More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

fathers of forensic science, came up with a rule that posited an inevitable exchange of trace evidence (he spoke of “dust”) between the perpetrator and either the crime scene or the victim.

Rhyme believed in Locard’s Principle; in fact, it was the underlying force that drove him to relentlessly push those who worked for him — and to push himself too. If that connection, however fragile, can be established, then the perp might be found, crimes solved and future tragedies prevented.

But making that link assumes the investigator can locate, identify and grasp the implications of that trace evidence. In the case of the Larkin homicide Rhyme wasn’t sure that he could. Circumstance might play a role in this — the environment, third parties, fate. Then too the killer might simply be too smart and diligent. Too pro-fessional, as Fred Dellray had observed.

Sachs took every defeat personally. “Sorry, Rhyme. I know it’s important.”

He said something dismissive. Not to worry, we’ll keep looking over things in the lab here, maybe the autopsy will reveal something helpful….

But he supposed his reassurance rang false to her.

It certainly did to him.

* * *

“Are you all right?” Norma asked.

“Knees hurt. When I went down on the ground.”

“Sorry about that,” the agent said, looking over Kitty from the rearview mirror. Norma had high cheekbones and exotic Egyptian eyes.

“Don’t be silly. You saved my life.” Kitty, though, was still angry. She lapsed into silence.

They drove for another twenty minutes. Kitty realized they were going in circles a lot and doubling back. She looked behind her once and saw that they were being followed — only this time it was an unmarked police car driven by that tall officer with hair as red as her own, Amelia Sachs.

Norma’s phone rang. She picked it up, had a conversation and then disconnected.

“That was her, the policewoman behind us. No sign of the Jeep.”

Kitty nodded. “And nobody saw the license plate?”

“No. But they’re probably stolen tags.”

They continued on, driving in a random pattern. Sachs would disappear occasionally, driving up one street and down another, apparently looking for the man’s Jeep.

The agent began, “I guess—”

Her phone rang. “Agent Sedgwick… What?”

Kitty looked in the mirror, alarmed. What now? She was getting sick of the intrigue.

“It’s Amelia,” Norma said to her. “She said she spotted the Jeep! He’s nearby.”

“Where?”

“A block! He was driving parallel to us. How? There’s no way he could’ve followed us!”

She listened into the phone again. Then reported to Kitty, “She’s in pursuit. She’s called in some other units. He’s headed toward the FDR.” Into the phone she asked, “How did he find us?… You think? Hold on.”

Norma asked Kitty, “He was hiding behind our car in Madison Square Park, right?”

“Yes.”

She relayed this to the policewoman. There was a pause. “Okay, maybe. We’ll check.”

Norma disconnected. “She thinks he might not’ve been trying to hurt you back in the park. He wanted to get us out of the car to plant a tracker after we jumped out.”

“A tracker?”

“Like a GPS, a homing device. I’m going to look.” She parked and climbed out, saying, “You check the backseat. And your suitcases. He might’ve slipped it in there. It would be a small plastic or metal box.”

Lord, what a nightmare this was, Kitty thought, even angrier now. Who the hell was this guy? Who’d hired him?

Kitty tore open her two suitcases and dumped the contents on the seat, looking through everything carefully.

Nothing.

But then she heard: “Hey, check it out.”

Kitty looked out the window and saw the State Department agent holding a small white cylinder about three inches across, resting on a tissue so she wouldn’t disturb fingerprints, Kitty guessed. “Magnetized, stuck up in the wheel well. It’s a big one. Probably has a range of five miles. He could’ve found us anywhere in the area. Damn, that was a good call.” She set it on the street near the curb, hunched down and, using the tissue, tinkered, apparently disabling it.

A moment later Norma’s phone rang again. The agent listened and then reported in a grim voice, “He got away. Disappeared on the Lower East Side.”

Kitty rubbed her face, disgusted.

Norma told the detective about the tracking device and added that they were going on to the hotel.

“Wait,” said Kitty as she repacked the suitcases. “Why do you think he only left one tracker?”

The agent blinked. Then nodded. She said into the phone, “Detective Sachs, you think you could give us a ride?”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Amelia Sachs arrived. Norma handed her the tracker and she put it in a plastic bag.

Then the agent hustled Kitty Larkin into the detective’s car and together the three women drove to the hotel. On the way the agent arranged for another State Department security person to pick up the Town Car and get it back to the pool for a complete inspection. There was even some speculation that the killer might’ve planted an explosive device at the same time he stuck the tracker in the wheel well, so the NYPD bomb squad would have a look as well.

Sachs dropped the women off, explaining that she’d take the tracker back to the town house of that officer in the wheelchair, or consultant, whatever he was, Lincoln Rhyme. She sped off.

Norma escorted Kitty inside the hotel. It was a pretty seedy place, the woman thought. She would have expected material witnesses and security-conscious diplomats to be housed in better digs.

The agent spoke to someone at the front desk, handed him an envelope and returned to Kitty.

“Do I need to check in?”

“No, everything’s taken care of.”

They got out on the fourteenth floor. Norma showed her to a room, checked it out herself and handed her the key. “You can call room service for anything you want.”

“I just want to call my family and Peter and then get some rest.”

“Sure, dear, you go right ahead. I’ll be across the hall if you need anything.”

Kitty hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob and stepped into the room. It was just as tacky as the lobby suggested and smelled of mildew. She sat heavily on the bed, sighing. She noticed the window shades were up, which seemed a stupid idea for a hotel where they stashed witnesses. She rose and pulled the drapes shut, then turned the lights on in the room.

She called the number of Peter Larkin’s office and identified herself. She accepted the gush of sympathy the man’s secretary offered and then asked when Peter and his wife would be arriving. It would be around nine that night. She left a message for him to call her as soon as they got in.

Then she kicked her shoes off, lay back on the bed, closed her eyes and fell into a troubled sleep.

* * *

Rhyme pressed his head back into the headrest of his wheelchair. He felt Sachs’s hand curl around his neck and massage. He could feel her hand at one moment and then, though he knew she continued the massage, the sensation vanished as her fingers moved down, below the fourth cervical vertebra, the site of his disabling injury.

At another time, this might give rise to reflections — either on his condition, or on his relationship with Amelia Sachs. But now he was aware of nothing but the urgency to nail the killer of Ron Larkin, the man who gave away billions.