Twisted

walked across the lab, found the bottle of Macallan and poured a heathy dose into a tumbler. The detective inserted a straw and mounted the cup in the holder on Rhyme’s chair.
    Rhyme sipped the liquor. Ah, heaven . . . His aide, Thom, and the criminalist’s partner, Amelia Sachs, were out shopping; if they’d been here Rhyme’s beverage might have been tasty but, given the hour, would undoubtedly have been nonalcoholic.
    “All right. Here’s the story. Rachel’s a friend of Susan and her daughter.”
    So it was a friend-of-the-family good deed. Rachel was Sellitto’s girlfriend. Rhyme said, “The daughter being Carly. See, I was listening, Lon. Go on.”
    “Carly—”
    “Who’s how old?”
    “Nineteen. Student at NYU. Business major. She’s going with this guy from Garden City—”
    “Is any of this relevant, other than her age? Which I’m not even sure is relevant.”
    “Tell me, Linc: You always in this good a mood during the holidays?”
    Another sip of the liquor. “Keep going.”
    “Susan’s divorced, works for a PR firm downtown. Lives in the burbs, Nassau County—”
    “Nassau? Nassau? Hmm, would they sort of be the right constabulary to handle the matter? You understandhow that works, right? That course on jurisdiction at the Academy?”
    Sellitto had worked with Lincoln Rhyme for years and was quite talented at deflecting the criminalist’s feistiness. He ignored the comment and continued. “She takes a couple days off to get the house ready for the holidays. Rachel tells me she and her daughter have a teenage thing—you know, going through a rough time, the two of them. But Susan’s trying . She wants to make everything nice for the girl, throw a big party on Christmas Day. Anyway, Carly’s living in an apartment in the Village near her school. Last night she tells her mom she’ll come by this morning, drop off some things and then’s going to her boyfriend’s. Susan says good, they’ll have coffee, yadda yadda . . . Only when Carly gets there, Susan’s gone. And her—”
    “Car’s still in the garage.”
    “Exactly. So Carly waits for a while. Susan doesn’t come back. She calls the local boys but they’re not going to do anything for twenty-four hours, at least. So, Carly thinks of me—I’m the only cop she knows—and calls Rachel.”
    “We can’t do good deeds for everybody. Just because ’tis the season.”
    “Let’s give the kid a Christmas present, Linc. Ask a few questions, look around the house.”
    Rhyme’s expression was scowly but in fact he was intrigued. How he hated boredom. . . . And, yes, he was often in a bad mood during the holidays—because there was invariably a lull in the stimulating cases that the NYPD or the FBI would hire him toconsult on as a forensic scientist, or “criminalist” as the jargon termed it.
    “So . . . Carly’s upset. You understand.”
    Rhyme shrugged, one of the few gestures allowed to him after the accident at a crime scene some years ago had left him a quadriplegic. Rhyme moved his one working finger on the touch pad and maneuvered the chair to face Sellitto. “Her mother’s probably home by now. But, if you really want, let’s call the girl. I’ll get a few facts, see what I think. What can it hurt?”
    “That’s great, Linc. Hold on.” The large detective walked to the door and opened it.
    What was this?
    In walked a teenage girl, looking around shyly.
    “Oh, Mr. Rhyme, hi. I’m Carly Thompson. Thanks so much for seeing me.”
    “Ah, you’ve been waiting outside,” Rhyme said and offered the detective an acerbic glance. “If my friend Lon here had shared that fact with me, I’d’ve invited you in for a cup of tea.”
    “Oh, that’s okay. Nothing for me.”
    Sellitto lifted a cheerful eyebrow and found a chair for the girl.
    She had long, blonde hair and an athletic figure and her round face bore little makeup. She was dressed in MTV chic—flared jeans and a black jacket, chunky boots. To Rhyme the most remarkable thing about her, though, was her expression: Carly gave no reaction whatsoever to his disability. Some people grew tongue-tied, some chatted mindlessly, some locked their eyes on to his and grew frantic—as if a glance at his body would be the fauxpas of the century. Each of those reactions pissed him off in its own way.
    She smiled. “I like the decoration.”
    “I’m sorry?” Rhyme asked.
    “The garland on the back of your chair.”
    The criminalist