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Well, this wasn't like him. Lincoln Rhyme had opinions about everything. And why was he sounding as if he'd failed? His tone alarmed her. Was he still brooding over his role in the deaths of the immigrants and crew on the Fuzhou Dragon?
Sachs focused again on the chair, which was covered with debris from the vandalism. She studied it carefully. "I've got an idea. Hold on." She walked closer to the chair and looked beneath it. Her heart thudded with excitement. "There're scuff marks here, Rhyme. The Ghost sat down and leaned forward--to see better. He crossed his feet under the chair."
"And?" Rhyme asked.
"That means that any trace in the seam between the uppers and his soles might've fallen out. I'll vacuum underneath it. If we're lucky we might find something that'll lead us to his front door."
"Excellent, Sachs," Rhyme said. "Get the Dustbuster."
Excited at this find she started for the CS kit near the door to retrieve the vacuum. But then she stopped. She gave a faint laugh. "You got me, Rhyme."
"I did what?"
"Don't sound so innocent." She realized now that he'd known there was trace beneath the chair from the moment she'd deduced that the Ghost had sat watching the carnage. But he'd recognized that she was still lost in the Ghost's terrible world and that he needed to get her to a better place--the haven of the job they did together. He'd pretended to be frustrated to draw her attention back to him and ease her out of the darkness.
A misrepresentation, she supposed, but it is in such feints as this that love is found.
"Thanks."
"I promised I'd get you back. Now, go do some vacuuming."
Sachs swept the floor under and around the chair and then removed the filter from the portable vacuum and placed it in a plastic evidence bag.
"What happens next?" Rhyme asked.
She judged the angle of the blood spatter from the bullets that killed Tang. "Looks like when Tang finally passed out from the pain the Ghost stood up and shot him. Then he leaves and the assistants trash the place."
"How do you know things happened in that order?"
"Because there was debris covering one of the shell casings. And there was broken glass and some torn poster paper on the chair the Ghost'd been sitting in."
"Good."
Sachs said, "I'm going to do electrostatic prints of the shoes."
"Don't tell me, Sachs," Rhyme muttered, being Rhyme once again. "Just do it."
She stepped outside and returned with the equipment. In this process, a plastic sheet is placed over a shoeprint and an electric charge is sent through the sheet. The result is an image, like a plastic Xerox copy, of a foot-or shoeprint.
It was as she was crouching down, her back to the dark warehouse, that she smelled the cigarette smoke. Oh, Jesus, she thought suddenly--one of the killers was back, maybe aiming his weapon on the radiant white suit.
Maybe the Ghost himself . . .
No, she realized, it was the missing bangshou!
Sachs dropped the electrostatic equipment with a crash and spun around, falling hard to the floor on her back, her Glock .40 in her hand. The notch and blade sight rested squarely on the intruder's chest.
"What the fuck're you doing here?" she raged, in agony from the jarring fall.
Sonny
Li, smoking a cigarette, was wandering through the office, looking around.
"What I doing? I investigate too."
"What's going on, Sachs!" Rhyme asked.
"Li's in the perimeter. He's smoking."
