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"I don't think I mean that at all."
"Ah, listen, Amie, listen."
"I'm listening."
"I hear your stories about walking the beat."
Sachs, like her father, had been a "portable" at the time, a beat patrolman. In fact her nickname was "PD," for the Portable's Daughter.
"I make up a lot of stuff, Pop."
"Be serious."
Her smile faded and she indeed grew serious, feeling the dusty summer breeze flow through the half-open window, tousling her unencumbered red hair and her father's over-washed sheets as they sat, and lay, in that difficult place.
"Go on," she said.
"Thank you . . . . I hear your stories about your beat. You don't look out for yourself enough. But you've got to, Amie."
"Where's all this coming from, Pop?"
They both knew it was coming from the cancer that would soon kill him and from the urgency to pass along to his only child something more substantive than an NYPD shield, a nickel-plated Colt pistol and an old Dodge Charger in need of a transmission and cylinder heads. But his role as father required him to say, "Humor an old man."
"So let's tell jokes."
"Remember the first time you flew?"
"We went to see Grandma Sachs in Florida. It was a hundred and eighty degrees by the pool and a chameleon attacked me."
Unfazed, Herman Sachs continued. "And the stewardess, or whatever you call them nowadays, said, 'In case of emergency put your oxygen mask on and then assist anyone who needs help.' That's the rule."
"They say that," she conceded, buffeted by the emotions she felt.
The old cop, with stains of axle grease permanently seated in the lattice of his hands, continued. "That's gotta be a patrolman's philosophy on the street. You first, then the vic. And it's gotta be your personal philosophy too. Whatever it takes, look out for yourself first. If you're not whole, you'll never be able to take care of anybody else."
Driving now through the faint rain, she heard her father's voice fade and another replace it. The doctor from several weeks ago.
"Ah, Ms. Sachs. Here you are."
"Hello, Doctor."
"I've just been meeting with Lincoln Rhyme's physician."
"Yes?"
"I've got to talk to you about something."
"You're looking like it's bad news, Doctor."
"Why don't we sit down over there in the corner?"
"Here's fine. Tell me. Let me have it straight."
Her whole world in turmoil, everything she'd planned for the future altered completely.
What could she do about it?
Well, she reflected, pulling to a stop at the curb, here's one thing . . .
