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"But you kept it as an option."
"Doesn't everybody, disabled or not?"
A nod. "True."
Rhyme said, "It's pretty clear that I'm not getting an award for picking the most efficient way of ending my life. So what can I do for you?"
"We need advocates. People like yourself, with some public recognition factor. Who might consider making the transition."
Transition. Now there's a euphemism for you.
"You could make a video on YouTube. Give some interviews. We were thinking that someday you might decide to take advantage of our services. . . ." He withdrew from his briefcase a brochure. It was subdued and printed on nice card stock and had flowers on the front. Not lilies or daisies, Rhyme noticed. Roses. The title above the flora was "Choices."
He set it on the table near Rhyme. "If you'd be interested in letting us use you as a celebrity sponsor we could not only provide you with our services for free, but there'd be some compensation, as well. Believe it or not, we do okay, for a small group."
And presumably they pay up front, Rhyme thought. "I really don't think I'm the man for you."
"All you'd have to do is talk a bit about how you've always considered the possibility of assisted suicide. We'd do some videos too. And--"
A voice from the doorway startled Rhyme. "Get the fuck out of here!" He noticed Kopeski jump at the sound.
Thom stormed into the room, as the doctor sat back, spilling coffee as he dropped the cup, which hit the floor and shattered. "Wait, I--"
The aide, usually the picture of control, was red-faced. His hands were shaking. "I said out."
Kopeski rose. He remained calm. "Look, I'm having a conversation with Detective Rhyme here," he said evenly. "There's no reason to get upset."
"Out! Now!"
"I won't be long."
"You'll leave now."
"Thom--" Rhyme began.
"Quiet," the aide muttered.
The look from the doctor said, You let your assistant talk to you like that?
"I'm not going to tell you again."
"I'll leave when I've finished." Kopeski eased closer to the aide. The doctor, like many medical people, was in good shape.
But Thom was a caregiver, which involved getting Rhyme's ass into and out of beds and chairs and exercise equipment all day long. A physical therapist too. He stepped right into Kopeski's face.
But the confrontation lasted only a few seconds. The doctor backed down. "All right, all right, all right." He held his hands up. "Jesus. No need to--"
Thom picked up the man's briefcase and shoved it into his chest and led him out the door. A moment later the criminalist heard the door slam. Pictures on the wall shook.
The aide appeared a moment later, evidently mortified. He cleaned up the broken china, mopped the coffee. "I'm sorry, Lincoln. I checked. It was a real organization . . . I thought." His voice cracked. He shook his head, the handsome face dark, hands shaking.
As Rhyme wheeled back toward the lab he said, "It's fine, Thom. Don't worry. . . . And there's a bonus."
The
man turned his troubled eyes toward Rhyme, to find his boss smiling.
"I don't have to waste time writing an acceptance speech for any goddamn award. I can get back to work."
