In fact, the city has just flown in an expert in information management and security from Carnegie Mellon University. Dr. Carlton Soames will spend the next few days assisting the investigators and advising them on the issue of identity theft, which they believe is the best way to find the perpetrator.
Soames looks like a typical ruffled-haired small-town Midwest boy gone smart. An awkward grin. Suit a little off center, glasses a bit smudged, the asymmetrical glare tells me. And how much wear would that wedding ring show? Plenty, I'll bet. He looks like the sort who married early.
He doesn't say anything but gazes out like a nervous animal at the press and the camera. Captain Malloy continues, "In an age when identity theft is increasing, and the consequences are increasingly grave--"
The pun, obviously unintentional, is unfortunate.
"--we take seriously our responsibility to protect the citizens of this city."
The reporters jump into the fray, pelting the deputy mayor, captain and unsettled professor with questions a third-grader could have come up with. Malloy generally demurs. The word "ongoing" is his shield.
Deputy Mayor Ron Scott reassures the public that the city is safe and everything is being done to protect them. The press conference ends abruptly.
We go back to the regular news, if you can call it that. Tainted veggies in Texas, a woman on a hood of a truck caught in a Missouri flood. The President has a cold.
I shut off the set and sit in my dim Closet, wondering how best to process this new transaction.
An idea occurs to me. It's so obvious, though, that I'm skeptical. But, surprise, it takes only three phone calls--to hotels close to One Police Plaza--to find the one where Dr. Carlton Soames is registered.
IV
AMELIA 7303
TUESDAY, MAY 24
There was, of course, no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time.
--GEORGE ORWELL, 1984
Chapter Thirty-three Amelia Sachs arrived early.
But Lincoln Rhyme had been awake earlier, unable to sleep soundly because of the plans unfolding presently, both here and in England. He'd had dreams about his cousin Arthur and his uncle Henry.
Sachs joined him in the exercise room, where Thom was getting Rhyme back into the TDX wheelchair after he'd done five miles on the Electrologic stationary bicycle, part of his regular exercise scheme to improve his condition and to keep his muscles toned for the day when they might once again begin to replace the mechanical systems that now ran his life. Sachs took over, while the aide went downstairs to fix breakfast. It wa
s a hallmark of their relationship that Rhyme had long ago lost any qualms about her helping him with his morning routine, which many people would find unpleasant.
Sachs had spent the night at her place in Brooklyn, so now he updated her on the 522 situation. But she was distracted, he could see. When he asked why, she exhaled slowly and told him, "It's Pam." And she explained that Pam's boyfriend had turned out to be her former teacher. And a married one, at that.
"No . . ." Rhyme winced. "I'm sorry. The poor kid." His initial reaction was to threaten this Stuart into getting the hell out of the picture. "You've got a shield, Sachs. Flash it. He'll head for the hills. Or I'll give him a call if you want."
Sachs, however, didn't think that was the right way to handle the matter. "I'm afraid if I'm too pushy or I report him, I'll lose her. If I don't do anything, she's in for a lot of grief. God, what if she wants to have his baby?" She dug a nail into her thumb. Stopped herself. "It'd be different if I'd been her mother all along. I'd know how to handle it."
"Would you?" Rhyme asked.
She considered this, then conceded with a smile, "Okay, maybe not . . . This parent stuff. Kids ought to come with an owner's manual."
In the bedroom, they had breakfast, which Sachs fed to Rhyme. Like the parlor and the lab downstairs, the bedroom was far homier than it had been when Sachs first saw it, years ago. Back then the place had been stark, the only decorations art posters, tacked up backward and used as impromptu whiteboards for the first case they'd worked on together. Now those posters had been turned around and others added: of paintings that Rhyme enjoyed--impressionistic landscapes and moody urban scenes by artists like George Inness and Edward Hopper. Then she sat back, next to his wheelchair, and took his right hand, the one in which he'd recently regained some control and touch. He could feel her fingertips, though the sensation was odd, a step or two removed from the pressure he'd sense on his neck or face where the nerves worked normally. It was as if her hand were water trickling onto his skin. He willed his fingers to close on hers. And felt the pressure of her response. Silence. But he sensed, through her posture, that she wanted to talk about Pam, and he said nothing, waiting for her to continue. He watched the peregrine falcons on the ledge, aware, taut, the female larger. The pair were muscular bundles of readiness. Falcons hunt by day, and there were fledglings to feed.
"Rhyme?"
"What?" he asked.
"You still haven't called him, have you?"
"Who?"
"Your cousin."