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Sachs grabbed her radio.
“Detective Five Eight Eight Five to Central. K.”
“Go ahead, Five Eight Eight Five. K.”
“We’re at the operation at Woodlawn, North Border Avenuenear the lake. Suspect was here ten minutes ago. But has left. I need citywide on a fugitive. White female, thirties, brown hair braided. Medium build. Possibly dark clothing. Probably armed. I’m uploading a Domain Awareness picture now.” She lowered the phone and typed, sending the picture to Central’s secure server.
“Got it, Detective.” A pause. Woman X resembled about a hundred thousand residents of New York City. “Further to?”
She’d want vehicle, scars, footwear, other distinguishings, direction of travel, known locations.
Of which Sachs had none.
“Negative.”
“Roger, Five Eight Eight Five.”
They signed off.
She returned to Pulaski, who was looking down at the note, which he held in gloved hands.
“It’s a poem.”
Sachs couldn’t help but give a brief laugh. Well, this was a first.
After reading the words, she called Rhyme.
“I heard, Sachs. She gamed us.” He sounded amused, as if part of him had believed all along that anyone who’d been close to Hale was easily smart enough to elude an on-the-fly police trap. “What’d she leave?”
“A poem.”
“Hm. Read it.”
Sachs pulled on her own gloves and took the sheet.
Season
For C.V.H.
Somewhere in the autumn apple’s cells
A change occurs:
The curious investiture of ripeness.
So love, a type of season too,
Completes the heart
And moves us closer to fruition.
Unless …
A crow or sudden frost
Or spill of blood on parlor wall
Cuts short the time required for those ends,
