"War?" It was Sellitto who asked this question.
"On us. He's not going underground. He's not running. He's telling us to go fuck ourselves. He's fighting back. And he thinks he can get away with it. Killing brass? Oh, yeah. He's drawn the battle line. And he knows all about us now."
"Maybe Joe didn't tell him," Sachs said.
"No, he told. He did everything he could to hold out but in the end he told." Rhyme didn't even want to picture what the captain had been through as he'd tried to keep silent. "It wasn't his fault. . . . But we're all at risk now."
"I've gotta go talk to the brass," Sellitto said. "They want to know what went wrong. They weren't happy about the plan in the first place."
"I'm sure they weren't. Where did it happen?"
"A warehouse. Chelsea."
"Warehouse . . . perfect for a hoarder. Was he connected to it? Work there? Remember his comfortable shoes? Or did he just find out about it from going through the data? I want to know all of the above."
"I'll have it checked out," Cooper said. "Sellitto gave him the details."
"And we'll get the scene searched." Rhyme glanced at Sachs, who nodded.
After the detective disconnected, Rhyme asked, "Where's Pulaski?"
"On his way back from the Roland Bell set."
"Let's call SSD, find out where all our suspects were at the time Malloy was killed. Some of them must have been in the office. I want to know who wasn't. And I want to know about this Runnerboy. Think Sterling'll help?"
"Oh, definitely," Sachs said, reminding him how cooperative Sterling had been throughout the investigation. She hit the speakerphone button and placed the call.
An assistant answered and Sachs identified herself.
"Hello, Detective Sachs. This is Jeremy. How can I help you?"
"I need to talk to Mr. Sterling."
"I'm afraid he's not available."
"It's very important. There's been another killing. A police officer."
"Yes, I heard that on the news. I'm very sorry. Hold on a moment. Martin just walked in."
They heard a muffled conversation and then another voice came through the speaker. "Detective Sachs. It's Martin. I'm sorry to hear, another killing. But Mr. Sterling's off-site."
"It's really important we talk to him."
The calm assistant said, "I'll relay the urgency."
"What about Mark Whitcomb or Tom O'Day?"
"Hold for a moment, please."
After a lengthy pause the young man's voice said, "I'm afraid Mark is out of the office too. And Tom is in a meeting. I've left messages. I have another call, Detective Sachs. I should go. And I am truly sorry about your captain."
*
"'You that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more to my meditations, than you might suppose.'"
Sitting on a bench, overlooking the East River, Pam Willoughby felt a thud in her chest and her palms began to sweat.
She looked behind her at Stuart Everett, lit brilliantly by the sun over New Jersey. A blue shirt, jeans, a sports coat, the leather bag over his shoulder. His boyish face, a flop of brown hair, narrow lips about to break into a grin that often never arrived.