The Kill Room

Be at hospital at 9 a.m.
NO liquor after midnight. None. Not a drop.
    He smiled at the second line, Thom’s entry.
    The town house was quiet. His aide was in the kitchen and Sachs was in her apartment in Brooklyn. She’d had basement problems and was waiting for the contractor. She would also be seeing Nance Laurel later today—getting together for drinks and dinner.
    And dish on men too…
    Rhyme was pleased the women had, against all odds, become friends. Sachs didn’t have many.
    The sound of a doorbell echoed and Rhyme heard Thom’s footfalls making for the portal. A moment later he returned with a tall figure in a brown suit, white shirt and green tie whose hue he couldn’t begin to describe.
    NYPD Captain Bill Myers. Special Services Division. Whatever that might be.
    Greetings were exchanged and the man fell into an effusive tone, with Myers complimenting Rhyme on the resolution of the case.
    “Never in a million years would have seen that potentiality,” the captain said.
    “Was surprised at how it turned out.”
    “I’ll say. Some pretty decent deductions on your part.”
    The word “decent” only describes that which is socially proper or non-obscene; it doesn’t mean fair or good. But you can’t change a jargonist so Rhyme kept mum. He realized that silence had descended as Myers took in the gas chromatograph with an intensity that circumstances—and the equipment itself—didn’t warrant.
    Then the captain looked around the lab and observed that they were alone.
    And Rhyme knew.
    “This’s about Amelia, right, Bill?”
    Wishing he hadn’t used her first name. Neither of them was the least superstitious, except in this tradition. They never referred to each other by their givens.
    “Yes. Lon talked to you? About my problems with her health issues?”
    “He did.”
    “Let me unpack it further,” Myers said. “I allowed her some time to finish this case and then have her take a medical. But I’m not going that route. I read the report of the take-down in Glen Cove, when she and Officer Pulaski collared Jacob Swann. The medic’s report said that her knee gave out completely after the suspect noticed she was in pain and kicked or hit it. If Officer Pulaski hadn’t been there she would have been killed. And Spencer Boston too, and maybe a few of the tactical officers as they did a dynamic entry.”
    Rhyme said bluntly, “She took down the perp, Bill.”
    “She was lucky. The report said afterward she could hardly walk.”
    “She’s fine now.”
    “Is she?”
    No, she wasn’t. Rhyme said nothing.
    “It’s the elephant in the room, Lincoln. Nobody wants to talk about it but it’s a problematic circumstance. She’s putting herself and other people at risk. I wanted to talk to you alone about this. We huddled and conjured up a decision. I’m promoting her out of the field. She’ll be a supervisor in Major Cases. And we’ll rank her. Sergeant. But I know there’ll be pushback from her.”
    Rhyme was furious. This was his Sachs the captain was talking about in the cheapest of clichés.
    But he kept silent.
    The captain continued, “I need you to talk her into it, Lincoln. We don’t want to lose her; she’s too good. But the department can’t keep her if she insists on being in the field. Desking her’s the only option.”
    And what would she do post-NYPD? Become a freelance consultant, like him? But that wasn’t Sachs’s way. She was a brilliant crime scene searcher, with her natural empathy and dogged nature. But she had to be a cop in the field, not lab-bound, like he was. And forensics wasn’t her only specialty, of course; if she couldn’t speed to a hostage taking or robbery in progress to engage the perp, she’d wither.
    “Will you talk to her, Lincoln?”
    Finally he said, “I’ll talk to her.”
    “Thank you. It’s for her own good, you know. We really do want the best. It’ll be a three-sixty for everybody.”
    The captain shook his hand and departed.
    Rhyme stared at the table where Sachs had recently been sitting to work the Moreno case. He believed he could smell some of the gardenia soap she favored though possibly that was just a fragrance memory.
    I’ll talk to her…
    Then he turned his wheelchair and motored back to the whiteboards, examining them closely. Taking, as always, comfort in the elegance and intrigue of evidence.

CHAPTER 94
    T HE 110-FOOT GENERAL CARGO VESSEL , chugging under diesel power, plowed through the Caribbean Sea, a