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There was a long groan of wood then a crash. Dust rose.
"Sachs? Amelia?"
No answer.
Just as he was about to send ESU in after her they heard her voice. "Incoming."
"Jerry?" Rhyme called.
"Ready," the young detective called.
The can came flying up out of the basement. Banks caught it one-handed. Sachs climbed out of the basement, wiping her hands on her slacks, wincing.
"Okay?"
She nodded.
"Now, let's work the alley," Rhyme ordered. "There's traffic at all hours around here so he'd want the car off the street while he got her inside. That's where he parked. Used that door right there."
"How do you know?"
"There're two ways to open locked doors--without explosives, that is. Locks and hinges. This one'd be dead-bolted from the inside so he took the pins out of the hinges. See, he didn't bother to put them in very far again when he left."
They started at the door and worked their way to the back of the grim canyon, the smoldering building on their right. They moved a foot at a time, Sachs training the PoliLight on the cobblestones. "I want tire treads," Rhyme announced. "I want to know where his trunk was."
"Here," she said, examining the ground. "Treads. But I don't know whether these're the front or the rear tires. He might've backed in."
"Are they clear or fuzzy? The treadmarks?"
"A little fuzzy."
"Then those're the front." He laughed at her bewildered expression. "You're the automotive expert, Sachs. Next time you get in a car and start it see if you don't spin the wheel a little before you start moving. To see if the tires are pointed straight. The front treads're always fuzzier than the rear. Now, the stolen car was a '97 Ford Taurus. It measures 197.5 stem to stern, wheelbase 108.5. Approximately 45 inches from the center of the rear tire to the trunk. Measure that and vacuum."
"Come on, Rhyme. How'd you know that?"
"Looked it up this morning. You do the vic's clothing?"
"Yep. Nails and hair too. And, Rhyme, get this: the little girl's name is Pam but he called her Maggie. Just like he did with the German girl--he called her Hanna, remember?"
"You mean his other persona did," Rhyme said. "I wonder who the characters are in his little play."
"I'm going to vacuum around the door too," she announced. Rhyme watched her--face cut and hair uneven, singed short in spots. She vacuumed the base of the door and just as he was about to remind her that crime scenes were three-dimensional she ran the vacuum up and around the jamb.
"He probably looked inside before he took her in," she said and began vacuuming the windowsills too.
Which would have been Rhyme's next order.
He listened to the whine of the Dustbuster. But second by second he was fading away. Into the past, some hours before.
"I'm--" Sachs began.
"Shhh," he said.
Like the walks he now took, like the concerts he now attended, like so many of the conversations he had, Rhyme was slipping deeper and deeper into his consciousness. And when he got to a particular place--even he had no idea where--he found he wasn't alone. He was picturing a short man wearing gloves, dark sports clothes, a ski mask. Climbing out of the silver Ford Taurus sedan, which smelled of cleanser and new car. The woman--Carole Ganz--was in the trunk, her child captive in an old building made of pink marble and expensive brick. He saw the man dragging the woman from the car.
Almost a memory, it was that clear.
Popping the hinges, pulling open the door, dragging her inside, tying her up. He started to leave but paused. He walked to a place where he could look back and see Carole clearly. Just like he'd stared down at the man he'd buried at the railroad tracks yesterday morning.
