But Logan hadn't bought the DA's deal. And, more irritating, he'd pleaded guilty, denying Rhyme another chance to learn more about who he was and to identify his family members and associates. Rhyme had even planned to use facial recognition technology and undercover agents to identify those attending the man's trial.
Ultimately, though, Rhyme understood he was taking the man's demise hard because of the second view of death: that connection between them. We're defined and enlivened by what opposes us. And when the Watchmaker died, Lincoln Rhyme died a bit too.
He looked at the other two people in the room. One was the youngster on Rhyme's team, NYPD patrol officer Ron Pulaski, who was packing up the evidence in the City Hall mugging/homicide case.
The other was Rhyme's caregiver, Thom Reston, a handsome, slim man, dressed as immaculately as always. Today: dark-brown slacks with an enviable knife-blade crease, a pale-yellow shirt and a zoological tie in greens and browns; the cloth seemed to sport a simian face or two. Hard to tell. Rhyme himself paid little attention to clothing. His black sweats and green long-sleeved sweater were functional and good insulators. That was all he cared about.
'I want to send flowers,' Rhyme now announced.
'Flowers?' Thom asked.
'Yes. Flowers. Send them. People still do that, I assume. Wreaths saying RIP, Rest in Peace, though what's the point of that? What else're the dead going to be doing? It's a better message than Good Luck, don't you think?'
'Send flowers to ... Wait. Are you talking about Richard Logan?'
'Of course. Who else has died lately who's flower-worthy?'
Pulaski said, 'Hm, Lincoln. "Flower-worthy." That is not an expression I would ever imagine you saying.'
'Flowers,' Rhyme repeated petulantly. 'Why is this not registering?'
'And why're you in a bad mood?' Thom asked.
'Old married couple' was a phrase that could be used to describe caregiver and charge.
'I'm hardly in a bad mood. I simply want to send flowers to a funeral home. But nobody's doing it. We can get the name from the hospital that did the autopsy. They'll have to send the corpse to a funeral home. Hospitals don't embalm or cremate.'
Pulaski said, 'You know, Lincoln. One way to think about it is: There's some justice. You could say the Watchmaker got the death penalty, after all.'
Blond and determined and eager, Pulaski had the makings of a fine crime scene officer and Rhyme had taken on the job of mentor. Which included not only instruction in forensic science but also getting the kid to use his mind. This he didn't seem to be doing presently. 'And just how does a random arterial occlusion, rookie, equal justice? If the prosecutor in New York State chose not to seek the death penalty, then you might say that a premature death undermines justice. Not furthers it.'
'I--' the young man stammered, blushing Valentine red.
'Now, rookie, let's move on from spurious observations. Flowers. Find out when the body's being released from Westchester Memorial and where it's going. I want the flowers there ASAP, whether there's a service or not. With a card from me.'
'Saying what?'
'Nothing other than my name.'
'Flowers?' Amelia Sachs's voice echoed from the hallway leading to the kitchen and the back door of the town house. She walked into the parlor, nodding greetings.
'Lincoln's going
to send flowers to the funeral home. For Richard Logan. I mean, I am.'
She hung her dark jacket on a hook in the hall. She was in close-fitting black jeans, a yellow sweater and a black wool sport coat. The only indication of her rank as a police detective was a Glock riding high on her hip, though the leap from weapon to law enforcer was a tentative deduction at best. To look at the tall, slim redhead - with abundant straight hair - you might guess she was a fashion model. Which she had been, before joining the NYPD.
Sachs walked closer and kissed Rhyme on the lips. She tasted of lipstick and smelled of gunshot residue; she'd been to the range that morning.
Thinking of cosmetics, Rhyme recalled that the victim of the City Hall mugging/murder had shaved just before leaving the office; nearly invisible bits of shave cream and tiny rods of beard had been found adhering to his neck and cheek. He'd also recently sprayed or rubbed on aftershave. In their analysis, while Rhyme had been noting those facts, potentially helpful for the investigation, Sachs had grown still. She'd said, 'So he was going out that night, a date probably - you wouldn't shave for guy friends. You know, Rhyme, if he hadn't spent that last five minutes in the restroom, the timing would've changed. And everything would've turned out different. He'd've survived the night. And maybe gone on to live a long, full life.'
Or he might've gotten into his car drunk and rammed a bus filled with schoolchildren.
Waste of time, playing the fate game.
View of Death Number One, View of Death Number Two.
'You know the funeral home?' Sachs asked.