"Ron? You copy?"
Nothing but the tick . . . tick . . . tick.
"Ron?"
Then a crash, loud. Metal.
Rhyme's head tilted. "Ron? What's going on?"
Still no response.
He was about to order the unit to change frequency to tell Haumann to check on the rookie when the radio finally crackled to life.
He heard Ron Pulaski's panicked voice. " . . . needs assistance! Ten-thirteen, ten . . . I--"
A 10-13 was the most urgent of all radio codes, an officer in distress call.
Rhyme, shouting, "Answer me, Ron! Are you there?"
"I can't--"
A grunt.
The radio went dead.
Jesus.
"Mel, call Haumann for me!"
The tech hit some buttons. "You're on," Cooper shouted, pointed to Rhyme's headset.
"Bo, Rhyme. Pulaski's in trouble. Called in a ten-thirteen on my line. Did you hear?"
"Negative. But we'll move on it."
"He was going to run the stairwell closest to the Explorer."
"Roger."
Now that he was on the main frequency, Rhyme could hear all the transmissions. Haumann was directing several tactical support teams and calling for a medical unit. He ordered his men to spread out in the garage and cover the exits.
Rhyme pressed his head back into the headrest of his chair, furious.
He was mad at Sachs for abandoning His Case for the Other Case and forcing Pulaski to take the assignment. He was mad at himself for letting an inexperienced rookie search a potentially hot scene alone.
"Linc, we're on the way. We can't see him." It was Sellitto's voice.
"Well, don't goddamn tell me what you haven't found."
More voices.
"Nothing on this level."
"There's the SUV."
"Where is he?"
"Somebody over there, our nine o'clock?"