Chapter Fifty.

Thom let Lon Sellitto into the front hallway, where Lincoln Rhyme sat in his candy-apple red chair, grumbling at construction workers to mind the woodwork as they carted refuse downstairs from the repair work currently going on in his fire-damaged bedroom.

Passing by on his way to the kitchen to fix lunch, Thom grumbled back, "Leave 'em alone, Lincoln. You couldn't care less about the woodwork."

"It's the principle," the criminalist replied tautly. "It's my woodwork and their clumsiness."

"He's always this way when a case's over," the aide said to Sellitto. "Have you got some really thorny robbery or murder for him? A good pacifier?"

"I don't need a pacifier," Rhyme snapped as the aide vanished. "I need people to be careful with the walls!"

Sellitto said, "Hey, Linc. We've got to talk."

The criminalist noted the tone-and the look in Sellitto's eyes. They'd been working together for years and he could read every emotion the cop broadcast, especially when he was troubled. What now? he wondered.

"Just heard from the head of Patrol. It's about Amelia." Sellitto cleared his throat.

Rhyme's heart undoubtedly gave an extra slam in his chest. He never felt it, of course, though he did sense a surge of blood in his neck and head and face.

Thinking: Bullet, car crash.

He said evenly in a low voice, "Go on."

"She washed out. The sergeant's exam."

"What?"

"Yup."

Rhyme's hot relief turned instantly to sorrow for her. The detective continued, "It's not official yet. But I know."

"Where'd you hear?"

"Cop radar. A fucking bird. I don't know. Sachs's a star. When something like this happens, word gets out."

"What about her score on the exam?"

"Despite her score on the exam."

Rhyme wheeled into the lab. The detective, looking particularly rumpled today, followed.

The explanation was pure Sachs, it turned out. She'd ordered somebody out of an active crime scene and, when he wouldn't leave, had him cuffed. "Bad for her, the guy turned out to be Victor Ramos."

"The congressman." Lincoln Rhyme had virtually no interest in local government but he knew about Ramos: an opportunistic politico who'd abandoned his Latino constituents in Spanish Harlem until recently, now that the politically correct climate-and size of the electorate-meant he could push for Albany or a spot in Washington. "Can they wash her out?"

"Come on, Linc, they can do what they fucking want. They're even talking suspension."

"She can fight it. She will fight it."

"And you know what happens to street cops who take on brass. Odds're, even if she wins, they'll send her to East New York. Hell, even worse, they'll send her to a desk in East New York."

"Fuck," the criminalist spat out.

Sellitto paced around the room, stepping over cables and glancing at the Conjurer case whiteboards. The detective dropped into a chair that creaked under his weight. He kneaded a roll of fat around his waistband; the Conjurer case had seriously sidetracked his diet. "One thing," he said softly, a whiff of conspiracy in his voice.

"Yeah?"

"There's this guy I know. He was the one cleaned up the Eighteen."

"When all that crack and smack kept disappearing from the evidence locker? A few years ago?"

"Yeah. That was it. He's got serious wire all over the Big Building. The commissioner'll listen to him and he'll listen to me. He owes me." Then he waved his arm toward the Conjurer case evidence boards. "And, fuck, lookit what we just did. We nailed one hell of a doer. Lemme give him a call. Pull some strings for her."

And Rhyme's eyes too took in the charts, then the equipment, the examining tables, books-all devoted to the science of analyzing the evidence that Sachs had teased or muscled out of crime scenes over the past few years they'd been together.

"I don't know," he said.

"Whatsa problem?"

"If she made sergeant that way, well, she wouldn't be the one making it."

The detective replied, "You know what this promotion means to her, Linc."

Yeah, he did.

"Look, all we're doing is playing by Ramos's rules. He wants to take it down a notch we'll do the same. Make it a, you know, even playing field." Sellitto liked his idea. He added, "Amelia'll never find out. I'll tell my guy to keep the lid on it. He'll do it."

You know what this promotion means to her. . . .

"So what do you think?" the detective asked.

Rhyme said nothing for a moment, looking for the answer in the silent forensic equipment surrounding him and then in the green mist of spring buds crowning the trees in Central Park.

The scuffs on the woodwork had been scrubbed away and all traces of the fire in the bedroom had been "vanished," as Thom had put it, rather cleverly, Rhyme thought. A rich scent of smoke lingered but that reminded Lincoln Rhyme of good scotch and was therefore not a problem at all.

Now, midnight, the room dark, Rhyme lay in his Flexicair bed, staring out the window. Outside was a flutter of motion as a falcon, one of God's most fluid creatures, landed on the ledge. Depending on the light, and their degree of alertness, the birds seemed to shrink or grow in size. Tonight they seemed larger than in the daylight, their forms magnificent. Menacing too; they weren't pleased with the noises radiating from the Cirque Fantastique in Central Park.

Well, Rhyme wasn't very happy about them either. He'd dozed off ten minutes ago only to be awakened by a loud burst of applause from the tent.

"They should have a curfew on that. Rhyme grumbled to Sachs, lying beside him in bed.

"I could shoot out their generator," she replied, her voice clear. She apparently hadn't gotten to sleep at all. Her head was on the pillow next to his, lips against his neck, on which he could feel the faint tickle of her hair and the smooth cool plane of her skin. Also: her breasts against his chest, belly to hip, leg over leg. He knew this only by observation, of course; there was no sensate proof of the contact. He relished that closeness all the same.

Sachs always adhered to Rhyme's firm rule that those walking the grid not wear scent because they might miss olfactory evidence at crime scenes. But she was off duty at the moment and he detected on her skin a pleasant, complex smell, which he deduced to be jasmine, gardenia and synthetic motor oil. They were alone in the apartment. They'd shipped Thom off to the movies with his friend Peter and had spent the night with some new CDs, two ounces of sevruga caviar, Ritz crackers, and copious Moet, despite the inherent difficulties in drinking champagne through a straw. Now, in the darkness, he was thinking again about music, about how such a purely mechanical system of tones and pacing could consume you so completely. It fascinated him. The more he thought about it, the more he decided that the subject might not be as mysterious as it seemed. Music was, after all, firmly rooted in his world: science, logic and mathematics.

How would one go about writing a melody? If the physical therapy exercises he was doing now eventually had some effect . . . could he actually press his fingers on a keyboard? As he was considering this he noticed Sachs looking up at his face in the dim light. "You heard about the sergeant's exam?" she asked.

A hesitation. Then: "Yep," he replied. He'd scrupulously avoided bringing up the matter all night; when Sachs was prepared to discuss something she would. Until then the subject didn't exist.

"You know what happened?" she asked.

"Not all the details. I assume it falls into the category of a quasi-corrupt, self-interested government official versus the overworked heroic crime-scene cop. Something like that?"

A laugh. "Pretty much."

"I've been there myself, Sachs."

The music from the circus kept thudding away, engendering mixed responses. Somehow you felt you should be irritated that it was intruding but you couldn't resist enjoying the beat.

She then asked, "Did Lon talk to you about pulling some strings for me? Making calls to city hall?"

Amelia'll never find out. I'll tell my guy to keep the lid on it . . .

He chuckled. "He did, yeah. You know Lon."

The music stopped. Then applause filled the night. The faint yet evocative sound of the MC's voice followed.

She said, "I heard he could've made the whole thing go away. Bypassed Ramos."

"Probably. He's got a long reach."

Sachs asked, "And what'd you say about that?"

"What do you think?"

"I'm asking."

Rhyme said, "I said no. I wouldn't let him do it."

"You wouldn't?"

"No. I told him you'd make rank on your own or not at all."

"Goddamn," she muttered.

He looked down at her, momentarily alarmed. Had he misjudged her?

"I'm pissed at Lon for even considering it."

"He meant well."

He believed that her arm around his chest gripped him tighter. "What you told him, Rhyme, that means more to me than anything."

"I know that."

"It could get ugly. Ramos's going for suspension. Twelve months off duty, no pay. I don't know what I'll do."

"You'll consult. With me."

"A civilian can't walk the grid, Rhyme. I have to sit still, I'll go crazy."

When you move they can't getcha. . . .

"We'll get through it."

"Love you," she whispered. His response was to inhale her flowery Quaker State scent and tell her that he loved her too.

"Man, it's too bright." She looked toward the window, filled with glare from the circus spotlights. "Where're the shades?"

"Burned up, remember?"

"I thought Thom got some new ones."

"He started to put them up but he was fussing too much. Measuring and everything. I threw him out and told him to do it later."

Sachs slipped out of bed and found an extra sheet, draped it over the window, cutting out much of the light. She returned to bed, curled up against him and was soon asleep.

But not Lincoln Rhyme. As he lay listening to the music and the cryptic voice of the MC some ideas began to form in his mind and the opportunity for sleep came and went. Soon he was completely awake, lost in his thoughts.

Which were, not surprisingly, about the circus.

Late the next morning Thom walked into the bedroom to find that Rhyme had a visitor.

"Hi," he said to Jaynene Williams, sitting in one of the new chairs beside his bed.

"Thom." She shook his hand.

The aide, who'd been out shopping, was clearly surprised to see someone there. Thanks to the computer, the environmental control units and CCTV, Rhyme was, of course, perfectly capable of calling someone up, inviting them over and letting them inside when they arrived.

"No need to look so shocked," Rhyme said caustically. "I have invited people over before, you know."

"Blue moon comes to mind."

"Maybe I'll hire Jaynene here to replace you."

"Why don't you hire her as well as me? With two people here we could share the abuse." He smiled at her. "I wouldn't do that to you, though."

"I've handled worse."

"Are you a coffee lady or a tea lady?"

Rhyme said, "Sorry. Where were my manners? Should've had the pot boiling by now."

"Coffee'll do."