"And speaking of beverages." Rhyme looked at the bottle of single-malt scotch.
"No," Thom said bluntly. "Coffee." And returned to the kitchen.
Rude.
"So. What's the caper? Love that word."
Rhyme explained about the escalator accident and the suit that would be filed by Evers Whitmore on behalf of the widow and her son.
"Ah, right. In the news. Terrible." Cooper shook his head. "Never felt really comfortable getting on and off those things. I'll take the stairs, or even an elevator, though I'm not so crazy about them either."
He walked to the computer monitor, on which were dozens of photographs of the accident site, taken by Sachs, unofficially, since she hadn't been involved in the mishap investigation. They were of the open access panel to the pit, showing the motor and gears and walls, all covered with blood.
"Died from hemorrhaging?"
"And trauma. Cut mostly in half."
"Hm."
"Is that the actual unit?" Cooper returned to the scaffolding and began examining it closely. "No blood. It's been scrubbed?"
"No." Rhyme explained about the impossibility of getting access to the actual escalator for several months. But he hoped they could determine a likely cause of the failure from this mock-up. Rhyme's idea was to pay to borrow a portion of an identical model from a contractor in the area. Thom had found the tape measure Rhyme had requested and they'd determined there was enough clearance to get the machinery through the front door, disassembled, and put it back together in the hallway. The price for the rental was five thousand, which Whitmore would add to his legal fee and deduct from whatever they recovered from the defendant.
Workers had built a scaffolding and mounted the top plate--the access panel that had opened to swallow up Greg Frommer--along with its supporting pieces, hinges, and portions of the railing and control switches. On the floor were the motor and the gears, identical to those that had killed the victim.
Cooper was walking silently around the device, looking up, touching pieces. "Won't be evidentiary."
"No. We just need to find out what went wrong, why the panel at the top opened when it shouldn't have." Rhyme wheeled closer.
The tech was nodding. "So, I deduce that the escalator was going up at the time and just as the victim got to the top floor panel it popped up. How far open was it?"
"Amelia said about fourteen inches."
"She ran the scene?"
"No, she just happened to be there at the time, tracking an unsub. She lost him when the accident happened and she tried to save the vic. Couldn't."
"And the perp got away?"
"Yes."
"She wouldn't have been happy about that."
"She went to see the widow and found out she's in a pretty bad way. Had the idea to hook her up with a lawyer. That's how it all ended up in our laps."
"So, the access panel pops up--yes, I see it's on a spring. Must be heavy. The vic gets dragged underneath and then falls onto the motor and gears."
"Right. The teeth on the front edge of the panel cut him too. That's all the blood on the walls in the pictures."
"I see."
"Now I want you to get inside, poke around, find out how the damn thing works. How the access panel at the top opens, switches, levers, hinges, safety mechanisms. Everything. Get pictures. And we'll try to piece together what happened."
Cooper looked around. "The place hasn't changed much since you resigned."
"Then you know where the camera equipment's located," Rhyme said, his voice taut with impatience.
The tech chuckled. "And you haven't changed much either." He went to the shelves on a back wall of the parlor and selected a camera and flashlight with a headband. "Coal miner's son," he joked, mounting it on his forehead.
"Shoot away. Go!"
Cooper climbed up inside the mockup. Silent flashes began to flare.
The doorbell sounded.
Who could this be? The stiff attorney, Evers Whitmore, was back in his office talking to friends and family of Greg Frommer. He was trying to marshal evidence to prove that, although presently underemployed, Frommer would have gone back to being a successful marketing manager in the near future, allowing the damage claim to be much higher than one based on his recent income.
Was the visitor one of his doctors? Rhyme's quadriplegic condition necessitated regular exams by neuro specialists, as well as physical therapists, but he had no sessions scheduled.
He wheeled to the closed-circuit security camera screen to see who it might be.
Oh, hell.
Rhyme typically was irritated when people arrived unannounced (or announced, for that matter).
But today the dismay was far more intense than usual.
"Yes, yes," the man was assuring Amelia Sachs, "I know who you're talking about. Quiet guy."
She was speaking to the manager of the Queens White Castle hamburger joint in Astoria.
"Very tall, very skinny. White. Pale."
The manager was, in contrast, an olive-skinned man, with a round, cheerful face. They were at the front window. He had been cleaning it himself, seemingly proud of the establishment in his care. The smell of Windex was strong, as was the aroma of onions. Appealing too, the latter. Sachs's last meal was supper yesterday.
"Do you know his name?"
"I don't, no. But..." He looked up. "Char?"
A counterwoman in her twenties looked over. If she ate the restaurant's specialty, she did so in moderation. The slim woman finished an order and joined the two.
Sachs identified herself and, protocol, showed the shield. The woman's eyes shone. She was tickled to be part of a CSI moment.
"Charlotte works a lot of shifts. She's our anchor."
A blush.
"Mr. Rodriguez thought you might know a tall man who comes in some," Sachs said. "Tall, very thin. White. He might have worn a green checkered or plaid jacket. A baseball cap."
"Sure. I remember him!"
"Do you know his name?"
"No, just, he's hard to miss."
"What can you tell me about him?"
"Well, like you said. Thin. Skinny. And he eats a lot. Ten, fifteen sandwiches."
Sandwiches... Burgers.
"But he could be buying them for other people, couldn't he?"
"No, no, no! He eats them here. Most of the time. There's this word my mother says about eating, scarfs them down. And two milk shakes. So skinny but he eats like that! Sometimes a milk shake and a soda. How long have you been a detective?"
"A few years."
"That's so neat!"
"Was he ever with anyone?"
"Not that I saw."
"He comes here often?"
"Maybe once a week, every two weeks."
"Any impression that he lives around here?" Sachs asked. "Anything he might've said?"
"No. Never said anything to me. Just ordered, always kept his head down. Wears a hat." Her eyes narrowed. "I'll bet he was afraid of security cameras! Do you think?"
"Possibly. Could you describe him, his face?"
"Never paid any attention, really. Long face, kind of pale, like he didn't get out much. No beard or mustache, I think."
"Any idea where he was coming from or where he might be going?"
Charlotte tried. But nothing came to mind. "Sorry." She was nearly cringing that she couldn't answer the question.
"A car?"
Again, a defeat. "Well, I don't... Wait. No, probably not. He turns away from the parking lot when he leaves, I think."
"So you watched him go."
"You'd kind of want to look at him, you know? Not that he's a freak or anything. Just, so skinny. Eating all that and so skinny. Totally unfair. We have to work at it, right?"
The two women present, Sachs supposed she meant. A smile.
"Every time? He went that way every time he left?"
"I guess. Pretty sure."
"Did he carry anything?"
"Oh, a couple of times he h
ad a bag, plastic bag. I think once, yeah, he put it on the counter and it was heavy. Kind of clanked. Like metal."
"What color bag?"
"White."
"No idea what was inside?"
"No. Sorry. I really wish I could help."
"You're doing great. Clothes?"
She shook her head. "Other than the jacket and hat, I don't remember, no."
Sachs asked Rodriguez, "Security video?" Guessing the answer.
"It loops every day."
Yep, like she'd thought. It would've already overwritten any footage of their perp.
Turning back to Charlotte. "You've been a big help." Sachs directed the next comment to both of them. "I need you to tell everybody who works here that we're looking for this man. If he comes back, call nine one one. And add that he's suspect in a homicide."
"Homicide," Charlotte whispered, looking both horrified and delighted.
"That's right. I'm Detective Five-Eight-Eight-Five. Sachs." She handed cards to the manager and to Charlotte. The woman gazed at it as if the tiny bit of cardboard were a huge tip. She wore a wedding band and Sachs supposed she was already relishing the dinner table conversation tonight. Sachs looked from one to the other. "But don't call me. Call nine one one and mention my name. There'll be a squad car here faster than I could get here. You're going to have to act like nothing's going on. Just serve him like normal, then when he leaves or sits down, call us. Okay? Don't do anything other than that. I can rely on you?"
"Oh, you bet, Detective," Charlotte said, a private acknowledging a general's orders.
"I'll make sure of it," Rodriguez, the manager, said. "That everybody knows."
"There are other White Castles in the area. He might go there too. Could you tell the managers the same thing?"
"Sure."
Sachs looked out of the window, free of grime, and surveyed the wide street. It was lined with shops, restaurants and apartments. Any one of the stores could have sold things that clanked and stowed them in white plastic bags for customers to take home... or to a murder site.
Rodriguez offered, "Hey, Detective... Take some sliders. On me."
"We can't take complimentary food."
"But doughnuts..."
Sachs smiled. "That's a myth." She glanced at the grill. "But I'll pay for one."
Charlotte frowned. "You better get two. They're pretty small."
They were. But they were also damn good. And so was the milk shake. She finished her breakfast/lunch in all of three minutes. And stepped outside.
From her pocket she extracted her cell phone then called Ron Pulaski. There was no answer on the landline at the Unsub 40 war room at One PP. She tried his mobile. Voice mail. She left a message.
Okay, we canvass solo. Sachs started onto the sidewalk, swept by punchy wind from the overcast sky.
Tall man, pale man, skinny man, white bag. He'd been shopping. Start with hardware stores. Sawdust, varnish.
Ball-peen hammers.
Blunt force trauma.
CHAPTER 9
Lincoln Rhyme had forgotten completely that Juliette Archer, his forensic student, was arriving today to begin her informal internship.
She was the visitor who'd come a-calling. Under other circumstances he might have enjoyed her company. But now his immediate thought was how to get rid of her.
Archer directed her Storm Arrow chair around the escalator and into the parlor, braking smartly in front of the lattice of wires covering the floor. She apparently wasn't used to tooling over snaky cables but then, probably concluding that Rhyme would have driven over them regularly without damage, she did the same.
"Hello, Lincoln."
"Juliette."
Thom nodded to her.
"Juliette Archer. I'm a student in Lincoln's class."
"I'm his caregiver. Thom Reston."
"Pleased to meet you."
A moment later came a second buzzer and Thom went to answer the door again. He and a burly man in his thirties entered the parlor. The second visitor was dressed in a business suit, pale-blue shirt and tie. The top button of the shirt was undone and the tie pulled loose. Rhyme never understood that look.
The man nodded a greeting to all but directed his gaze at Archer. "Jule, you didn't wait. I asked you to wait."
Archer said, "This is my brother, Randy." Rhyme recalled she was staying with him and his wife because her loft downtown was being modified to make it more accessible. The couple also happened to live conveniently near John Marshall College.
Randy said, "It's a steep ramp out front."
"I've done steeper," she said.
Rhyme knew the tendency of people to mother, or baby, those with severe disabilities. The practice drove him crazy, as it apparently did Archer, as well. He wondered if she'd eventually grow immune to coddling; he never had.
Well, he thought, the brother's presence settled the matter. No way were two people--amateurs no less--hanging out here while he and Mel Cooper struggled to make a case against the manufacturer or the mall or whoever had been responsible for the death of Sandy Frommer's husband.
"Present, as promised," Archer said, eyes taking in the parlor-cum-lab. "Well. Look at this. The equipment, instruments. And a scanning electron microscope? I'm impressed. Power problems?"
Rhyme didn't answer. Any words might discourage their rapid exit.
Mel Cooper swung from scaffolding to floor, looking toward Archer. She blinked as the beam of his flashlight stabbed her eyes.
"Oh, so sorry. Mel Cooper." A nod, rather than an offered hand, considering the wheelchair situation.
Archer introduced her brother and then, returning her attention to Cooper, said, "Oh, Detective Cooper. Lincoln said some nice things about you. He holds you up as a shining example of a forensic lab--"
"Okay," Rhyme said quickly, ignoring the inquiring but pleased glance from Cooper. "We're in the midst of something here."
She eased forward, looking over other equipment. "When I was doing epidemiology, we used a GC/MS sometimes. Different model. But still. Voice-activated?"
"Uhm. Well. No. Mel or Amelia usually run it. But--"
"Oh, there's a voice system that works well. RTJ Instrumentation. Based in Akron."
"Is there?"
"Just mentioning it. An article in Forensics Today about hands-free in the lab. I could send it to you."
"We subscribe," Cooper said. "I'll look forward to--"
Rhyme muttered, "As I was saying, this case we're working on, very time-sensitive. Came up suddenly."
"Involving, let me guess, an escalator to nowhere."
Rhyme was irritated at the humor. He said, "Probably would have been best to call. Could have saved you both the trouble--"
Archer said evenly, "Yes. Well, we did agree for me to be here today. You never got back to me about the exact time. I emailed."
The corollary was that if anyone was to have called it should have been he. He tried a new tack. "My error. Entirely. I apologize for your wasted trip."
Drawing a dry gaze from Thom at the rampant insincerity. Rhyme pointedly ignored him.
"So, we'll have to reconvene. A different time. Later."
Randy said, "So, Jule, let's head back. I'll get the van, then guide you down the ramp and--"
"Oh, but everything's scheduled. Will Senior's got Billy for the next few days. And Button's got a playdate with Whiskers. I've changed all my doctors' appointments. So."
Button? Whiskers? Rhyme thought. Jesus H. Christ. What've I got myself into? "See, when I agreed you could come, there was a lull. I could be more... instructive. Now, I wouldn't be able to be very helpful. So much going on. This is really a very pressing matter."
Pressing matter? I actually said that? Rhyme wondered.
She nodded but was staring at the escalator. "This would have to be that accident. In Brooklyn, right? The mall. A civil case. There didn't seem to be any thinking it was criminal. That means, I'd guess, lawsuits against a number of defendants. Manu
facturer, real estate company owning the mall, maintenance crews. We know what those are like." She wheeled about. "Who doesn't love Boston Legal? And The Good Wife?"
Who know what the hell they are?
"I really think it's best--"
Archer said, "And this is a mock-up. You couldn't have the actual escalator here? Off limits to civil lawyers?"
"Removed and impounded," Cooper said, drawing a glare from Rhyme.
"Again, I apologize, but--"
Archer continued. "What's so pressing? Other plaintiffs clamoring for a piece of the pie?"
Rhyme said nothing. He simply watched her wheel closer to the scaffolding. Now his eyes took her in more closely. She was dressed quite stylishly. A long forest-green houndstooth skirt, a starched white blouse. Black jacket. An elaborate gold bracelet of what seemed to be runic characters was on her left wrist, the one that was strapped, immobile, to the arm of her wheelchair. She maneuvered the Storm Arrow with a touchpad, using her right hand. The chestnut hair was up in a bun today. Archer had apparently already begun to learn that when your extremities are out of commission, you do all you can to minimize tickles and irritations from hair and sweat. Rhyme presently used far more mosquito repellent--organic, at Thom's insistence--than he had before his accident.
"Jule," Randy said. "Mr. Rhyme is busy. Don't overstay your welcome."
Already have, he thought. But his smile was smeared with regret. "Sorry. Really would be best for everybody concerned. Next week, two weeks."
Archer herself was staring at Rhyme, eyes unwavering. He stared right back as she said, "Don't you think another body would be helpful? Sure, I'm a newbie at forensics but I've done epidemiologic investigation for years. Besides, without any real evidence, doesn't look like fingerprints and density gradient analysis'll be called for. You'll be doing a lot of speculative work on issues of mechanical failure. We did that all the time in sourcing infections--speculation, not mechanics, of course. I could do some of the legwork." A smile. "So to speak."
"Jule," Randy said, blushing. "We talked about that."
Referring, Rhyme guessed, to a prior conversation on joking about her disability. Rhyme himself delighted in baiting the condescenders, the overly sensitive and the politically correct, even--especially--within the disabled community. "Gimp" was a favorite noun of his; "cringe" a verb.
When Rhyme didn't respond to Archer's persistence, her lips tightened. "But," she said breezily, "if you're not interested, that's fine. We can take a rain check." There was an edge to her voice, and this solidified his decision. He hardly needed attitude. He was doing her a favor taking her on as an intern.