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She'd ended her transmission with the traditional conclusion of a comment or question in the police radio parlance, K, to let the recipient know it was okay to transmit. He and she usually disposed of this formality, and for some reason Rhyme found it troubling that she'd used the shorthand.
"Sachs, go ahead. What do you have?"
"We just got here. We're about to go in. I'll let you know."
Chapter 58
A MAROON TORINO Cobra made for a bad undercover car, so Sachs had glided it to a stop about two blocks away from the school where Galt had been sighted.
The school had closed years ago and, according to the signage, was soon to be demolished and condominiums built on the grounds.
"Good hidey-hole," she said to Pulaski as they jogged close, noting the seven-foot-high wooden fence around the grounds, covered with graffiti and posters of alternative theater, performance pieces and music groups plummeting to obscurity. The Seventh Seal. The Right Hands. Bolo.
Pulaski, who seemed to be forcing himself to concentrate, nodded. She'd have to keep an eye on him. He'd done well at the elevator crime scene in Midtown but it seemed that the accident at Galt's apartment--hitting that man--was bothering him again.
They paused in front of the fence. The demolition hadn't started yet; the gate--two hinged pieces of plywood chained together and padlocked--had enough play so they could have squeezed through, which is probably how Galt had gotten in, if in fact he had. Sachs stood to the side of the gap and peered in. The school was largely intact, though it seemed that a portion of the roof had fallen in. Most of the glass had been stoned out of the windows but you could see virtually nothing inside.
Yep, it was a good hidey-hole. And a nightmare to assault. There'd be a hundred good defensive positions.
Call in the troops? Not yet, Sachs thought. Every minute they delayed was a minute Galt could be finishing the last touches on his new weapon. And every ESU officer's footfall might destroy trace evidence.
"He could have it booby-trapped," Pulaski whispered in an unsteady voice, looking at the metal chain. "Maybe it's wired."
"No. He wouldn't risk somebody just touching it casually and getting a shock; they'd call the police right away." But, she continued, he could easily have something rigged to tell him of intruders' presence. So, sighing and with a grimace on her face, she looked up the street. "Can you climb that?"
"What?"
"The fence?"
"I guess I could. If I were chasing or being chased."
"Well, I can't, unless you give me a boost. Then you come after."
"All right."
They walked to where she could make out, through a crack in the fence, some thick bushes on the other side, which would both break their fall and give them some cover. She recalled that Galt was armed--and with a particularly powerful gun, the .45. She made sure her Glock holster was solidly clipped into her waistband and then nodded. Pulaski crouched down and laced his fingers together.
Mostly to put him at ease, she whispered gravely, "One thing to remember. It's important."
"What's that?" He looked into her eyes uneasily.
"I've gained a few pounds," said the tall policewoman. "Be careful of your back."
A smile. It didn't last long. But it was a smile nonetheless.
She winced from the pain in her leg as she stepped onto his hands, and twisted to face the wall.
Just because Galt hadn't electrified the chain didn't mean he hadn't rigged something on the other side. She saw in her mind's eye once more the holes in Luis Martin's flesh. Saw too the sooty floor of the elevator car yesterday, the quivering bodies of the hotel guests.
"No backup?" he whispered. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure. On three. One . . . Two . . . Three."
And up she went, Pulaski much stronger than she'd expected, launching her nearly six-foot frame straight up. Her palms caught the top and she lodged there, sitting momentarily. A glance at the school. No sign of anyone. Then a look downward, and she saw beneath her only the bush, nothing to burn her flesh with five-thousand-degree arc flashes, no metal wires or panels.
Sachs turned her back to the school, gripped the top of the fence and lowered herself as far as she could. Then, when she knew she'd have to let go, she let go.
She hit rolling, and the pain rattled through her knees and thighs. But she knew her malady of arthritis as intimately as Rhyme knew his bodily limitations and she understood this was merely a temporary protest. By the time she'd taken cover behind the thickest stand of shrub, gun drawn and looking for any presenting targets, the pain had diminished.
