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"Will we go past the UN?" she called.
But the man was concentrating on changing lanes and didn't hear her.
"I'm here for the conference," she explained. "The UN conference."
Still no answer.
She wondered if he had trouble with English. Kate had warned her that the taxi drivers in New York were all foreigners. ("Taking American jobs," Eddie grumbled. "But don't get me started on that.") She couldn't see him clearly through the scuffed divider.
Maybe he just doesn't want to talk.
They swung onto another highway--and, suddenly, there it was in front of her, the jagged skyline of the city. Brilliant. Like the crystals that Kate and Eddie collected. A huge cluster of blue and gold and silver buildings in the middle of the island and another cluster way to the left. It was bigger than anything Carole had ever seen in her life and for a moment the island seemed like a massive ship.
"Look, Pammy, that's where we're going. Is that beeaaautiful or what?"
A moment later, though, the view was cut off as the driver turned off the expressway and made a fast turn at the bottom of the ramp. Then they were moving through hot, deserted streets, lined with dark brick buildings.
Carole leaned forward. "Is this the right way to the city?"
Again, no answer.
She rapped hard on the Plexiglas. "Are you going the right way? Answer me. Answer me!"
"Mommy, what's wrong?" Pammy said and started to cry.
"Where are you going?" Carole shouted.
But the man just kept driving--leisurely, stopping at all the red lights, never going over the speed limit. And when he pulled into the deserted parking lot behind a dark, abandoned factory he made sure he signaled properly.
Ohno. . .no!
He pulled on a ski mask and climbed from the cab. Walking to the back, he reached for the door. But he hesitated and his hand dropped. He leaned forward, face against the window, and tapped on the glass. Once, twice, three times. Getting the attention of lizards in the reptile room at a zoo. He stared at the mother and daughter for a long moment before he opened the door.
TWENTY-TWO
How'd you do it, Sachs?"
Standing beside the pungent Hudson River, she spoke into her stalk mike. "I remembered seeing the fireboat station at Battery Park. They scrambled a couple divers and were at the pier in about three minutes. Man, you should've seen that boat move! I want to try one of those someday."
Rhyme explained to her about the fingerless cabbie.
"Son of a bitch!" she said, clicking her tongue in disgust. "The weasel tricked us all."
"Not all of us," Rhyme reminded her coyly.
"So Dellray knows I boosted the evidence. Is he looking for me?"
"He said he was heading back to the federal building. Probably to decide which one of us to collar first. How's the scene there, Sachs?"
"Pretty bad," she reported. "He parked on gravel--"
"So no footprints."
"But it's worse than that. The tide backed out of this big drainpipe and where he parked's underwater."
"Hell," Rhyme muttered. "No trace, no prints, no nothing. How's the vic?"
"Not so good. Exposure, broken finger. He's had heart problems. They're going to keep him in the hospital for a day or two."
