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Learning three things from one example . . .
Confucius, hm? I like that, thought Lincoln Rhyme. He said to his aide, "I need something from the basement."
"What?"
"A copy of my book."
"I'm not sure where they are," Thom replied.
"Then you better start looking, don't you think?"
With a loud sigh, the aide vanished.
Rhyme was referring to a hardcover book that he'd written several years ago, The Scenes of the Crime. In it, he'd examined fifty-one old crime scenes in New York City, some solved, some not. The book included a cross section of the more notorious crimes in the city, ranging from mayhem in the Five Points section of town, considered in the mid-1800s one of the most dang
erous places on earth, to architect Stanford White's love triangle murder in the original Madison Square Garden, to Joey Gallo's unfortunate last meal at a Little Italy clam house, to John Lennon's death. The illustrated book had been popular--though not popular enough to keep it from being remaindered; the surplus copies had been sloughed off to "bargain books" shelves in bookstores around the country for discounted sales.
Still, Rhyme was secretly proud of the book; it was his first tentative venture back into the real world after his accident, an emblem that, despite what had happened to him, he was capable of doing something beyond lying on his ass and bitching about his state.
Thom returned ten minutes later, his shirt streaked with dirt and his handsome face dotted with sweat and dust. "They were in the farthest corner. Under a dozen cartons. I'm a mess."
"Well, I'd think if things were better organized down there, it might've taken less work," Rhyme muttered, eyes on the book.
"Maybe if you hadn't said to pack them away, you never wanted to see them again, you hated the quote fucking things, it might not have taken so much work either."
"Say, is the cover torn?"
"No, the cover's fine."
"Let me see," Rhyme ordered. "Hold it up."
The weary aide brushed some dirt off his slacks and then offered the book for inspection.
"It'll do," the criminalist said. He looked around the room uneasily. His temples were pounding, which meant his heart, which he couldn't feel, was pumping blood hard.
"What, Lincoln?"
"That touchpad. Do we still have it?"
A few months ago, Rhyme had ordered a touchpad attachment for the computer, like a mouse, thinking that he could use his extant finger--his left ring finger--to control the computer. He hadn't shared with Thom or Sachs how important it had been for him to make the pad work. But he hadn't been able to. The range of motion for the digit was too limited to move the cursor in any helpful way, unlike the touchpad controller that operated his Storm Arrow, which was specifically made for people in his condition.
The failure had, for some reason, devastated him.
Thom left the room for a moment and returned with the small gray unit. He hooked up the system and placed it under Rhyme's ring finger. "What are you going to do with it?" Thom asked.
Rhyme grumbled, "Just hold it still."
"All right."
"Command, cursor down. Command, cursor stop. Command, double click." A drawing program popped up on the screen. "Command, line draw."
Surprised, Thom asked, "When did you learn that?"
"Quiet. I need to concentrate." Rhyme took a deep breath and then he started to move his finger on the pad. A shaky line appeared on the screen. Sweat popped out on his forehead from the tension.
Breathing hard, riddled with anxiety, as if he were dismantling a bomb, Rhyme said through clenched teeth, "Move the pad to the left, Thom. Carefully."
