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Sachs now toyed with her phone to keep from digging into flesh.
The Skin Collector ...
What could she say to Pam to convince the girl not to quit school and go on the worldwide tour.
Well, wait. You can't think of her that way. Girl. Of course not. She was nineteen. She'd lived through kidnapping and attempted murder. She'd defied militiamen. She had the right to make decisions and the right to make mistakes.
And, Sachs asked herself, was her decision a mistake at all?
Who was she to say?
Look at her own romantic history. High school for her was, as for everybody, a time of exploration and exhilarating fumbling and false starts. Then she had hit the professional world of fashion. A tall, gorgeous model, Sachs had had to take the repel-all-boarders approach. Which was a shame because some of the men she'd met on photo shoots and at ad agency planning sessions had probably been pretty nice. But they were lost among the vast number of players. Easier to say no to everyone, slip into her garage and tune engines or go to the race track and work on lap times with her Camaro SS.
After joining the NYPD, things hadn't got much better. Tired of the relentless pressure to go out, the filthy jokes, the juvenile looks and attitudes offered up by fellow cops, she'd continued to be a recluse. Ah, that was the answer, the male officers understood, after she'd rejected their overtures. She was a dyke. Such a pretty one too. Fucking waste.
Then she'd met Nick. The first real love, true love, consuming love, complete love. Whatever tired adjective you wanted.
And, with Nick, it'd turned out to be betrayed love, too.
Not of the daily variety, no. But, to Sachs, perhaps worse. Nick had been a corrupt cop. And a corrupt cop who hurt people.
Meeting Lincoln Rhyme had saved her. Professionally and personally. Though that relationship was obviously alternative, as well.
No, Sachs's history and experience hardly qualified her to preach to Pam. Yet, like driving slowly, or hesitating before kicking in a door during a dynamic entry, Sachs was unable to stop herself from giving her opinion.
If the girl ... the young woman showed up at all.
Which finally she did, fifteen minutes late.
Sachs said nothing about the tardiness, just rose and gave her a hug. It wasn't exactly rejected but Sachs could feel the stiffness rise to Pam's shoulders. She noted too that the young woman wasn't taking off her coat. She just tugged her stocking cap off and tossed her hair. The gloves too. But the message was: This'll be short. Whatever your agenda.
And no smiles. Pam had a beautiful smile and Sachs loved it when the girl's face curled into a spontaneous crescent. But not here, not today.
'How're the Olivettis?'
'Good. Howard got the kids a new dog for Jackson to play with. Marjorie lost ten pounds.'
'I know she was trying. Hard.'
'Yeah.' Pam scanned a menu. Sachs knew she wasn't going to order anything. 'Is Lon doing okay?'
'Still critical. Unconscious.'
'Man, that's bad,' Pam said. 'I'll call Rachel.'
'She'd like that.'
The young woman looked up. 'Look, Amelia. There's something I want to say.'
Was this going to be good or bad?
'I'm sorry what I said, about you and my mother. That wasn't fair.'
Sachs in fact hadn't taken the comment particularly hard. It was clearly one of those weaponized sentences that get flung out to hurt, to end conversations.
She held up a hand. 'No, that's okay. You were mad.'
The woman's nod told Sachs that, yes, she'd been mad. And her eyes revealed that she still was, despite the apology.
