'That's not a problem. He'll sell his articles. And Seth's been saving for a while and his parents're totally rich. They can help us out.'
His mother was a lawyer and father an investment banker, Sachs recalled.
'And we have the blog. I'll keep doing that from the road.'
Seth had created a website a few years ago where people could post their support for various social and political issues, mostly left-leaning. Women's right to choose, support for the arts, gun control. Pam was now more involved than he was in running the site. Yes, it seemed popular, though Sachs estimated that the donations they received totaled about a thousand dollars a year.
'But ... where? What countries? Is it safe?'
'We don't know yet. That's part of the adventure.'
Desperate to buy time, Sachs asked, 'What do the Olivettis say?'
After Sachs had rescued her the girl had gone into a foster home (which Sachs had checked out as if vetting the president's personal bodyguard). The temporary parents had been wonderful but at eighteen, last year, Pam had wanted to be on her own and - with Rhyme's and Sachs's help - she enrolled in college and got a part-time job. Pam had remained close to her foster mom and dad, though.
'They're okay with it.'
But, of course, the Olivettis were professional parents; they'd had no connection with Pam before she'd been placed with them. They hadn't kicked in a door and saved her from the Bone Collector and a wild dog eager to shake her to death. They hadn't leapt into a firefight with Pam's stepfather, who was trying to suffocate her.
And, those traumas aside, it had been Sachs who'd spent a lot more time than the busy foster parents schlepping Pam to and from after-school activities, doctors' appointments and counselling sessions. And it was the detective who'd used some of the few existing connections from her former fashion model career to get Pam the wardrobe department job on Broadway.
Sachs couldn't help but note too that the girl had told the Olivettis first about her travel plans.
Come on, I deserve a hearing, Sachs thought.
Which was not, however, Pam's opinion. She said brusquely, 'Anyway, we've decided.'
Then Pam grew suddenly giddy, though Sachs could see the emotions were fake. That was clear. 'It'll be a year. Two, tops.'
Now two?
'Pam,' Sachs began. 'I don't know what to say.'
Yes, you do. So say it.
As a cop, Sachs never held back. She couldn't as a big sister either. Or surrogate mother. Or whatever her role in the girl's life might be.
'Knuckle time, Pam.'
The girl knew of Sachs's father's expression. She gauged Sachs with narrowed eyes, which were both cautious and flinty.
'A year on the road with somebody you don't really know?' Sachs said this evenly, trying to keep some tenderness in the tone.
But the woman responded as if Sachs had thrown open the parlor window and let in a flood of sleety wind. 'We do know each other,' Pam said defiantly. 'That's the whole point. Didn't you hear me?'
'I mean really know each other. That takes years.'
Pam shot back, 'We're right for each other. It's simple.'
'Have you met his family?'
'I've talked to his mother. She's totally sweet.'
'Talked to?'
'Yes,' the girl snapped. 'Talked to. And his father knows all about me.'
'But you haven't met them?'