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"I'm a tough nut for a kinesics expert, somebody like me. You can't really read me, can you?"
She laughed. "Oh, I can read you just fine. Body language seeks its own level. You give just as much away with your face and eyes and head as somebody who's got the use of his whole body."
"Really?"
"That's the way it works. It's actually easier--the messages are more concentrated."
"I'm an open book, hm?"
"Nobody's an open book. But some books are easier to read than others."
"I remember you were talking about the response states when you interrogate somebody. Anger, depression, denial, bargaining . . . After the accident I had plenty of therapy. Didn't want to, but when you're flat on your back, what can you do? The shrinks told me about the stages of grief. They're pretty much the same."
Kathryn Dance knew the stages of grief very well. But, once again, this was not a subject for today. "Fascinating how the mind deals with adversity--whether it's physical trauma or emotional stress."
Rhyme looked off. "I fight with the anger a lot."
Dance kept her deep green eyes on Rhyme and shook her head. "Oh, you're not nearly as angry as you make out you are."
"I'm a crip," he said stridently. "Of course I'm angry."
"And I'm a woman cop. So we both have a right to get pissed off sometimes. And depressed for all sorts of reasons and we deny things. But anger? No, not you. You've moved on. You're in acceptance."
"When I'm not tracking down killers"--a nod at the evidence board--"I'm doing physical therapy. A lot more than I ought to be doing, Thom tells me. Ad nauseam, by the way. That's hardly accepting things."
"That's not what acceptance is. You accept the condition and you fight back. You're not sitting around all day. Oh, sorry, I guess you are."
The sorry was not an apology. Rhyme couldn't help but laugh hard and Dance saw that she scored big points with the joke. She'd assessed that Rhyme was a man with no respect for delicacy and political correctness.
"You accept reality. You're trying to change it but you're not lying to yourself. It's a challenge, it's tough, but it doesn't anger you."
"I think you're wrong."
"Ah, you just blinked twice. Kinesic stress response. You don't believe what you're saying."
"You're a tough woman to argue with." He drained the glass.
"Ah, Lincoln, I've got your baseline down. You can't fool me. But don't worry. Your secret's safe."
The front door opened. Amelia Sachs walked into the room. She tossed off her jacket and the women greeted each other. It was obvious from her posture and her eyes that something was troubling her. She went to the front window and looked out, then pulled the shade down.
"What's the matter?" Rhyme asked.
"I just got a call from a neighbor. She said that somebody was at my building today, asking about me. He gave the name Joey Treffano. I used to work with Joey in Patrol. He wanted to know what I was up to, asked a lot of questions, looked over the building. My neighbor thought it seemed funny and gave me a call."
"And you think somebody was pretending to be Joey? It wasn't him?"
"Positive. He left the force last year and moved to Montana."
"Maybe he came back to visit, wanted to look you up."
"If he did, it was his ghost. He was killed in a motorcycle accident last spring. . . . And both Ron and I've been tailed. And earlier today somebody went through my purse. It was in my car, locked up. They broke in."
"Where?"
"At the scene on Spring Street, near the florist's shop."
It was then that something in the back of Kathryn Dance's mind began to nag. She finally seized the memory. "There's one thing I ought to say. . . . Might be nothing but it's worth mentioning."
