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I hate him, she thought. It's wrong to hate a cripple. But I fucking hate him.
"You're in the basement, right?"
"Yessir."
"Listen, you've got to call me Lincoln. We're going to know each other very well by the time this is over."
Which is gonna be about sixty minutes, tops.
"You'll find some rubber bands in the suitcase, if I'm not mistaken."
"I see some."
"Put them around your shoes. Where the ball of your foot is. If there's any confusion as to footprints you'll know which ones are yours."
"Okay, done."
"Take some evidence bags and envelopes. Put a dozen of each in your pocket. Can you use chopsticks?"
"What did you say?"
"You live in the city, right? You ever go to Mott Street? For General Tsao's chicken? Cold noodles with sesame paste?"
Her gorge rose at the talk of food. She refused to glance at the woman dangling in front of her.
"I can use chopsticks," she said icily.
"Look in the suitcase. I'm not sure you'll find them. They kept them there when I was running scenes."
"I don't see any."
"Well, you'll find some pencils. Put those in your pocket. Now you
're going to walk a grid. Cover every inch. Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"First tell me what you see."
"One big room. Maybe twenty by thirty. Full of rusted pipes. Cracked concrete floor. Walls're brick. Mold."
"Any boxes? Anything on the floor?"
"No, it's empty. Except for the pipes, oil tanks, the boiler. There's the sand--the shells, a pile of it spilling out of a crack in the wall. And there's some gray stuff too--"
" 'Stuff'?" he jumped. "I don't recognize that word. What's 'stuff '?"
A burst of anger tore through her. She calmed and said, "It's the asbestos but not wadded up like this morning. It's in crumbling sheets."
"Good. Now, the first sweep. You're looking for footprints and any staged clues that he's left for us."
"You think he left more?"
"Oh, I'll betcha," Rhyme said. "Put on the goggles and use the PoliLight. Keep it low. Grid the room. Every inch. Get going. You know how to walk a grid?"
"Yes."
"How?"
