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'Well,' Dag said defensively. 'It has to be edited and vetted--'
'I wrote it. It doesn't need to be edited. And you can vet. Vet it now. We don't have much time.'
'You're not asking me to vet. You're asking me to run what you've sent me, Lincoln.'
'You've looked it over, you've read it. That's vetting. We need to go with it, Dag. Time's critical. Very critical.'
A sigh. 'I'll have to talk to somebody first.'
Rhyme considered tactical options. There weren't many.
'Here's the situation, Dag. I can't be fired. I'm an independent consultant that defense attorneys around the country want to hire as much as the NYPD does. Probably more and they pay better. If you don't run that press release exactly, and I mean exactly, the way I sent it to you, I'll hang out my shingle for the defense and stop working for the NYPD altogether. And when the commissioner hears that I'll be working against the department, your job'll be in the private sector and I mean fast food.'
Not really satisfied with that line. Could have been better. But there it was.
'You're threatening me?'
Which hardly required a response.
Ten seconds later: 'Fuck.'
The slamming phone made a simple, sweet click in Rhyme's ear.
He eased his wheelchair to the window, to look out over Central Park. He liked the view more in the winter than the summer. Some might have thought this was because people were enjoying summer sports in the fine months, running, tossing Frisbees, pitching softballs - activities forever denied Rhyme. But the reality was that he just liked the view.
Even before the accident Rhyme had never enjoyed that kind of pointless frolic. He thought back to the case involving the Bone Collector, years ago. Then, just after his accident, he'd given up on life, believing he'd never exist in a normal world again. But that case had taught him a truth that had endured: He didn't want that normal life. Never had, disabled or not. His world was the world of deduction, of logic, of mental riposte and parry, of combat with thought - not with guns or karate blows.
And so looking out at the stark, leaf-stripped vista of Central Park, he felt wholly at home, comforted by the lesson that the Bone Collector had taught him so many years ago.
Rhyme turned back to the computer screen and waded once more into the world of fine arts.
He checked the news and discovered that, yes, Dag had come through. The unvetted, unedited, unchallenged press release had been picked up everywhere.
Rhyme glanced at the clock face on his computer and returned to browsing.
A half hour later his phone rang and he noted the caller ID report: Unknown.
Two rings. Three. He tapped the answer button with his right index finger.
He said, 'Hello there.'
'Lincoln,' said the man he knew as Richard Logan, the Watchmaker. 'Do you have a moment to talk?'
'For you, always.'
CHAPTER 77
'I've seen the news,' the Watchmaker said to Rhyme. 'You released my picture. Or the artist's renderings of me as Dave Weller. Not a bad job. An Identi-Kit, I assume. Both fat and slim, hair, no hair, mustache, clean-shaven. Aren't you so impressed with the confluence of art and computer science, Lincoln?'
The reference to the press release Rhyme had pressured the NYPD brass into going with. 'It was accurate then?' the criminalist asked. 'My officer wasn't sure when he worked with the artist if he had the cheek structure right.'
'That young man. Pulaski.' The Watchmaker seemed amused. 'He observes two-dimensionally and draws conclusions from the preliminary. You and I both know the risks of that. He's a better forensic cop than undercover, I'd imagine. Less improvisation in crime scene work. I deduce a brain injury?'
'Yes. Exactly.'
The Watchmaker continued, 'He's lucky that when I set him up, it was with the Bureau of Investigation, not some of my real associates. He'd be dead otherwise.'
'Possibly,' Rhyme said slowly. 'His instincts are good. And he's quite the shot apparently. Anyway, he's all I could spare under the circumstances. I was busy trying to stop a psychotic tattoo artist.'
