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"Yes?"
"I was blunter than I meant to be. Before, I mean. I have a temper. I don't know where I got it from. But I have it."
"You were right," Rhyme said.
They easily held each other's eyes and Rhyme thought of the times he and Blaine had had serious discussions. As they talked they always focused on an object between them--one of the ceramic horses she collected, a book, a nearly empty bottle of Merlot or Chardonnay.
He said, "I work scenes differently than most criminalists. I needed somebody without any preconceived ideas. But I also needed somebody with a mind of her own."
The contradictory qualities we seek in that elusive perfect lover. Strength and vulnerability, in equal measures.
"When I talked to Commissioner Eckert," she said, "it was just to get my transfer through. That's all I wanted. It never occurred to me that word'd get back to the feds and they'd take the case away."
"I know that."
"I still let my temper go. I'm sorry for that."
"Don't backpedal, Sachs. I need somebody to tell me I'm a jerk when I act like one. Thom does. That's why I love him."
"Don't get sentimental on me, Lincoln," Thom called from across the room.
Rhyme continued, "Nobody else ever tells me to go to hell. They're always walking on eggshells. I hate it."
"It doesn't seem like there've been many people around here to say much of anything to you lately."
After a moment he said, "That's true."
On the screen of the chromatograph-spectrometer the peaks and valleys stopped moving and became one of nature's infinite signatures. Mel Cooper tapped on the computer keys and read the results. "Water, diesel oil, phosphate, sodium, trace minerals . . . No idea what it means."
What, Rhyme wondered, was the message? The underwear itself? The liquid? He said, "Let's move on. I want to see the dirt."
Sachs brought him the bag. It contained pinkish sand, laced with chunks of clay and pebbles.
"Bull's liver," he announced. "Rock-and-sand mixture. Found just above the bedrock in Manhattan. Sodium silicate mixed in?"
Cooper ran the chromatograph. "Yep. Plenty of it."
"Then we're looking for a downtown location within fifty yards of the water--" Rhyme laughed at the astonished gaze on Sachs's face. "It's not magic, Sachs. I've just done my homework, that's all. Contractors mix sodium silicate with bull's liver to stabilize the earth when they dig foundations in deep-bedrock areas near the water. That means it's got to be downtown. Now, let's take a look at the leaf."
She held up the bag.
"No clue what it is," Rhyme said. "I don't think I've ever seen one like that. Not in Manhattan."
"I've got a list of horticulture web sites," Cooper said, staring at his computer screen. "I'll do some surfing."
Rhyme himself had spent some time on-line, cruising the Internet. As it had with books, movies and posters, his interest in the cyberworld had eventually paled. Perhaps because so much of his own world was virtual, the net was, in the end, a forlorn place for Lincoln Rhyme.
Cooper's screen flicked and danced as he clicked on hyperlinks and disappeared deeper into the web. "I'm downloading some files. Should take ten, twenty minutes."
Rhyme said, "All right. The rest of the clues Sachs found . . . Not the planted ones. The others. They might tell us about where he's been. Let's look at our secret weapon, Mel."
"Secret weapon?" Sachs asked.
"The trace evidence."
Special Agent Fred Dellray had put together a ten-man entry operation. Two teams plus search and surveillance. The flak-jacketed agents stood in the bushes, sweating madly. Across the street, upstairs in an abandoned brownstone, the S&S team had their Big Ears and video infrareds trained on the perp's house.
The three snipers, with their big Remingtons strapped, loaded and locked, lay prone on rooftops. Their binoculared spotters crouched beside them like Lamaze coaches.
