“Ah, stomach problems.” Rhyme glanced at Sachs. She nodded in return.

“With some kind of sweetener, never sugar.”

“And his suits?”

Metzger sighed. “He shops at Sears. And, yes, for some reason he likes this weird shade of blue. I never understood that.”

Chapter 86

CHAPTER 86

NICE HOUSE,” RON PULASKI SAID.

“Is.” Sachs was looking around, a little distracted.

“So this is what? Glen Cove?”

“Or Oyster Bay. They kind of run together.”

The North Shore of Long Island was a patchwork of small communities, hillier and more tree-filled than the South. Sachs didn’t know the area well. She’d been here on a case involving a Chinese snakehead—a human trafficker—a few years ago. And before that she remembered a police pursuit along some of the winding roads. The chase hadn’t lasted long; sixteen-year-old Amelia had easily evaded the Nassau County police, after they’d broken up an illegal drag race near Garden City (she had won, beating a Dodge hands down).

“You nervous?” Pulaski asked.

“Yeah. Always before a take-down. Always.”

Amelia Sachs felt if you weren’t on edge at a time like that, something was wrong.

On the other hand, ever since the arrest was blessed by Lon Sellitto and, above him, Captain Myers, Sachs hadn’t once worried her flesh, picked at a nail or—this was odd—felt a throb from her hip or knee.

They were dressed quasi-tactically in body armor and black caps but wore just their sidearms.

They were now approaching Spencer Boston’s residence.

An hour ago Shreve Metzger and Rhyme had come up with a plan for the take-down. Metzger had told his Administrations Director Boston that there were going to be hearings about the Moreno STO screwup. He wanted to use a private residence to meet with the NIOS lawyers; could they use Boston’s house and could he send his family off for the day?

Boston had agreed and headed up here immediately.

As Sachs and Pulaski approached the large Colonial they paused, looking around the trim lawns, surrounding woods, molded shrubbery and gardens lovingly, almost compulsively, tended.

The young officer was breathing even more rapidly now.

You nervous?…

Sachs noted that he was absently rubbing a scar on his forehead. It was the legacy of a blow delivered by a perp on the first case they’d worked together, a few years ago. The head injury had been severe and he’d nearly given up policing altogether because of the incident—which would have devastated him; policing was a core part of his psyche and bound him closely to his twin brother, also a cop. But thanks largely to the encouragement and example of Lincoln Rhyme he’d gone through extensive rehab and decided to remain on the force.

But the injury had been bad and Sachs knew that the post-traumatic stress continued to snipe.

Can I handle it? Will I fold under pressure?