He returned to the parlor a moment later beside a sinewy man in his thirties, with a weathered, creased face and long blond ponytail. He also had the most extravagant beard Rhyme had ever seen. He was amused at the difference between the two standing before him. Thom was in dark dress slacks, a pastel-yellow shirt and a rust-colored tie. The visitor wore a spotless tuxedo jacket, way too thin for the raging weather, ironed black jeans and a black long-sleeve pullover emblazoned with a red spider. His brown boots were polished like a mahogany table. The only attribute this man and the aide shared was a slender build, though Thom was a half foot taller.

‘You must be TT Gordon,’ Rhyme said.

‘Yeah. And, hey, you’re the dude in the wheelchair.’

CHAPTER 14

Rhyme took in the bizarre beard, the steel rods in the ears and eyebrows.

Parts of tats were visible on the backs of Gordon’s hands; the rest of the inking vanished under his pullover. Rhyme believed he could make out POW! on the right wrist.

He drew no conclusions about the man’s appearance. He’d long ago given up on the spurious practice of equating the essence of a person with his or her physical incarnation. His own condition was the prototype for this way of thinking.

His main reaction was: How badly had the piercings hurt? This was something Rhyme could relate to; his ears and brows were places in which he could feel pain. And the other thought: If TT Gordon ever got busted he’d be picked out of a lineup in an instant.

A nod to Sellitto, who reciprocated.

‘Hey. The wheelchair thing I said? It wasn’t as stupid as it sounded,’ Gordon said, smiling and looking at everyone in the room. His eyes returned to Rhyme’s. ‘Obviously you’re in a wheelchair. I meant, hey, you’re the famous dude in the wheelchair. I didn’t make the connection before. When he’ – a nod at Sellitto – ‘came to my shop, he said “consultant”. You’re in the papers. I’ve seen you on TV. Why don’t you do that Nancy Grace show? That’d be very cool. Do you watch it?’

This was just natural rambling, Rhyme deduced, not awkward, I-don’t-want-to-be-with-a-gimp rambling. The disability seemed to Gordon merely another aspect of Rhyme, like his dark hair and fleshy nose and intense eyes and trim fingernails.

An identifying marker, not a political one.

Gordon greeted the others, Sachs, Cooper and Pulaski. Then he gazed around the room, whose decor Rhyme had once described as Hewlett-Packard Victorian. ‘Hm. Well. Cool.’

Sachs said, ‘We appreciate your coming here to help us.’

‘Like, no problem. I want this guy taken down. This dude, what he’s doing? It’s bad for everybody who mods for a living.’

‘What does that mean? “Mods”?’ Sachs asked.