The Steel Kiss

“Exactly. I wanted to prove he was bankrolling this new drug. That he’d actually used the gun you found—that he’d killed people. The evidence was ambiguous, remember, Lincoln. There were questions. Maybe he was dangerous.”

Rhyme said softly, “So then it would have been proper procedure for him to go into Violent Offender Detention.”

Pulaski nodded. “So you wouldn’t’ve been responsible for an innocent man’s death; you’d’ve put a dangerous perp away. And if I could show you that, then you’d give up this bullshit about retirement. Which it really is, Lincoln.”

Rhyme exhaled a faint laugh. “Well, quite the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Rookie. And what’s the answer?”

“My brother and I tracked down O’Denne. East BK.”

A raised eyebrow.

“He’s a priest, Lincoln.”

“A… ”

“Father Francis Xavier O’Denne. He runs a storefront clinic in Brownsville. The drug he was connected with?” He shook his head with a grim smile. “A new form of methadone to treat addicts. And it’s not called ‘Catch.’ That’s the name of Father O’Denne’s clinic. Community Action Treatment Center for Hope.” Pulaski sighed. “And Baxter? He was one of the main benefactors of the place.”

So the gun was Baxter’s father’s, a souvenir from one of the milestones in the man’s life. And the gunshot residue came from a stray twenty-dollar bill, the drugs from that or another bill. The oil from the sporting goods store where he’d bought his son the last present he would ever buy for the boy.

“And, I guess I’ll tell you everything, Lincoln. The center may have to close, if Father O’Denne can’t find somebody else to back it.”

“So, I’m responsible not only for an innocent man’s death but for preventing how many people from getting off the street and into productive lives?”

“Shit. I just wanted to help, Lincoln. Get you back on the job. But…  well, that’s what I found.”

That’s the thing about science; you can’t ignore the facts.

Rhyme turned his chair and looked again at the tiny pieces of furniture that Vernon Griffith had so carefully and perfectly created.

“Anyway,” Pulaski said. “I understand now.”

“Understand what?”

“Why you’re doing this. Retiring. If I’d I fucked up, I’d probably do the same thing. Back out. Quit the force. Take up something else.”

Rhyme kept his eyes on Vernon Griffith’s miniatures. He said in a gusty voice, “Bad choice.”

“I…  What?”

“Quitting because of a screw-up—a thoroughly bad idea.”

Pulaski’s bows narrowed. “Okay, Lincoln. I don’t get it. What’re you saying?”

“You know who I was talking to an hour ago?”

“No clue.”

“Lon Sellitto. I was asking him if there were any cases he needed some help on.”

“Cases? Criminal?”

“Last time I looked he wasn’t a social worker, Rookie. Of course criminal.” He wheeled around to face the young officer.

“Well, I hope you can understand why I’m a little confused.”

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of narrow minds.”

“I like Emerson too, Lincoln. And I think it was ‘little minds.’ ”

Was it? Probably. Rhyme nodded in concession.

“But that still doesn’t explain why.”

Lincoln Rhyme suspected the answer was this: If you tallied up all the reasons for not pursuing what you know in your heart you’re meant to pursue, you’d be absolutely—he relished the word—paralyzed. Which simply meant that you had to ignore every voice within clamoring for you to quit, to retire, to hesitate or pause or question, whether it was a clue that stymied you or exhaustion tempting you to rest or the stunner that a man lay dead in a grave that you had thoughtlessly dug for him.

But he said, “I don’t have a clue, Rookie. None at all. But there it is. So go clear your calendar. I’ll need you in early tomorrow morning. You and Amelia. We’ve got to finish up the Unsub Forty case and then see what else Lon has on the—forgive me—front burner.”

“Sure, Lincoln. Good.”

As he headed out the door, Pulaski was blushing and the look on his face was best described as beaming.

Which was a form of expression that Rhyme believed no one should ever succumb to.

MONDAY VII PLAN A

CHAPTER 61

The door buzzer sounded and Rhyme glanced at the screen. Lon Sellitto and his cane.

Thom walked to the entry hall and let the detective in. He noted that Sellitto stayed on course toward Rhyme, not diverting to the tray of cookies that Thom had made earlier, the air still redolent of hot butter and cinnamon. But the glance toward the pastry revealed regret; maybe he’d gained a pound or two in the past few days and the old Lon Sellitto—Let the Dieting Begin—was back.

“Hey.” A nod to Thom, then moving stiffly to the chair, the shoes tapping, the cane silent on its worn rubber tip. “Linc, Amelia.”

Sachs nodded. She’d come here to drop off the evidence from the early part of the Unsub 40 case—that had been stored in Queens. She’d been concerned that, like the White Castle napkins, some of it might go missing. So she had personally collected the evidence early this morning and delivered it to Rhyme’s.