The Kill Room

with severe disabilities. As Rhyme often announced, sometimes for pure shock value, “Gimps spend a lot of time on their asses.”
    The exercise had also enhanced nerve functioning.
    This was the aerobic portion of his exercise. The other part involved building up the muscles in his neck and shoulders; it was these elements of his body that would largely control the movement of his left hand and arm, as they now did his right, after his surgery in several weeks, if all went well.
    Sachs wished she hadn’t thought that last clause.
    “Anything?” he called, breathing heavily.
    She gave him a rundown of the chauffeur trip, explaining about Moreno’s close childhood friend dying at the hands of the American invaders in Panama.
    “Grudges can run deep.” But he wasn’t interested in what he would consider the mumbo-jumbo of the man’s psyche; Rhyme never was. More interesting was what she’d learned about Lydia, the closed bank accounts, the mysterious meeting, Moreno’s planned self-imposed exile from the United States—his vanishing into “thin air”—and some possible connection with explosions in Mexico City on May 13.
    “Fred’s going to keep digging. Any luck in the Bahamas?”
    “Crap all,” he snapped, panting. “I don’t know whether it’s incompetence or politics—probably both—but I’ve called back three times and ended up on hold again until I hang up. That’s seven times today. I truly resent hold. I was going to call our embassy there or consulate or whatever they have to intervene. But Nance didn’t think that was a good idea.”
    “Why? Word would get back to NIOS?”
    “Yeah. I can’t disagree, I suppose. She’s sure evidence is going to start disappearing the minute they find out. The problem is…” He drew a deep breath and with his functioning right hand turned the speed of the bike up a bit higher. “…there is no goddamn evidence.”
    Thom said, “Slow down a bit there.”
    “What, my diatribe, or my exercise? That’s rather poetic, don’t you think?”
    “Lincoln.”
    The criminalist gave it a defiant thirty seconds more and lowered the speed. “Three miles,” he announced. “Somewhat uphill.”
    Sachs took a cloth and wiped a bit of sweat that ran down his temple. “I think somebody might’ve already found out about the investigation.”
    He turned those dark, radar eyes her way.
    She told him about the car she thought might have been tailing her.
    “So our sniper has found out about us already? Any ID?”
    “No. Either he was real good, or my imagination was working overtime.”
    “I don’t think we can be too paranoid in this case, Sachs. You should tell our friend in the parlor. And have you told her that Saint Moreno might not be so saintly?”
    “Not yet.”
    She found Rhyme looking at her with a particular expression.
    “And that means what?” she asked.
    “Why don’t you like her?”
    “Oil and water.”
    Rhyme chuckled. “The hydrophobia myth! They do mix, Sachs. Simply remove gases from the water and it will blend perfectly well with the oil.”
    “I should know not to offer a cliché to a scientist.”
    “Especially when it doesn’t answer his question.”
    It was a thick five seconds before she answered. “I don’t know why I don’t like her. I’m no good with being micromanaged, for one thing. She leaves you alone. Maybe it’s a woman thing.”
    “I have no opinion on the subject.”
    Digging into her scalp, she sighed. “I’ll go tell her now.”
    She walked to the door and paused, looking back at Rhyme hard at work on the bicycle.
    Sachs had mixed feelings about his plans for the forthcoming surgery. The operation was risky. Quads start with a hampered physiological system to begin with; an operation could lead to severe complications that wouldn’t be an issue with the non-disabled.
    Yes, she certainly wanted her partner to feel good about himself. But didn’t he know the truth—that he, like everyone else, was mind and heart first, before he was body? That our physical incarnations always disappoint in one way or another? So he got stared at on the street. He wasn’t the only one; when she was perused, it was usually by an observer who was a lot creepier than in his case.
    She thought now of those days as a fashion model, marginalized because of her good looks and height and flowing red hair. She’d grown angry—even hurt—at being treated like nothing more than a pricey collectible. She’d risked the wrath