Rhyme and the detective had worked together years ago, as partners, and it had largely been Lon Sellitto who’d pushed Rhyme back to work after the accident, not by coddling or cajoling but by forcing him to get off his ass and start solving crimes again. (More accurately, in Rhyme’s case, to stay on his ass and get back to work.) But despite their history Sellitto never came by just to hang out. The detective first-class was assigned to Major Cases, working out of the Big Building—One Police Plaza—and he was usually the lead detective on the cases for which Rhyme was hired to consult. His presence now was a harbinger.

“So.” Rhyme looked him over. “Do you have something good for me, Lon? An engaging crime? Intriguing?”

Sellitto sipped and nibbled. “All I know is I got a call from on top asking if you were free. I told ’em you were finishing up Williams. Then I was told to get here ASAP, meet somebody. They’re on their way.”

“‘Somebody’? ‘They’?” Rhyme asked acidly. “That’s as specific as the ‘something’ detaining my doctor. Seems infectious. Like the flu.”

“Hey, Linc. All I know.”

Rhyme cast a wry look toward Sachs. “I notice that no one called me about this. Did anybody call you, Sachs?”

“Not a jingle.”

Sellitto said, “Oh, that’s ’causa the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“Whatever’s going on, it’s a secret. And it’s gotta stay that way.”

Which was, Rhyme decided, at least a step toward intriguing.

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

RHYME WAS LOOKING UP at the two visitors, as different as could be, now stepping into his parlor.

One was a man in his fifties, with a military bearing, wearing an untailored suit—the shoulders were the giveaway—in navy blue, bordering on black. He had a jowly, clean-shaven face, tanned skin and trim hair, marine-style. Has to be brass, Rhyme thought.

The other was a woman hovering around the early thirties. She was approaching stocky, though not overweight, not yet. Her blond, lusterless hair was in an anachronistic flip, stiffly sprayed, and Rhyme noted that her pale complexion derived from a mask of liberally applied flesh-toned makeup. He didn’t see any acne or other pocks and assumed the pancake was a fashion choice. There was no shadow or liner around her gun-muzzle black eyes, all the more stark given the cream shade of the face in which they were set. Her thin lips were colorless too and dry. Rhyme assessed that this was not a mouth that broke into a smile very often.