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She seemed embarrassed. "Yeah, I would. Just . . . they're, you know, from family. That makes 'em kind of important."
"No problem at all." He made copies on the Xerox machine and handed them to her. She folded them carefully and they disappeared into her purse.
Bell took a call, listened for a moment and said, "Great, get it over here as soon as you can. Much appreciated." He gave Rhyme's address, then hung up. "The school. They found the security tape of the school yard when the unsub's partner was there yesterday. They're sending it over."
"Oh, my God," Rhyme said sourly, "you mean there's a real lead in the case? And it's not a hundred years old?"
Bell switched to the scrambled frequency and radioed Luis Martinez about their plans. He then radioed Barbe Lynch, the officer guarding the street in front of Geneva's house. She reported the street was clear and she'd be awaiting them.
Finally the North Carolinian hit the speakerphone button on Rhyme's phone and called the girl's uncle to make sure he was home.
" 'Lo?" the man answered.
Bell identified himself.
"She's okay?" the uncle asked.
"She's fine. We're headed back now. Everything all right there?"
"Yes, sir, sure is."
"Have you heard from her parents?"
"Her folk? Yeah, my brother call me from th' airport. Had some delay or 'nother. But they'll be leaving soon."
Rhyme used to fly to London frequently to consult with Scotland Yard and other European police departments. Travel overseas had been no more complicated than flying to Chicago or California. Not so anymore. Welcome to the post-9/11 world of international travel, he thought. He was angry that it was taking so long for her mom and dad to get home. Geneva was probably the most mature child he'd ever met but she was a child nonetheless and should be with her parents.
Then Bell's radio crackled and Luis Martinez
's staticky voice reported, "I'm outside, boss. The car's in front, door open."
Bell hung up the phone and turned to Geneva. "Ready when you are, miss."
*
"Here you be," said Jon Earle Wilson to Thompson Boyd, who was sitting in a restaurant in downtown Manhattan, on Broad Street.
The skinny white guy with a mullet haircut and wearing beige jeans, none too clean, handed the shopping bag to Boyd, who glanced inside.
Wilson sat down in the booth across from him. Boyd continued to study the bag. Inside was a large UPS box. A smaller bag sat beside it. From Dunkin' Donuts, though the contents most definitely were not pastries. Wilson used the chain shop's bags because they were slightly waxed and protected against moisture.
"Are we eating?" Wilson asked. He saw a salad go past. He was hungry. But although he often met Boyd in coffee shops or restaurants they'd never actually broken bread together. Wilson's favorite meal was pizza and soda, which he'd have by himself in his one-room apartment, chockablock with tools and wires and computer chips. Though he sort of felt, for all the work he did for Boyd, the man could stand him to a fucking sandwich or something.
But the killer said, "I've got to leave in a minute or two."
A plate of lamb shish kebab sat half eaten in front of the killer. Wilson wondered if he was going to offer it to him. Boyd didn't. He just smiled at the waitress when she came to collect it. Boyd smiling--that was new. Wilson'd never seen it before (though he had to admit it was a pretty fucking weird smile).
Wilson asked, "Heavy, huh?" Glancing toward the bag. He had a proud look in his eyes.
"Is."
"Think you'll like it." He was proud of what he'd made and a little pissed that Boyd didn't respond.
Wilson then asked, "So how's it going?"
"It's going."
"Everything's cool?"
