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Authors: Jeffery Deaver
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the whiteboard containing the information on the Alice Sanderson case as he ordered the phone to make another call.
“Hello?” a soft male voice answered as a waltz played in the background. Loud.
“Mel. Is that you?”
“Lincoln?”
“What’s that goddamn music? Where are you?”
“New England Ballroom Competition,” answered Mel Cooper.
Rhyme sighed. Washing dishes, theater matinees, ballroom dancing. He hated Sundays. “Well, I need you. I’ve got a case. It’s unique.”
“They’re all unique with you, Lincoln.”
“This one’s more unique than others, if you’ll forgive the grammatical misdemeanor. Can you come in? You mentioned New England. Don’t tell me you’re in Boston or Maine.”
“Midtown. And I guess I’m free—Gretta and I were just eliminated. Rosie Talbot and Bryan Marshall are going to win. It’s all the scandal.” He said this with some significance. “How soon?”
“Now.”
Cooper chuckled. “How long will you need me?”
“Maybe a while.”
“As in six o’clock tonight? Or as in Wednesday?”
“Better call your supervisor and tell him you’re being reassigned. I hope it won’t be longer than Wednesday.”
“I’ll have to give him a name. Who’s running the investigation? Lon?”
“Let me put it this way: Be a little vague.”
“Well, Lincoln, you do remember being a cop, don’t you? ‘Vague’ doesn’t fly. ‘Very specific’ does.”
“There isn’t exactly a lead detective.”
“You’re on your own?” His voice was uncertain.
“Not exactly. There’s Amelia, there’s Ron.”
“That’s all?”
“You.”
“I see. Who’s the perp?”
“Actually, the perps’re already in jail. Two are convicted, one’s awaiting trial.”
“And you have your doubts that we got the right parties.”
“Something like that.”
A detective with the NYPD Crime Scene Unit, Mel Cooper specialized in lab work and he was one of the most brilliant officers on the force, as well as one of the most savvy. “Oh. So you want me to help you find out how my bosses screwed up and arrested the wrong people, then talk them into opening three new and expensive investigations against the real perps, who, by the way, probably won’t be real tickled either when they learn that they’re not getting off scot-free after all. This is sort of a lose-lose-lose situation, isn’t it, Lincoln?”
“Apologize to your girlfriend for me, Mel. Be here soon.”
• • •
Sachs was halfway to her crimson Camaro SS when she heard, “Hey, Amelia!”
She turned to see a pretty teenage girl, with long chestnut hair, streaked with red, and a few tasteful piercings in both ears. She was lugging two canvas bags. Her face, dusted with delicate freckles, was radiant with happiness. “You’re leaving?” she asked Sachs.
“Big case. I’m going downtown. Want a ride?”
“Sure. I’ll get the train at City Hall.” Pam climbed into the car.
“How was studying?”
“You know.”
“So where’s your friend?” Sachs was looking around.
“You just missed him.”
Stuart Everett was a student at the Manhattan high school Pam was attending. She’d been going out with him for several months. They’d met in class and immediately discovered a mutual love of books and music. They were in the school’s Poetry Club, which reassured Sachs; at least he wasn’t a biker or a knuckle-dragging jock.
Pam tossed one of her bags, containing schoolbooks, into the backseat and opened the other one. A fuzzy-headed dog looked out.
“Hey, Jackson,” Sachs said, petting his head.
The tiny Havanese grabbed the Milk-Bone the detective offered from an add-on cup holder, whose sole purpose was as a reservoir of dog treats; Sachs’s acceleration and cornering habits weren’t conducive to keeping liquids contained.
“Stuart couldn’t walk you here? What kind of gentleman is that?”
“He’s got this soccer game. He’s way into sports. Are most guys like
“Hello?” a soft male voice answered as a waltz played in the background. Loud.
“Mel. Is that you?”
“Lincoln?”
“What’s that goddamn music? Where are you?”
“New England Ballroom Competition,” answered Mel Cooper.
Rhyme sighed. Washing dishes, theater matinees, ballroom dancing. He hated Sundays. “Well, I need you. I’ve got a case. It’s unique.”
“They’re all unique with you, Lincoln.”
“This one’s more unique than others, if you’ll forgive the grammatical misdemeanor. Can you come in? You mentioned New England. Don’t tell me you’re in Boston or Maine.”
“Midtown. And I guess I’m free—Gretta and I were just eliminated. Rosie Talbot and Bryan Marshall are going to win. It’s all the scandal.” He said this with some significance. “How soon?”
“Now.”
Cooper chuckled. “How long will you need me?”
“Maybe a while.”
“As in six o’clock tonight? Or as in Wednesday?”
“Better call your supervisor and tell him you’re being reassigned. I hope it won’t be longer than Wednesday.”
“I’ll have to give him a name. Who’s running the investigation? Lon?”
“Let me put it this way: Be a little vague.”
“Well, Lincoln, you do remember being a cop, don’t you? ‘Vague’ doesn’t fly. ‘Very specific’ does.”
“There isn’t exactly a lead detective.”
“You’re on your own?” His voice was uncertain.
“Not exactly. There’s Amelia, there’s Ron.”
“That’s all?”
“You.”
“I see. Who’s the perp?”
“Actually, the perps’re already in jail. Two are convicted, one’s awaiting trial.”
“And you have your doubts that we got the right parties.”
“Something like that.”
A detective with the NYPD Crime Scene Unit, Mel Cooper specialized in lab work and he was one of the most brilliant officers on the force, as well as one of the most savvy. “Oh. So you want me to help you find out how my bosses screwed up and arrested the wrong people, then talk them into opening three new and expensive investigations against the real perps, who, by the way, probably won’t be real tickled either when they learn that they’re not getting off scot-free after all. This is sort of a lose-lose-lose situation, isn’t it, Lincoln?”
“Apologize to your girlfriend for me, Mel. Be here soon.”
• • •
Sachs was halfway to her crimson Camaro SS when she heard, “Hey, Amelia!”
She turned to see a pretty teenage girl, with long chestnut hair, streaked with red, and a few tasteful piercings in both ears. She was lugging two canvas bags. Her face, dusted with delicate freckles, was radiant with happiness. “You’re leaving?” she asked Sachs.
“Big case. I’m going downtown. Want a ride?”
“Sure. I’ll get the train at City Hall.” Pam climbed into the car.
“How was studying?”
“You know.”
“So where’s your friend?” Sachs was looking around.
“You just missed him.”
Stuart Everett was a student at the Manhattan high school Pam was attending. She’d been going out with him for several months. They’d met in class and immediately discovered a mutual love of books and music. They were in the school’s Poetry Club, which reassured Sachs; at least he wasn’t a biker or a knuckle-dragging jock.
Pam tossed one of her bags, containing schoolbooks, into the backseat and opened the other one. A fuzzy-headed dog looked out.
“Hey, Jackson,” Sachs said, petting his head.
The tiny Havanese grabbed the Milk-Bone the detective offered from an add-on cup holder, whose sole purpose was as a reservoir of dog treats; Sachs’s acceleration and cornering habits weren’t conducive to keeping liquids contained.
“Stuart couldn’t walk you here? What kind of gentleman is that?”
“He’s got this soccer game. He’s way into sports. Are most guys like
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