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She was glancing at her feet. Odd.
Rhyme caught it, too. "What'm I looking at, Sachs?"
"Trash." The ramp was filthy. A nearby Dumpster was on its side and the dozen garbage bags inside had been pulled out and ripped open. The contents covered the ground.
It was a mess.
"Hard to hear you, Sachs."
"I'm wearing an N-Ninety-five."
"Chemical, gas?"
"That first responding told me it was a good idea."
"It's really dark," the criminalist then muttered.
The video camera automatically went to low-light mode--that greenish tint from spy movies and reality TV--but there were limits to how much bits and bytes could convey.
Eyes, too, for that matter. It was dark. She noted the bulbs were missing. She paused.
"What?" he asked.
"The bulbs aren't just missing, Rhyme. Somebody took them out and broke them. They're shattered."
"If our doer's behind it, that means he probably isn't from the building. He doesn't know where the switch is and didn't want to take the time to find it."
Count on Rhyme to come to conclusions like that... from a mere wisp of an observation.
"But why broken?"
"Maybe just being cautious. Tough to get prints or lift other trace from a shattered bulb. Hm, he could be a smart one."
Rhyme, Sachs was pleased to note, was in a good mood. The medical treatments--complicated, expensive and more than a little risky--were going well. He'd regained significant movement in both arms and hands. Not sensation; nothing would bring that back, at least not as medical science stood nowadays, but he was far less dependent than he had once been and that meant the world to a man like Lincoln Rhyme.
She finally had to resort to her flashlight. She clicked on the long Maglite and continued past a dozen parked cars, some of whose owners were undoubtedly furious that they had not been allowed to use their vehicles, because of the minor inconvenience of a murder near where they'd parked. But, on the other hand, there'd also be plenty who'd do whatever they could to help nail the suspect.
Nothing teaches you human nature like being a cop.
Sachs felt a ping of the arthritis pain that plagued her in her knees and slowed. She then stopped altogether, not because of joint discomfort, but because of noises. Creaks and taps. A door closed--an interior door, not a car. It seemed a long ways off, but she couldn't tell. The walls muffled and confused sounds.
Footsteps?
She turned suddenly, nearly swapping flashlight for Glock.
No, just dripping water, from a pipe. Water dribbled down the incline, mixing with the papers and other trash on the floor; there was even more garbage here.
"Okay, Rhyme," she said. "I'm almost at the bottom level. She and her car're around that corner."
"Go on, Sachs."
She realized she'd stopped. She was uneasy. "I just can't figure out all this garbage."
Sachs began walking again, slowly making her way to the corner, paused, set down the suitcase and drew her gun. In the flashlight beam was a faint haze. She lifted the mask off, inhaled and coughed. There was pungency to the air. Paint maybe, or chemicals. And smoke. She found the source. Yes, some newspapers were smoldering in the corner.
That's what Marko had been referring to.
"Okay, I'm going into the scene, Rhyme."
