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"I'm not able to, Captain. The missing student still hasn't been found--"
Rhyme blurted: "All right, Corporal, but please--at least send me the report, photos, the autopsy results. And if I could get the victims' clothing. Shoes particularly. And...the bullet. I really want that bullet. We'll be very diligent about the chain of custody."
A pause. "Ah, Captain, no, I'm sorry. I have to go."
Beep, beep, beep...
The last that Rhyme heard before the line went silent was the urgent hoot of a slot machine and a very drunken tourist saying, "Great, great. You realize it just cost you two hundred bucks to win thirty-nine fucking dollars."
CHAPTER 23
THAT NIGHT RHYME AND SACHS lay in his SunTec bed, fully reclined.
She had assured him that the bed was indescribably comfortable, an assessment for which he would have to take her word, since his only sensation was the smooth pillowcase. Which in fact was quite luxurious.
"Look," she whispered.
Immediately outside the window of Rhyme's second-story bedroom, on the ledge, was a flurry of movement, hard to discern in the dusk.
Then a feather rose and drifted out of sight. Another.
Dinnertime.
Peregrine falcons had lived on this sill, or one of the others outside the town house, ever since Rhyme had been a resident. He was particularly pleased they'd chosen his abode for nesting. As a scientist, he emphatically did not believe in signs or omens or the supernatural, but he saw nothing wrong with the idea of emblems. He viewed the birds metaphorically, thinking in particular of a fact that most people didn't know about them: that when they attack they are essentially immobile. Falling bundles of muscle with legs fixed outward and wings tucked, streamlined. They dive at over two hundred miles per hour and kill prey by impact, not rending or biting.
Immobile, yet predatory.
Another feather floated away as the avian couple bent to their main course. The entree was what had until recently been a fat, and careless, pigeon. Falcons are generally diurnal and hunt until dusk but in the city they are often nocturnal.
"Yum," said Sachs.
Rhyme laughed.
She moved closer to him and he smelled her hair, the rich scent. A bit of shampoo, floral. Amelia Sachs was not a perfume girl. His right arm rose and he cradled her head closer.
"Are you going to follow up?" she asked. "With Poitier?"
"I'll try. He seemed pretty adamant that he wouldn't help us anymore. But I know he's frustrated he hasn't been allowed to go further."
"What a case this is," she said.
He whispered, "So how does it feel to be repurposed into a granular-level player, Sachs? Are you pivoting to it or not?"
She laughed hard. "And what exactly is that outfit he's working for, Captain Myers: Special Services?"
"You're the cop. I thought you'd know."
"Never heard of it."
They fell silent and then, in his shoulder, normal as anyone's, he could feel her stiffen.
"Tell me," he said.
"You know, Rhyme, I'm not feeling any better about this case."
"You're talking about what you said before, to Nance? That you're not sure if Metzger and our sniper are the kinds of perps we want to go after?"
"Exactly."
