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"A few days? But she's fine."
"She's got a bit of bronchitis I want to keep an eye on. And . . ." He lowered his voice. "We're also going to bring in an abuse specialist. Just to make sure."
"But she was going to go with me tomorrow. To the UN ceremonies. I promised her."
The policewoman added, "It's easier to keep her guarded here. We don't know where the unsub--the kidnapper--is. We'll have an officer babysitting you too."
"Well, I guess. Can I stay with her for a while?"
"You bet," the resident said. "You can stay the night. We'll have a cot brought in."
Then Carole was alone with her daughter once more. She sat down on the bed and put her arm around the child's narrow shoulders. She had a bad moment remembering how he, that crazy man, had touched Pammy. How his eyes had looked when he'd asked if he could cut her own skin off . . . Carole shivered and began to cry.
It was Pammy who brought her back. "Mommy, tell me a story. . . . No, no, sing me something. Sing me the friend song. Pleeeeease?"
Calming down, Carole asked, "You want to hear that one, hm?"
"Yes!"
Carole hoisted the girl onto her lap and, in a reedy voice, started to sing "You've Got a Friend." Pammy sang snatches of it along with her.
It had been one of Ron's favorites and, in the past couple years, after he was gone, she hadn't been able to listen to more than a few bars without breaking into tears.
Today, she and Pammy finished it together, pretty much on key, dry-eyed and laughing.
THIRTY-THREE
Amelia Sachs finally went home to her apartment in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.
Exactly six blocks from her parents' house, where her mother still lived. As soon as she walked in she hit the first speed-dial button on the kitchen phone.
"Mom. Me. I'm taking you to brunch at the Plaza. Wednesday. That's my day off."
"What for? To celebrate your new assignment? How is Public Affairs? You didn't call."
A fast laugh. Sachs realized her mother had no idea what she'd been doing for the past day and a half.
"You been following the news, Mom?"
"Me? I'm Brokaw's secret admirer, you know that."
"You hear about this kidnapper the last few days?"
"Who hasn't? . . . What're you telling me, honey?"
"I've got the inside scoop."
And she told her astonished mother the story--about saving the vics and about Lincoln Rhyme and, with some editing, about the crime scenes.
"Amie, your father'd be so proud."
"So, call in sick on Wednesday. The Plaza. OK?"
"Forget it, sweetheart. Save your money. I've got waffles and Bob Evans in the freezer. You can come here."
"It's not that expensive, Mom."
"Not that much? It's a fortune."
