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"Yes."
She eased closer to him. They were about the same height but Sachs, in her anger, seemed to tower over him. "You drive a black Mercedes?"
He frowned. "On a cop's salary?" This answer seemed genuine.
Rhyme glanced at Cooper, who went to the DMV database. The tech shook his head. "Not his wheels."
Well, they got one wrong. But Baker'd clearly been nabbed at something.
"So, what's the story?" Rhyme asked.
Baker looked at Sachs. "Amelia, I really wanted you on the case. You and Lincoln together, you're an A team. And frankly, you guys get good press. And I wanted to be associated with you. But after I convinced the top floor to bring you on board, I heard there was a problem."
"What?" she asked firmly.
"In my briefcase, there's a sheet of paper." He nodded to Pulaski, who was standing beside the battered attache case. "It's folded up. In the top right-hand side."
The rookie opened the case and found it.
"It's an email," Baker continued.
Sachs took it from Pulaski. She read it once, frowning. She was motionless for a moment. Then she stepped closer to Rhyme and set it on the wide arm of his wheelchair. He read the brief, confidential note. It was from a senior inspector at Police Plaza. It said that a few years earlier Sachs had been involved with an NYPD detective, Nicholas Carelli, who'd been convicted of various charges, including hijackings, bribes and assault.
Sachs had not been implicated in the incidents but Carelli had been released not long ago and the brass were concerned that she might have had some contact with him. They didn't think she'd done anything illegal but if she was seen with him now, it could be, the email said, "embarrassing."
Sachs cleared her throat and said nothing. Rhyme had known all about Nick and Sachs--how they'd talked about getting married, how close they'd been, how shattered she'd been by his secret life as a criminal.
Baker shook his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't know how else to handle it. I was told to give them a complete report. Details of where I'd observed you, things I learned about you. On the job and off. Any connection with this Carelli or any of his friends."
"That's why you were pumping me for information about her," Rhyme said angrily. "This's bullshit."
"All respect, Lincoln, I'm putting myself on the line here. They wanted to pull her anyway. They didn't want her on a high-profile case, not with that history. But I said no."
"I haven't seen Nick in years. I didn't even know he was out."
"And that's what I'm going to tell them." He nodded toward his briefcase again. "My notes're in there." Pulaski found some more sheets of paper. He gave them to Sachs and she read through then laid them out for Rhyme to read. They were jottings about the times he'd observed her and questions he'd asked, what he'd seen in her calendar and address book, what people had said about her.
"You broke and entered," Sellitto said.
"Conceded. Over the line. Sorry."
"Why the fuck didn't you come to me?" Rhyme snapped.
"Or any of us," Sellitto said.
"This came from high up. I was told to keep it quiet." Baker turned to Sachs. "You're upset. I'm sorry about that. But I really wanted you on the case. It was the only way I could think of. I've already told them my conclusions. The whole thing's gone away. Look, please, can we put this behind us and get on with our job?"
Rhyme glanced at Sachs, and what hurt him the most was to see her reaction to the incident: She wasn't angry any longer. She seemed embarrassed to have been the cause of this controversy and trouble to her fellow officers, distracting them from their mission. It was so unusual--and therefore so hard--to see Amelia Sachs pained and vulnerable.
She handed the email back to Baker. Without a word to anyone she grabbed her jacket and walked calmly out the doorway, pulling her car keys from her pocket.
Chapter 22
Vincent Reynolds was studying the woman in the restaurant, a slim brunette, about thirty, in sweats. Her short hair was pulled back and stuck in place with bobby pins. They'd followed her from her old apartment in Greenwich Village, first to a local tavern and now here, a coffeehouse a few blocks away. She and her friend, a blonde in her twenties, were having a great time, laughing and talking nonstop.
Lucy Richter was enjoying her last brief moments on earth.
Duncan was listening to classical music on the Buick's sound system. He was his typically thoughtful, calm self. Sometimes you just couldn't tell what was going on in his mind.
