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Sir, I must talk to you. I am sorry. The baby . . . We could not save him.
Was a him?
I'm sorry, sir. We did what we could, I promise you but . . .
It was a him . . . .
He pushed those thoughts away. Fighting a bum wheel on the cart, which kept veering to the left, talking to himself a bit, Jax moved slowly but with determination, thinking: Man, funny if I got nailed for jacking a shopping cart. But then he decided, no, it wouldn't be so funny at all. It'd be just like a cop to decide to roust him for something little like that and find the gun. Then run the ID and he'd get his ass violated back to Buffalo. Or someplace even worse.
Clatter, clatter--the littered passageway was hell on the broken wheel of the cart. He struggled to keep it straight. But he had to stick to this dark canyon. To approach a nice town house from the sidewalk, in this fancy part of Harlem, would flag him as suspicious. In the alley, though, pushing a cart wasn't that wack. Rich people throw their empties out more'n the poor. And as for the garbage, it was a better quality round here. Naturally a homeless dude'd rather scrounge in West Harlem than in Central.
How much farther?
Jax the homeless dude looked up and squinted. Two blocks to the girl's apartment.
Almost there. Almost done.
*
He felt an itch.
In Lincoln Rhyme's case this could be literal--he had sensation on his neck, shoulders and head, and, in fact, this was a nondisabled, sensate condition he could do without; for a quadriplegic, not being able to scratch an itch was the most fucking frustrating thing in the world.
But this was a figurative itch he was feeling.
Something wasn't right. What was it?
Thom asked him a question. He didn't pay attention.
"Lincoln?"
"I'm thinking. Can't you see?"
"No, that happens on the inside," the aide retorted.
"Well, be quiet."
What was the problem?
More scans of the evidence charts, the profile, the old letters and clippings, the curious expression on the inverted face of The Hanged Man . . . But somehow the itch didn't seem to have anything to do with the evidence.
In which case he supposed he should just ignore it.
Get back to--
Rhyme cocked his head. Almost grabbed the thought. It jiggled away.
It was some anomaly, words someone had said recently that didn't quite mesh.
Then:
"Oh, goddamn it," he snapped. "The uncle!"
"What?" Mel Cooper asked.
"Jesus, Geneva's uncle."
"What about him?"
