"Okay. Go. Good luck."
The young man sprinted out the door.
Rhyme closed his eyes briefly. "He's picking us off like a sniper." He grimaced. "At least Sachs'll be here any minute. She can check out Carpenter."
Just then another pounding shook the door.
Alarmed, his eyes jerked open. What now?
But this, at least, wasn't another disruption by 522.
Two crime-scene officers from the main facility in Queens walked inside, carrying a large milk crate, which Sachs had handed off to them before she'd raced to her town house. This would be the evidence from the scene of Malloy's death.
"Hi, Detective. You know your doorbell's not working." One looked around. "And your lights're off."
"We're pretty aware of that," Rhyme said coolly.
"Anyway, here you go."
After the officers had left, Mel Cooper put the box on an examination table and extracted the evidence and Sachs's digital camera, which would contain images of the scene.
"Now, that's helpful," Rhyme growled sarcastically, pointing his chin at the silent computer and its black screen. "Maybe we can hold the memory chip up to the sunlight."
He glanced at the evidence itself--a shoeprint, some leaves, duct tape and envelopes of trace. They had to examine it as soon as possible; since this wasn't planted evidence it might provide the final clue as to where 522 was. But without their equipment to analyze it and check the databases, the bags were nothing more than paperweights.
"Thom," Rhyme called, "the power?"
"I'm still on hold," the aide shouted from the dark hallway.
*
He knew this was probably a bad idea. But he was out of control.
And it took a lot for Ron Pulaski to be out of control.
Yet he was furious. This was beyond anything he'd ever felt. When he'd signed up for the blue he'd expected to be beat up and threatened from time to time. But he'd never thought that his career would put Jenny at risk, much less his children.
So despite being straitlaced and by the book--Sergeant Friday--he was taking the matter into his own hands. Going behind the backs of Lincoln Rhyme and Detective Sellitto and even his mentor, Amelia Sachs. They wouldn't be happy at what he was going to do but Ron Pulaski was desperate.
And so on the way to the INS detention center in Queens, he'd made a call to Mark Whitcomb.
"Hey, Ron," the man had said, "what's going on? . . . You sound upset. You're out of breath."
"I've got a problem, Mark. Please. I need some help. My wife's being accused of being an illegal alien. They say her passport's forged and she's a security threat. It's crazy."
"But she's a citizen, isn't she?"
"Her family's been here for generations. Mark, we think this killer we've been after got into your system. He's had one detective fail a drug test . . . and now he's had Jenny arrested. He could do that?"
"He must've swapped her file with somebody who's on a watch list and then called it in. . . . Look, I know some people at INS. I can talk to them. Where are you?"
"On my way to the detention center in Queens."
"I'll meet you outside in twenty minutes."
"Oh, thanks, man. I don't know what to do."
"Don't worry, Ron. We'll get it worked out."