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"Okay, Lon, I'll send Amelia up to your CP around eight."
They hung up.
Thom knocked on the door before coming into the room.
As if he'd catch us in a compromising position, Rhyme laughed to himself.
"No more excuses," he said testily. "Bed. Now."
It was after 3:00 a.m. and Rhyme had left exhaustion far behind long ago. He was floating somewhere else. Above his body. He wondered if he'd start to hallucinate.
"Yes, Mother," he said. "Officer Sachs's staying over, Thom. Could you get her a blanket, please?"
"What did you say?" Thom turned to face him.
"A blanket."
"No, after that," the aide said. "That word?"
"I don't know. 'Please'?"
Thom's eyes went wide with alarm. "Are you all right? You want me to get Pete Taylor back here? The head of Columbia-Presbyterian? The surgeon general?"
"See how this son of a bitch torments me?" Rhyme said to Sachs. "He never knows how close he comes to getting fired."
"A wake-up call for when?"
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"Six-thirty should be fine," Rhyme said.
When he was gone, Rhyme asked, "Hey, Sachs, you like music?"
"Love it."
"What kind?"
"Oldies, doo-wop, Motown . . . How 'bout you? You seem like a classical kind of guy."
"See that closet there?"
"This one?"
"No, no, the other one. To the right. Open it up."
She did and gasped in amazement. The closet was a small room filled with close to a thousand CDs.
"It's like Tower Records."
"That stereo, see it on the shelf?"
She ran her hand over the dusty black Harmon Kardon.
"It cost more than my first car," Rhyme said. "I don't use it anymore."
"Why not?"
He didn't answer but said instead, "Put something on. Is it plugged in? It is? Good. Pick something."
