"Just location."
And a clear line of sight to the target...
"When ... wait. Here's the fax. ..." A pause as he read. "Oh, just a missing person?"
"That's all," she said reluctantly.
"You know it's expensive. We'll have to bill you."
"I understand."
"Okay, hold the line, I'll call my tech people." There was a faint click.
Lucy sat on the desk, shoulders slumped, flexing her left hand, staring at fingers ruddy from years of gardening, an old scar from the metal strap on a pallet of mulch, the indentation in her ring finger from five years of wedding band.
Flex, straighten.
Watching the veins and muscles beneath the skin, Lucy Kerr realized something. That Amelia Sachs's crime had tapped into an anger within her that was more intense than anything she'd ever felt.
When they took part of her body away she'd felt ashamed and then forlorn. When her husband left she'd felt guilty and resigned. And when she finally grew mad at those events she was angry in a way that suggested embers--an anger that radiates immense heat but never bursts into flames.
But for a reason she couldn't understand, this woman cop from New York had let the simple white-hot fury burst from Lucy's heart--like the wasps that had streamed out of the nest and killed Ed Schaeffer so horribly.
White-hot fury at the betrayal of Lucy Kerr, who never intentionally caused a soul pain, who was a woman who loved plants, a woman who'd been a good wife to her man, a good daughter to her parents, a good sister, a good policewoman, a woman who wanted only the harmless pleasures life gave freely to everyone else but seemed determined to withhold from her.
No more shame or guilt or resignation or sorrow.
Simple fury--at the betrayals in her life. The betrayal by her body, by her husband, by God.
And now by Amelia Sachs.
"Hello, Lucy?" Pete asked from Elizabeth City. "You there?"
"Yes, I'm here."
"You ... are you okay? You sound funny."
She cleared her throat. "Fine. You set up?"
"You're good to go. When's the subject going to be making a call?"
Lucy looked into the other room. Called, "Ready?"
Rhyme nodded.
Into the phone she said, "Any time now."
"Stay on the line," Gregg said. "I'll liaise."
Please let this work, Lucy thought. Please ...
Then she added a footnote to her prayer: And, dear Lord, give me one clear shot at my Judas.
Thom fitted the headset over Rhyme's head. The aide then punched in a number.
If Sachs's phone was shut off it would ring only three times and the pleasant lilt of the voice-mail lady would start to speak.
One ring... two ...