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Feeling his oats, scarface Banks said, "The secretary-general and the mayor both've asked for you. SAC Perkins too. And there'll be a call from the White House, you need any more persuading. We sure hope you don't,
detective."
Rhyme didn't comment on the error regarding his rank.
"They've got the Bureau's PERT team ready to go. Fred Dellray's running the case and he asked-- respectfully, yeah, he used that very word--he asked respectfully if you'd do the forensic work. And it's a virgin scene, except for getting the bodies and the wounded out."
"Then it's not virgin," Rhyme snapped. "It's extremely contaminated."
"All the more reason we need you," Banks ventured, adding "sir" to defuse Rhyme's glare.
Rhyme sighed, looked at the glass and the straw. Peace was so close to him just now. And pain too. Infinite sums of both.
He closed his eyes. Not a sound in the room.
Sellitto added, "It was just the woman herself, hey, wouldn't be that big a deal. But she's got her daughter with her, Lincoln. Underground, with a little girl? You know what that kid's life's going to be like?"
I'll get you for that too, Lon.
Rhyme nestled his head into the opulent pillow. Finally his eyes sprang open. He said, "There'd be some conditions."
"Name it, Linc."
"First of all," he said. "I don't work alone."
Rhyme looked toward Amelia Sachs.
She hesitated for a moment then smiled and stood, lifted the glass of tainted brandy out from under the straw. She opened the window wide and flung the tawny liquid into the ripe, hot air above the alley next to the townhouse, while, just feet away, the falcon looked up, glaring angrily at the motion of her arm, cocked his gray head, then turned back to feed his hungry youngster.
