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But it took me only a few seconds to open up the coding of those documents and examine the metadata. Everything about the phony prof had been written and uploaded yesterday.
Do They think I'm stupid?
If I'd had time I could have learned exactly who the cop was. I could have gone to the TV network's Web site archive, found the press conference, frozen an image of the man's face and done a biometric scan. I'd compare that image to DMV records in the area and police and FBI personnel photos to come up with the man's real identity.
But that would have been a lot of work, and unnecessary. I didn't care who he was. All I needed was to distract the police and give myself time to locate Captain Malloy, the one who would be a veritable database of information about the operation.
I easily found an outstanding warrant for a man bearing a rough resemblance to the cop playing Carlton Soames--a white male in his thirties. Simple matter then to call the bail bondsman, claiming to be an acquaintance of the fugitive and reporting that I'd spotted him at the Water Street Hotel. I described what he was wearing and hung up fast.
Meanwhile I waited at the parking garage near Police Plaza where Captain Malloy parks his low-end Lexus (its oil change and wheel rotation long overdue, the dealer's data report) every morning between 7:48 and 9:02 A.M.
I engaged the enemy at exactly 8:35.
There followed the abduction, the drive to the warehouse on the West Side, and the judicious use of forged metal to execute a memory dump from the admirably courageous database. I'm feeling the inexplicable, more-than-sexual satisfaction of knowing I've completed a collection: the identities of all the sixteens who are after me, some of the people tethered to Them and how They're running the case.
Some information was particularly revealing. (The name Rhyme, for instance. That's the key as to why I'm in this fix, I now understand.)
My soldiers will soon be on their way, marching into Poland, marching into the Rhineland. . . .
And, as I'd hoped, I got something for that collection of mine, one of my favorites, by the way. I should wait until I'm back in my Closet but I can't resist. I fish for the tape recorder and I hit REWIND then PLAY.
A happy coincidence: I find the exact spot where Captain Malloy's screams hit a crescendo. It chills even me.
*
He awoke from an uneasy sleep filled with bumpy nightmares. His throat hurt from the garrote, inside and out, though the stinging was worse in his mouth--from the dryness.
Arthur Rhyme glanced around at the dingy, windowless hospital room. Well, a cell in an infirmary inside the Tombs. No different from his own cell or that terrible common room where he'd almost been murdered.
A male nurse or orderly came into the room, examined an empty bed and wrote something down.
"Excuse me," Arthur rasped. "Can I see a doctor?"
The man looked his way--a large African American. Arthur felt a surge of panic, thinking this was Antwon Johnson, who'd stolen a uniform and snuck in here to finish what he'd started. . . .
But, no, it was somebody else. Still, the eyes were just as cold and they spent no more time regarding Arthur Rhyme than they would glancing at a spill on the floor. He left without a word.
A half hour passed, Arthur dipping into and out of waking.
Then the door opened again and he glanced up, startled, as another patient was brought in. He'd had appendicitis, Arthur deduced. The operation was over and he was recovering. An orderly got him into bed. He handed the man a glass. "Don' drink it. Rinse 'n' spit."
The man drank.
"No, I'm tellin' you--"
He threw up.
"Fuck." The orderly tossed a handful of paper towels at him and left.
Arthur's fellow patient fell asleep, clutching the towels.
It was then that Arthur looked out the window in the door. Two men stood outside, one Latino, one black. The latter squinted, staring directly at him, then whispered something to the other, who briefly looked too.
Something about their posture and expressions told Arthur their interest wasn't mere curiosity--seeing the con who'd been saved by Mick, the tweaker.
No, they were memorizing his face. Why?
Did they want to kill him too?
