"I'm good," Bell said, shaking his head and tapping the automatic pistol on his right hip. "But I need a target."
Now there's a prayer for you, thought Amelia Sachs.
Chapter Twelve The evidence from the second scene had arrived and Mel Cooper was arranging the bags and vials on examining tables in Rhyme's parlor.
Sellitto had just returned from a tense meeting at the Big Building about the Conjurer case. The deputy commissioner and the mayor wanted details on the progress of a case about which there were few details and had been no progress.
Rhyme had heard back about the Ukrainian illusionists with the Cirque Fantastique and learned that they had no record. The two police officers stationed at the tent had also been checking around the circus and reported no leads or suspicious activity.
A moment later Sachs strode into the room, accompanied by the even-keeled Roland Bell. When Sellitto had been ordered to add another detective to the team Rhyme had immediately suggested Bell; he liked the idea of a streetwise cop, who was a crack shot, backing up Sachs in the field.
Greetings and introductions all around. Bell hadn't been told about Kara and she answered his querying glance with: "I'm like him." A nod toward Rhyme. "Sort of a consultant."
Bell said, "Nice to meetcha." And blinked to see her absently rolling three coins back and forth over her knuckles simultaneously.
As Sachs went to work on the evidence with Cooper, Rhyme asked, "Who was he, the vic?"
"Name was Anthony Calvert. Thirty-two. Unmarried. Well, no partner, in his case."
"Any connection with the student at the music school?"
"Doesn't seem to be," Sellitto answered. "Bedding and Saul've checked it out."
"What was his job?" Cooper asked.
"Makeup stylist on Broadway."
And the first one was a musician and music student, Rhyme reflected. One straight female, one gay male victim. Lived and worked in different neighborhoods. What could link the killings? He asked, "Any feel-good stuff?"
But since the first crime hadn't been sexual in nature Rhyme wasn't surprised when Sachs said, "Nope. Not unless he takes his memories home to bed with him. . . . And he gets off on this." She stepped to the whiteboard and taped up the digital photos of the body.
Rhyme wheeled closer and studied the gruesome images.
"Sick fuck." Sellitto offered this lethargic observation.
"And the weapon was?" Roland Bell asked.
"Looks like a crosscut saw," Cooper said, examining some close-ups of the wounds.
Bell, who'd seen his share of carnage as a cop both in North Carolina and New York, shook his head. "Well, now that's a tough shell."
As Rhyme continued to study the pictures he was suddenly aware of an odd noise, an erratic hissing from nearby. He turned to see Kara behind him. The sound was her frantic breath. She was looking at the pictures of Calvert's body. She ran her hand compulsively over her short hair as she stared, transfixed, at the photos, tear-filled eyes wide in shock. Her jaw trembled. She turned away from the board.
"Are you--?" Sachs began.
Kara held up a hand, closed her eyes, breathing hard.
Rhyme knew then, seeing the pain in her face, that this was it for her. She'd reached the end. His life--crime scene work--entailed this type of horror; her world didn't. The risks and dangers in her profession were, of course, illusory and it was too much to expect civilians to confront this revulsion voluntarily. This was a true shame because they needed her help desperately. But, seeing the horror in her face, he knew they couldn't subject her to any more of this violence. He wondered if she was going to be sick.
Sachs started toward her but stopped when Rhyme shook his head--his message: he knew they were losing the girl and they had to let her go.
Except that he was wrong.
Kara took another deep breath--like a high diver about to plunge off the board--and turned back to the pictures, a determined look in her eyes. She'd just been steeling herself to confront the photos again.
She studied them closely and finally nodded. "P. T. Selbit," she said, wiping her blue eyes.
"That's a person?" From Sachs.