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"And here's the photo of the scene," Sachs said, "and the fingerprints. The one from her throat and from where he picked up the glove." She held them up.
"Good," Rhyme said, looking them over carefully.
There was a sheen of reluctant triumph on her face--the rush of winning, which is the flip side of hating yourself for being unprofessional.
Rhyme was studying the Polaroids of the prints when he heard footsteps on the stairs and Jim Polling arrived. He entered the room, did a double-take at the spiffed-up Lincoln Rhyme and strode to Sellitto.
"I was just at the scene," he said. "You saved the vic. Great job, guys." He nodded toward Sachs to show the noun included her too. "But the prick's 'napped another one?"
"Or's about to," Rhyme muttered, gazing at the prints.
"We're working on the clues right now," Banks said.
"Jim, I've been trying to track you down," Sellitto said. "I tried the mayor's office."
"I was with the chief. Had to fucking beg for some extra searchers. Got another fifty men pulled off UN security detail."
"Captain, there's something we got to talk about. We gotta problem. Something happened at the last scene . . ."
A voice as yet unheard from boomed through the room, "Problem? Who got a problem? We don't got no problems here, do we? None ay-tall."
Rhyme looked up at the tall, thin man in the doorway. He was jet black and wore a ridiculous green suit and shoes that shone like brown mirrors. Rhyme's heart plummeted. "Dellray."
"Lincoln Rhyme. New York's own Ironside. Hey, Lon. And Jim Polling, how's it hangin', buddy?"
Behind Dellray were a half-dozen other men and a woman. Rhyme knew in a heartbeat why the federal agents were here. Dellray scanned the officers in the room, his attention alighting momentarily on Sachs then flying away.
"What do you want?" Polling asked.
Dellray said, "Haven't you guessed, gemmuns. You're outa business. We closin' you up. Yessir. Just like a bookie."
SEVENTEEN
One of us.
That's how Dellray was looking at Lincoln Rhyme as he walked around the bed. Some people did this. Paralysis was a club and they crashed the party with jokes, nods, winks. You know I love you, man, 'cause I'm makin' funna you.
Lincoln Rhyme had learned that this attitude got tiring very, very quickly.
"Lookit that," Dellray said, poking at the Clinitron. "That's some
thing outa Star Trek. Commander Riker, get your ass in the shuttle."
"Go away, Dellray," Polling said. "It's our case."
"And how's dis here patient doing, Dr. Crusher?"
The captain was stepping forward, a rooster the lanky FBI agent towered over. "Dellray, you listening? Go away."
"Man, I'ma get me one of those, Rhyme. Lay my ass down in it, watcha game. Seriously, Lincoln, how you doin'? Been a few years."
"Did they knock?" Rhyme asked Thom.
"No, they didn't knock."
"You didn't knock," Rhyme said. "So may I suggest that you leave?"
"Gotta warrant," Dellray murmured, flicking papers in his breast pocket.
