"You think it's that much of a risk?" the big detective asked. Then shook his head. "What the hell am I saying? Sure, it is." He got the information--addresses and phone numbers--then called Bell and had him arrange for officers. After hanging up he said, "It'll take a few hours but he'll get it done."
A loud knock on the door shattered the silence. Still clutching the phone, Thom started for it.
"Wait!" Rhyme shouted.
The aide paused.
"Pulaski, go with him." Rhyme nodded at the pistol on his hip.
"Sure."
They walked into the hallway. Then Rhyme heard a muted conversation and a moment later two men in suits, with trim hair and unsmiling faces, walked into the town house, looking around curiously--first at Rhyme's body, then at the rest of the lab, surprised either at the amount of scientific equipment or the absence of lights, or both, most likely.
"We're looking for a Lieutenant Sellitto. We were told he'd be here."
"That's me. Who're you?"
Shields were displayed and ranks and names given--they were two NYPD detective sergeants. And they were with Internal Affairs.
"Lieutenant," the older of the two said, "we're here to take possession of your shield and weapon. I have to tell you that the results were confirmed."
"I'm sorry. What're you talking about?"
"You're officially suspended. You're not being arrested at this time. But we recommend you talk to an attorney--either your own or one from the PBA."
"The hell is going on?"
The younger officer frowned. "The drug test."
"What?"
"You don't have to deny anything to us. We just do the fieldwork, pick up shields and weapons and inform suspects of their suspension."
"What fucking test?"
The older looked at the younger. This apparently had never happened before.
Naturally it hadn't, since whatever was going on had been ginned up by 522, Rhyme understood.
"Detective, really, you don't have to act--"
"Do I fucking look like I'm acting?"
"Well, according to the suspension order, you took a drug test last week. The results just came in, showing significant levels of narcotics in your system. Heroin, cocaine and psychedelics."
"I took the drug test, like everybody in my department. It can't show up positive because I don't do any fucking drugs. I have never done any fucking drugs. And . . . Oh, shit," the big man spat out, grimacing. He jabbed a finger at the SSD brochure. "They've got drug-screening and background-check companies. He got into the system somehow and screwed up my file. The results were faked."
"That would be very difficult to accomplish."
"Well, it got accomplished."
"And you or your attorney can bring up that defense at the hearing. Again, we really just need your shield and your weapon. And here's the paperwork on that. Now, I hope there's not going to be a problem. You don't want to add to your difficulties, do you?"
"Shit." The big, rumpled man handed over his gun--an old-style revolver--and the shield. "Gimme the fucking paperwork." Sellitto snatched it out of the hand of the younger one, as the older wrote out a receipt and handed it to him, as well. He then unloaded the gun and placed it and the bullets in a thick envelope.
"Thank you, Detective. Have a good day."
After they were gone, Sellitto flipped open his phone and called the head of IA. The man was out and he left a message. Then he called his own office. The assistant he shared with several other detectives in Major Cases had apparently heard the news.