Page 8 of The Skin Collector (Lincoln Rhyme 11)

'Not yet.'

Not knowing he was about to be arrested, and believing he was minutes away from murdering Rhyme, Logan had made a promise that he would spare Sachs's life. Perhaps this clemency was another of the reasons for Rhyme's mourning the man's death.

Thom nodded to Sachs. 'Coffee? Anything else?'

'Just coffee, thanks.'

'Lincoln?'

The criminalist shook his head.

When the aide returned with the cup, he handed it off to Sachs, who thanked him. While the nerves throughout most of his body were insensate, Rhyme's gustatory cells, aka taste buds, worked just fine and he appreciated that Thom Reston made a very good cup of coffee. No capsules or pre-ground, and the word 'instant' was not in his vocabulary.

With a wry smile the aide said to her, 'So. What do you think of Lincoln's emotional side?'

She warmed her hands around the coffee. 'No, Thom, I think there's method to his sentiment.'

Ah, that's my Sachs. Always thinking. This was one of the reasons he loved her. Their eyes met. Rhyme knew that his smile, minuscule though it was, probably matched hers muscle for muscle.

Sachs continued, 'The Watchmaker was always an enigma. We didn't know much about him - he had California connections was about all. Some distant family we could never track down, no associates. This might be the chance to find people who knew and worked with him - legitimately or in his criminal projects. Right, Rhyme?'

One hundred percent, he reflected.

Rhyme said to Pulaski, 'And when you find out the funeral home, I want you there.'

'Me?'

'Your first undercover assignment.'

'Not first,' he corrected.

'First at a funeral.'

'That's true. Who should I be?'

Rhyme said the first thing that came to his mind. 'Harold Pigeon.'

'Harry Pigeon?'

'I was thinking of birds.' A nod toward the nest of peregrine falcons on Rhyme's window ledge, huddled down against the storm. They tended to nest lower in bad weather.

'Harry Pigeon.' The patrolman was shaking his head. 'No way.'

Sachs laughed. Rhyme grimaced. 'I don't care. Make up your own damn name.'

'Stan Walesa. My mother's father.'

'Perfect.' An impatient look at a box in the corner of the room. 'There. Get one of those.'

'What's that?'

Sachs explained, 'Prepaid mobiles. We keep a half dozen of them here for ops like this.'

The young officer collected one. 'A Nokia. Hm. Flip phone. State of the art.' He said this with consummate sarcasm.

Before he dialed, Sachs said, 'Just be sure to memorize the number first, so if somebody asks for it you don't fumble.'

'Sure. Good.' Pulaski used the prepaid to call his personal phone and noted the number then stepped away to make the call.

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