wide. Wave. Or something... You see anybody looking like our unsub nearby, a few minutes ago?"
"He's here?"
"Well, he does like his White Castle. And I saw somebody shadowing me. You see anything?" she repeated impatiently.
"Nobody like him. Just a couple kids. Looked like a drug trans going down. I headed for 'em but they took off."
They might've been what she'd seen. Dust. Seagull. Gangbangers swapping bills for C.
"Where were you? Tried the office and your mobile." She noted he'd changed clothes, swapping his uniform for street.
He was looking around too. "After you left I got a call. I had to talk to a CI, Harlem. The Gutierrez case."
Took her a moment. Enrico Gutierrez. Wanted in a homicide--possibly murder, more likely low-grade manslaughter--that had been one of the first cases Pulaski had run, with another detective in Major Cases. One drug dealer had killed another, so there was little energy to close the case. She guessed the confidential informant had stumbled on some leads and called Pulaski. She said, "That old thing? Thought the
DA'd given up. Hardly worth the time."
"Got the word to clean the docket. Didn't you see the memo?"
Sachs didn't pay attention to a lot of memos that circulated through One Police Plaza. Public relations, useless information, new procedures that would be rescinded next month. Reinvigorating cases like Gutierrez's didn't make a lot of sense but, on the other hand, it wasn't for line detectives or patrol officers to question. And if Pulaski wanted to move up in the world of policing, word from on high had to be heeded. And memos taken seriously.
"Okay, Ron. But lean toward Unsub Forty. If our boy's got fertilizer bombs and poisons he's playing with, in addition to hammers, this's our priority. And answer your damn phone."
"Got it. Sure. I'll fit in Gutierrez best I can."
She explained what Charlotte and the manager at White Castle had said. Then added, "I've canvassed most of the stores around here and gotten to half of the streets he'd take to subways, buses or apartment complexes." She gave him the locations she'd been to and told him to keep going another few blocks. She told him too about the gypsy cab service where the unsub had possibly been spotted. "I want you to follow up with them. We need that driver. Keep up pressure."
"I'll handle it."
"I've got to get my mother to an appointment."
"How's she doing?"
"Hanging in there. Operation's in a few days."
"Give her my best."
A nod, then she returned to her Torino and fired up the big engine. In twenty minutes she was cruising along the streets of her neighborhood. She felt a comfort as she headed into the pleasant residential 'hood of Carroll Gardens. The place had been much scruffier when she'd grown up here. Now it was the bastion of PWSM. People With Some Money. Not enough to afford this kind of square footage in Manhattan and not willing to flee the city limits for suburbia. Gentrification didn't bother Amelia Sachs. She spent plenty of time in the bad parts of town and was glad to return home to a well-tended enclave with gardenias in unmolested flowerpots on the street, families bicycling through the parks and a high saturation of aromatic coffee shops (though she wouldn't mind banishing hipsters to SoHo and TriBeCa).
Well, look at this: a legitimate parking space. And only a block from her house. She could park practically anywhere if she left her NYPD placard on the dash. But she'd found this wasn't a wise practice. One morning she'd returned to her car to find Pig spray-painted on the windshield. She didn't think the word was much in use anymore and pictured the perpetrator as an unfortunate, aging anti-Vietnam-War protestor. Still, the cleaning had cost her four hundred bucks.