“We’ll see,” Rhyme said noncommittally. Then he added, “But one thing—do me a favor?”

“Sure.

“Shut your cell phone off. I’ll probably be tempted to call you again on the way to the airport if something else comes up.”

“If I didn’t have the children to get back to I might just pick up.”

Sellitto thanked her again and Thom saw her out the door.

Rhyme said, “Ron, make yourself useful.”

The rookie looked at the evidence tables. “I already called about the rope, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Rhyme muttered. “I said useful.” He nodded at the bottle of scotch sitting on a shelf across the room.

“Oh, sure.”

“Make it two,” Sellitto grumbled. “And don’t be stingy.”

Pulaski poured the whiskey and handed out two glasses—Cooper declined. Rhyme said to the rookie, “Don’t neglect yourself.”

“Oh, I’m in uniform.”

Sellitto choked a laugh.

“Okay. Maybe just a little.” He poured and then sipped the potent—and extremely expensive—liquor. “I like it,” he said, though his eyes were telling a different story. “Say, you ever mix in a little ginger ale or Sprite?”

Chapter 42

Before and After.

People move on.

For one reason or another, they move on, and Before becomes After.

Lincoln Rhyme heard these words floating through his head, over and over. Broken record. People move on.

He’d actually used the phrase himself—when he’d told his wife he wanted a divorce, not long after his accident. Their relationship had been rocky for some time and he had decided that whether or not he survived the broken neck, he was going to go forward on his own and not tie her down to the difficult life of a gimp’s wife.

But back then “moving on” meant something very different from what Rhyme was facing now. The life he’d constructed over the past few years, a precarious life, was about to change in a big way. The problem, of course, was that by going to Argyle Security, Sachs wasn’t really moving on. She was moving back.

Sellitto and Cooper were gone and Rhyme and Pulaski were alone in the downstairs lab, parked in front of an examination table, organizing evidence in the 118th Precinct scandal cases. Finally confronted with the evidence—and the fact they’d unwittingly hired a domestic terrorist—Baker, Wallace and Henson copped pleas and were diming out everybody involved at the 118th. (Though nobody would say a word about who’d hooked the Watchmaker up with Baker. Understandable. You simply don’t give up the name of a senior member of an OC crew when you’re headed off to the same prison he might end up in, thanks to your testimony.)

Preparing himself for Sachs’s departure, Rhyme had concluded that Ron Pulaski would eventually be a fine crime scene cop. He had ingenuity and intelligence and was as dogged as Lon Sellitto. Rhyme could wear the rough edges off him in eight months or a year. Together, he and the rookie would run scenes, analyze evidence and find perps, who’d go to jail or die trying not to. The system would keep going. The process of policing was bigger than just one man or woman; it had to be.