"Really?"
"He was teaching at Princeton. But he got laid off."
"What happened?"
"He was an assistant and a research fellow. They decided not to offer him a full professor's contract. Art says politics was behind it. You know how that is in colleges."
Henry Rhyme, Art's father, was a renowned professor of physics at the University of Chicago; academia was an esteemed pursuit in that branch of the Rhyme family. In high school Arthur and Lincoln would debate the virtues of university research and teaching versus a private-sector job. "In academia, you can make a serious contribution to society," Art had said as the boys shared two somewhat illegal beers, and managed to keep a straight face when Lincoln supplied the requisite follow-up line: "That, and the teaching assistants can be pretty hot."
Rhyme wasn't surprised that Art had gone for a university job.
"He could've continued to be an assistant but he quit. He was pretty angry. Assumed he'd get another job right away, but that didn't happen. He was out of work for a while. Ended up at a private company. A medical-equipment manufacturer." Another automatic glance--this time at the elaborate wheelchair. She blushed as if she'd committed a Don Imus. "It wasn't his dream job and he hasn't been real happy. I'm sure he wanted to come see you. But probably he was ashamed he hadn't done so well. I mean, with you being a celebrity and all."
Finally, a sip of coffee. "You both had so much in common. You two were like brothers. I remember Boston, all the stories you told. We were up half the night, laughing. Things I never knew about him. And my father-in-law, Henry--when he was alive he'd talk about you all the time."
"Did he? We wrote quite a bit. In fact, I had a letter from him a few days before he died."
Rhyme had dozens of indelible memories of his uncle, but one particular image stood out. The tall, balding, ruddy-faced man is rearing back, braying a laugh, embarrassing every one of the dozen or so family members at the Christmas Eve dinner table--embarrassing all, that is, except Henry Rhyme himself, his patient wife and young Lincoln, who is laughing right along. Rhyme liked his uncle very much and would often go to visit Art and the family, who lived about thirty miles away, on the shores of Lake Michigan in Evanston, Illinois.
Now, though, Rhyme was in no mood for nostalgia and was relieved when he heard the door open and the sound of seven firm footsteps, from threshold to carpet, the stride telling Rhyme who it was. A moment later a tall, slim redhead wearing jeans and a black T-shirt under a burgundy blouse entered the lab. The shirt was loose and the stern angle of a black Glock pistol was visible high on her hip.
As Amelia Sachs smiled and kissed Rhyme on the mouth, the criminalist was aware, in his periphery, of Judy's body language response. The message was clear and Rhyme wondered what had dismayed her: that she'd made the slip of not asking if he was seeing someone, or that she'd assumed a crip couldn't have a romantic partner--at least not one as disarmingly attractive as Sachs, who'd been a model before going to the police academy.
He introduced them. Sachs listened with concern to the story of Arthur Rhyme's arrest, and asked how Judy was coping with the situation. Then: "Do you have children?"
Rhyme realized that while he'd been noting Judy's faux pas, he'd committed one himself, neglecting to ask about their son, whose name he'd forgotten. And, it turned out, the family had grown. In addition to Arthur Junior, who was in high school, there were two others. "A nine-year-old, Henry. And a daughter, Meadow. She's six."
"Meadow?" Sachs asked in surprise, for reasons Rhyme couldn't deduce.
Judy gave an embarrassed laugh. "And we live in Jersey. But it's got nothing to do with the TV show. She was born before I'd ever seen it."
TV show?
Judy broke the brief silence. "I'm sure you're wondering why I called that officer to get your number. But first I have to tell you Art doesn't know I'm here."
"No?"
"In fact, to tell you the truth, I wouldn't have thought of it on my own. I've been so upset, not getting any sleep, not thinking straight. But I was talking to Art a few days ago in the detention center and he said, 'I know what you're thinking, but don't call Lincoln. It's a case of mistaken identity or something. We'll get it straightened out. Promise me you won't.' He didn't want to burden you. . . . You know how Art is. Just so kind, always thinking of everybody else."
Rhyme nodded.
"But the more I got to thinking about it, the more sense it made. I wouldn't ask you to pull strings or do anything that wasn't right, but I thought maybe you could just make a call or two. Tell me what you thought."
Rhyme could imagine how that would go over at the Big Building. As a forensic consultant for the NYPD, his job was getting to the truth, wherever that journey led, but the brass definitely preferred him to help convict, not exonerate, defendants.
"I went through some of your clippings--"
"Clippings?"
"Art keeps family scrapbooks. He has clippings about your cases from the newspapers. Dozens. You've done some amazing things."
Rhyme said, "Oh, I'm just a civil servant."
Finally Judy delivered some unvarnished emotion: a smile, as she looked into his eyes. "Art said he never believed your modesty for a minute."
"Is that right?"
"But only because you never believed it either."