“I was thinking about the acid they found in the Thunderbird at Moss Landing. Any word?”
“Peter’s techs’ve been working on it but they still don’t have any specific leads.”
“How many bodies we have searching the orchards and vineyards?”
“About fifteen CHP, five of our people, some Salinas uniforms. They haven’t found anything.”
“I’ve got an idea. What is the acid exactly?”
“Hold on.”
Eyes slipping between the road and the pad of paper resting on her knee, she jotted the incomprehensible terms as he spelled them.
“So kinesics isn’t enough? You have to master forensics too?”
“A wise woman knows her limitations. I’ll call you in a bit.”
Dance then hit speed dial. She listened to a phone ring two thousand miles away.
A click as it answered. “Amelia Sachs.”
“Hi, it’s Kathryn.”
“How’re you doing?”
“Well, been better.”
“Can imagine. We’ve been following the case. How’s that officer? The one who was burned?”
Dance was surprised that Lincoln Rhyme, the well-known forensic scientist in New York City, and Amelia Sachs, his partner and a detective with the NYPD, had been following the story of Pell’s escape.
“Not too good, I’m afraid.”
“We were talking about Pell. Lincoln remembers the original case. In ninety-nine. When he killed that family. Are you making headway?”
“Not much. He’s smart. Too smart.”
“That’s what we’re gathering from the news. So, how are the kids?”
“Fine. We’re still waiting for that visit. My parents too. They want to meet you both.”
Sachs gave a laugh. “I’ll get him out there soon. It’s a…let’s say challenge.”
Lincoln Rhyme didn’t like to travel. This wasn’t owing to the problems associated with his disability (he was a quadriplegic). He simply didn’t like to travel.
Dance had met Rhyme and Sachs last year when she’d been teaching a course in the New York area and had been tapped to help them on a case. They’d stayed in touch. She and Sachs in particular had grown close. Women in the tough business of policing tend to do that.
“Any word on our other friend?” Sachs asked.
This reference was to the perp they’d been after in New York last year. The man had eluded them and vanished, possibly to California. Dance had opened a CBI file but then the trail grew cold and it was possible that the perp was now out of the country.
“I’m afraid not. Our office in L.A.’s still following up on the leads. I’m calling about something else. Is Lincoln available?”
“Hold on a minute. He’s right here.”
There was a click and Rhyme’s voice popped into her phone.
“Kathryn.”
Rhyme was not the sort for chitchat, but he spent a few minutes conversing—nothing about her personal life or the children, of course. His interest was the cases she was working. Lincoln Rhyme was a scientist, with very little patience for the “people” side of policing, as he put it. Yet, on their recent case together, he’d grown to understand and value kinesics (though being quick to point out that it was based on scientific methodology and not, he said contemptuously, gut feeling). He said, “Wish you were here. I’ve got a witness we’d love for you to grill on a multiple homicide case. You can use a rubber hose if you want.”
She could picture him in his red motorized wheelchair, staring at a large flat screen hooked up to a microscope or computer. He loved evidence the same way she loved interrogation.
“Wish I could. But I’ve got my hands full.”
“So I hear. Who’s doing the lab work?”
“Peter Bennington.”
“Oh, sure. I know him. Cut his teeth in L.A. Took a seminar of mine. Good man.”
“Got a question about the Pell situation.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“We’ve got some evidence that might lead to what he’s up to—maybe tainting food—or where he’s hiding. But either one’s taking a lot of manpower to check out. I have to know if it makes sense to keep them committed. We could really use them elsewhere.”
“What’s the evidence?”
“I’ll do the best I can with the pronunciation.” Eyes shifting between the road and her notebook.
“Carboxylic acid, ethanol and malic acid, amino acid and glucose.”
“Give me a minute.”
She heard his conversation with Amelia Sachs, who apparently went online into one of Rhyme’s own databases. She could hear the words clearly; unlike most callers, the criminalist was unable to hold his hand over the phone when speaking to someone else in the room.
“Okay, hold on, I’m scrolling through some things now….”
“You can call me back,” Dance said. She hadn’t expected an answer immediately.
“No…just hold on…. Where was the substance found?”
“On the floor of Pell’s car.”
“Hm. Car.” Silence for a moment, then Rhyme was muttering to himself.
Finally he asked, “Any chance that Pell had just eaten in a restaurant? A seafood restaurant or a British pub?”
She laughed out loud. “Seafood, yes. How on earth did you know?”
“The acid’s vinegar—malt vinegar specifically, because the amino acids and glucose indicate caramel coloring. My database tells me it’s common in British cooking, pub food and seafood. Thom? You remember him? He helped me with that entry.”
Rhyme’s caregiver was also quite a cook. Last December he’d served her a boeuf bourguignon that was the best she’d ever had.
“Sorry it doesn’t lead to his front door,” the criminalist said.
“No, no, that’s fine, Lincoln. I can pull the troops off the areas we had them searching. Send them to where they’ll be better used.”
“Call anytime. That’s one perp I wouldn’t mind a piece of.”