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Rhyme gripped the bottle and clumsily poured. She did the water herself. His bionic arm lacked sufficient subtlety. He asked, "Sachs?"
"No, thanks. I'll get something else." She was organizing evidence bags and boxes, which--even in cases that were falling apart--had to be meticulously cataloged and stored.
"Thom and Mel?"
The tech said he was fine with coffee. Thom too declined. He'd grown fond of bourbon Manhattans lately but had explained to Rhyme that drinks that involved a recipe should only be enjoyed on weekends, when no business was likely to intrude.
Thom pulled a bottle of French Chardonnay from the refrigerator in which blood and tissue samples were often stored. He lifted it toward Sachs. She said, "You read my mind."
He opened and poured.
Rhyme sipped some of the fragrant whiskey. "Good, no?"
"It is," Laurel agreed.
Rhyme reread the letter about Moreno's renunciation of his U.S. citizenship. He was as angry as Laurel that this technicality had derailed the case.
"He hated the country that much," Pulaski asked, "that he'd give up his citizenship?"
"Apparently so," Laurel said.
"Come on, boys and girls," Rhyme chided, then sipped some more whiskey. "They won round one. Or the first inning. Whatever cliched figure of speech and mixed metaphor you like. But we still have a perp, you know. Unsub Five Sixteen, responsible for an IED in a coffee shop and the Lydia Foster homicide. Those are Major Cases. Lon Sellitto'll assign us to work them."
"It won't be my case, though," Nance Laurel said. "I've been told to get back to my regular caseload."
"This's bullshit," Ron Pulaski spat out, surprising Rhyme with his vehemence. "Moreno's the same person he was when he got shot--an innocent victim. So what if he wasn't a citizen?"
"Bullshit it is, Ron," Laurel said, her voice more resigned than angry. "That's exactly right."
She finished her whiskey and walked over to Rhyme. She shook his hand. "It's been a privilege working with you."
"I'm sure we will again."
A faint smile. But something about the exquisite sadness in the expression told him that she believed her life as a prosecutor was over.
Sachs said to her, "Hey, you want to have dinner sometime? We can dish on the government." She added in a whisper that Rhyme could hear, "And dish on men too?"
"I'd like that. Yes."
They exchanged phone numbers, Sachs having to check to find out what her new one was. She'd bought a half dozen prepaids in the past few days.
Then the ADA carefully assembled her files, using paper clips and Post-it Notes to mark relevant categories. "I'll have copies sent to you for the unsub case."
The short woman hefted the briefcase in one hand, the litigation bag in the other and with one last look around the room--and no other words--walked out, her solid heels thudding on the wood, then the marble of the hallway. And she was gone.
CHAPTER 72
JACOB SWANN DECIDED, WITH SOME REGRET, that he couldn't rape Nance Laurel before he killed her.
Well, he could. And part of him wanted to. But it wouldn't be wise--that was what he meant. A sexual assault left far too much evidence. Minimizing the clues in any murder was hard enough--trying to make sure sweat, tears, saliva, hairs and those hundred thousand skin cells we slough off daily weren't available to be picked up by some diligent crime scene tech.
Not to mention fingerprints inside the latex gloves or on skin.
He'd need another option.
Swann was presently in a restaurant on Henry Street across from the prosecutor's apartment in Brooklyn, a four-floor walk-up. He was nursing a very bittersweet Cuban coffee.
Scanning Laurel's abode. Not a doorman building, he noticed. Good.
