The entrée would be Veronique-style, which he prepared with grapes sliced into disks and shallots, equally thin, in a beurre blanc sauce—made with slightly less wine (he never used vinegar) because of the presence of the grapes.

He would slice the very special meat into nearly translucent ovals, dredge them in type 45 French pastry flour then quickly sauté them in a blend of olive oil and butter (always the two, of course; butter alone burns faster than an overturned tanker).

He offered Carol more water. She wasn’t interested. She’d given up.

“Relax,” he whispered.

The liquid was boiling in the asparagus steamer, the potatoes browning nicely under the broiler, the oil and butter slowly heating, off-gassing their lovely perfume.

Swann wiped down the cutting board he’d use to slice the meat for the main course.

But before getting to work, the wine. He opened and poured a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, a Cloudy Bay, one of the best on the planet. He’d debated about the vineyard’s fine sparkling wine, the Pelorus, but he didn’t think he could finish a whole bottle alone, and bubbles, of course, don’t keep.

THURSDAY, MAY 18

V

THE MILLION-DOLLAR BULLET

Chapter 56

CHAPTER 56

YOU’VE GOT A TAN,” SELLITTO SAID.

“I don’t have a tan.”

“You do. You oughta wear sunscreen, Linc.”

“I don’t have a goddamn tan,” he muttered.

“I think you do,” Thom added.

It was nearly 8 a.m. Thom, Pulaski and Rhyme had arrived from LaGuardia airport late, nearly eleven last night, and the aide had insisted that Rhyme get some sleep immediately. The case could wait till this morning.

There’d been no argument; the criminalist had been exhausted. The dunk in the water had taken its toll. The whole trip had, for that matter. But that didn’t stop Rhyme from summoning Thom the moment he’d awakened at six thirty with the push-button call switch beside the bed. (The aide had called the device very Downton Abbey, a reference Rhyme did not get.)

The parlor was humming now, with Sellitto, Cooper and Sachs present. And Ron Pulaski—who did seem to have a tan—was just walking through the door. Nance Laurel had a court appearance on one of her other cases and would arrive later.

Rhyme was in a new wheelchair, a Merits Vision Select. Gray with red fenders. It had been delivered and assembled yesterday, before Rhyme’s return from the Bahamas. Thom had called their insurance company from Nassau and negotiated a speedy purchase. (“They didn’t know what to say,” the aide reported, “when I gave the reason for the loss as ‘immersion in ten feet of water.’”)