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The aide appeared. “I have a pot on the stove.”
“Well, unstove it. We need some more help.”
“Yes?” he muttered.
Rhyme said, “You have the way with words.”
The man grimaced at the flagrant buttering up.
“It’s true,” Rhyme protested, seeing the expression.
“What do you need?”
“Simple. I want you to write an obituary.”
74.
NEW YORK CITYis home to a number of neighborhoods in which celebrities and the powerful reside.
But no place has as many per square foot as these four hundred acres.
Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, just south of Westchester County, is home to Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, Otto Preminger, Mark Twain, F. W. Woolworth, and Celia Cruz, the Queen of Salsa, and scores more of the famous.
The infamous too. Ellsworth “Bumpy” Johnson, the legendary gangland figure of Harlem, is interred here.
As is someone with an equally disturbing history, a recent addition: Charles Vespasian Hale, whose gravesite Amelia Sachs, Ron Pulaski and Lyle Spencer were now observing from a gardening shed near North Border Avenue, running roughly parallel to East 233rd Street.
Like most of the cemetery, this portion resembled a Long Island estate rather than an ominous gargoyle-filled setting for a Stephen King novel.
His gravesite had been chosen—by Lincoln Rhyme—because it was near a cluster of dense bushes, which were now providing cover for a half-dozen Emergency Service Unit officers in full military gear and camo.
In responding to his request—bordering on demand—the brass made clear they couldn’t commit to a large number of officers, and they couldn’t commit for very long. But Rhyme and Pulaski had made the point that Woman X would surely be leaving town soon, if she hadn’t already left, and so the troop commitment wouldn’t last longer than one day.
And what were the odds that she’d show up?
More than negligible, Rhyme and Sachs believed.
This was because of the second CCTV picture of Hale and Woman X, the one revealing a particular look on her face. It was the way he and Sachs occasionally regarded each other—and the way they’d seen Pulaski and his wife, Jenny, do the same.
There was no doubt that Hale and this woman were lovers.
So Rhyme had decided to lure her here via the obituary, which Thom had done a masterful job penning. It described how the man responsible for the crane collapses had been a career criminal and offered some facts about his early life. Much was speculation, but a paid obit did not need to adhere to the standard of true journalism. In fact, there was only one detail that mattered: his interment in Woodlawn.
By the time the piece hit the internet, an hour ago, Sachs and the others were already in place.
Would she indeed come to pay her last respects?
It was a sentimental gesture toward a man who was indisputably unsentimental.
Yet that look on her face—and the one suggested by his, though muted by the glasses—was undeniable.
In any event, they had no other options in their hunt for her. So here the trio waited in a hot shed, amid bags of fertilizer,which, Sachs reflected, maybe stank fiercely, but would provide good protection against bullets, should a firefight break out.
The day was suitably ominous, dark, and the sky was about to revisit an earlier rain.
Good for the operation. Few visitors were present.
Unlike some of the multimillion-dollar temples here, which were the resting place of multimillion-dollar corpses, Hale’s grave was simple. A plaque, flat on the ground, for a tombstone. Of necessity it had been engraved quickly. Name and date. Thom had suggested putting a clock face on it. Rhyme had said, “No.”
