"Whisky. I'd feel better with some whisky."
"No, you wouldn't."
"Well, why don't we try an experiment. Science. Cartesian. Rational. Who can argue with that? I know how I feel now. Then I'll have some whisky and I'll report back to you."
"No. It's too early," Thom said matter-of-factly.
"It's afternoon."
"By a few minutes."
"Goddamn it." Rhyme sounded gruff, as often, but in fact he was losing himself in Sachs's massage. A few strings of red hair had escaped from her ponytail and hung tickling against his cheek. He didn't move away. Since he'd apparently lost the single-malt battle, he was ignoring Thom, but the aide brought his attention around quickly by saying, "When you were on the phone, Lon called."
"He did? Why didn't you tell me?"
"You said you didn't want to be disturbed while you were talking with Kathryn."
"Well, tell me now."
"He'll call back. Something about a case. A problem."
"Really?" The Watchmaker case receded somewhat at this news. Rhyme understood that there was another source of his bad mood: boredom. He'd just finished analyzing the evidence for a complicated organized crime case and was facing several weeks with little to do. So he was buoyed by the thought of another job. Like Sachs's craving for speed, Rhyme needed problems, challenges, input. One of the difficulties with a severe disability that few people focus on is the absence of anything new. The same settings, the same people, the same activities . . . and the same platitudes, the same empty reassurances, the same reports from unemotional doctors.
What had saved his life after his injury--literally, since he'd been considering assisted suicide--were his tentative steps back into his prior passion: using science to solve crimes.
You could never be bored when you confronted mystery.
Thom persisted, "Are you sure you're up for it? You're looking a little pale."
"Haven't been to the beach lately, you know."
"All right. Just checking. Oh, and Arlen Kopeski is coming by later. When do you want to see him?"
The name sounded familiar but it left a vaguely troubling flavor in his mouth. "Who?"
"He's with that disability rights group. It's about that award you're being given."
"Today?" Rhyme had a fuzzy recollection of some phone calls. If it wasn't about a case, he rarely paid much attention to the noise around him.
"You said today. You said you'd meet with him."
"Oh, I really need an award. What am I going to do with it? Paperweight? Does anybody you know ever use paperweights? Have you ever used a paperweight?"
"Lincoln, it's being given to you for inspiring young people with disabilities."
"Nobody inspired me when I was young. And I turned out all right." Which wasn't completely true--the inspiration part--but Rhyme grew petty whenever distractions loomed, especially distractions involving visitors.
"A half hour."
"Is a half hour I don't have."
"Too late. He's already in town."
Sometimes it was impossible to win against the aide.
"We'll see."
"Kopeski's not going to come here and cool his heels like some courtier waiting for an audience with the king."