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"Okay if I stop by?"
"Sure."
"A half hour?"
"I'll be here," Rhyme said jovially.
He rested his head in the thick pillow and his eyes slipped to the knotted clothesline hanging beside the profile poster. Still no answer about the knot. It was--he laughed aloud at the joke--a loose end. He hated the idea of leaving the case without finding out what kind of knot it was. Then he remembered that Polling was a fisherman. Maybe he'd recognize--
Polling, Rhyme reflected.
James Polling . . .
Funny how the captain had insisted Rhyme handle the case. How he'd fought to keep him on it, rather than Peretti--who was the better choice, politically, for Polling. Remembering too how he'd lost his temper at Dellray when the feebie tried to strong-arm the investigation away from the NYPD.
Now that he thought about it, Polling's whole involvement in the case was a mystery. Eight twenty-three wasn't the kind of perp you took on voluntarily--even if you were looking for juicy cases to hang on your collar record. Too many chances to lose vics, too many opportunities for the press--and the brass--to snipe at you for fucking up.
Polling . . . Recalling how he'd breeze into Rhyme's bedroom, check out their progress and leave.
Sure, he was reporting to the mayor and the chief. But--the thought slipped unexpectedly into Rhyme's mind--was there someone else Polling was reporting back to?
Someone who wanted to keep tabs on the investigation? The unsub himself?
But how on earth could Polling have any connection with 823? It seemed--
And then it struck him.
Could Polling be the unsub?
Of course not. It was ridiculous. Laughable. Even apart from motive and means, there was the question of opportunity. The captain had been here, in Rhyme's room, when some of the kidnappings had occurred. . . .
Or had he?
Rhyme looked up at the profile chart.
Dark clothing and wrinkled cotton slacks. Polling'd been wearing dark sports clothes over the past several days. But so what? So did a lot of--
Downstairs a door opened and closed.
"Thom?"
No answer. The aide wasn't due back for hours.
"Lincoln?"
Oh, no. Hell. He started to dial on the ECU.
9--1--
With his chin he bumped the cursor to 2.
Footsteps on the stairs.
He tried to redial but he knocked the joystick out of reach in his desperation.
And Jim Polling walked into the room. Rhyme had counted on the babysitter's calling upstairs first. But of course a beat cop would let a police captain inside without thinking twice.
Polling's dark jacket was unbuttoned and Rhyme got a look at the automatic on his hip. He couldn't see if it was his issue weapon. But he knew that .32 Colts were on the NYPD list of approved personal weapons.
