The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(42)

But funny how subjective tragedy is, of course. Barry Sales’s barometer was measuring his life going forward with what his life had been before the bullets tore through his flesh. Not comparing himself to Rhyme’s trauma.

“And there’ll be people.” Rhyme nodded toward Thom. Who cocked his head, meaning sentimentality wasn’t an option.

“As frustrating and difficult as they can be.”

“Aw, you two, you’re an old married couple.” Sales had been to the town house a few times.

“There’s Joan.”

Sales’s face remained completely still. “I can’t stand to be in the room with her. She tries so hard not to look.” He nodded at where his limb had been. “I tried to make a joke. Could she lend me a hand? She practically had a breakdown.”

“One day at a time. There’ll be people. And it’s a long road. Jesus, Lord, three clichés in a row. I’m not feeling well.”

Sales had tamed the tears. “There’s a good counselor here. Would you recommend somebody after I’m discharged?”

Rhyme said, “I tried that. Didn’t work. They…” He looked at Thom. “What’s the word?”

“Fled.”

Rhyme shrugged.

“But most people benefit. I can get you some names.”

“Thanks.”

But Rhyme sensed the questions about coping with the tragedy were perfunctory, ice breakers. After all, Sales, Rhyme knew, was destined to become just like him, like the vast majority of severely injured patients, spinal cord or otherwise: He’d end up saying to himself, “Fuck it. I’ve got a life to lead.” Rhyme, for instance, had finally chosen to ignore his condition to the extent he could. He was on earth to be a criminalist, end of story. No whining, no fund-raising, no public service ads. No political correctness. If he referred to his condition at all, he would use words like “gimp” or “crip,” and had once delivered a searing glare to someone who had commented condescendingly that Rhyme was a shining example to the “disabled-able” community, a term that, Rhyme hoped, never made into Merriam-Webster.

No, Sales had texted Rhyme, not inquiring about approaches to therapy, but because of a very different agenda.

He brought it up now.

“What do you hear about him?”

There was no doubt who Sales meant.

The shooter.

The man had been collared and was presently on trial.

Sales said, “I get bullshit from my team, and the chief. They say, ‘Oh, the asshole’s going away.’ But they say it like they aren’t sure.”

Rhyme’s rep—now and then—was that he was gruff and impatient, with no tolerance for laziness, and pissy on occasion. But he shot with facts.

“Sorry, Barry. From what I hear it’s not so clear-cut.”

The firefight had been, like most, a paroxysm of confusion. The prosecution was fighting to overcome a vigorous defense. And one that was well funded.

He nodded. “You know, it’d be one thing, facing down somebody. But never seeing the asshole shoot. Never seeing his eyes. Like that time where the perp hung around the scene. The Simpson shooting, years ago. That crazy guy?”

Occasionally a suspect would remain at or near the scene. Sometimes out of curiosity, sometimes out of a desire to get intelligence. Sometimes because they were simply homicidal shits. The perp in the Simpson case hid in a meat freezer after gutting the owner. He stepped out and emptied his gun at a shocked crime scene officer working for Rhyme. All the shots missed, thanks to the fact that the perp’s core temperature probably hovered about seventy degrees—the meat freezer—and his hand was shaking so badly he hit everything but the officer.

The memory brought a smile to both men. Thom too, when Rhyme explained it.

“God, I want this guy to go away.” Sales licked his lips. “Bonnie was here, my sister? I asked her to bring Trudi and George. She said sure. But she didn’t mean sure. She meant she didn’t want them to see Uncle Barry like this. Hell, I wasn’t thinking. I don’t want them to see me like this either. They’ll freak out. I can’t go to their games. I can’t go to their recitals.” He clamped his teeth together.

He inhaled deeply. “I’m pretty tired. Think I better take a nap.”

“I’ll bring the van around front,” Thom said. He took Sales’s email address and told him again that he’d send the names of physical therapists and doctors who specialized in prosthetics.

Rhyme moved forward and tucked the second bottle of Glenmorangie “tea” into the bed, beside Sales’s left arm. He was about to say something else, but the man had closed his eyes and slipped his head back against the pillow. Rhyme glanced at the tear that Sales simply could not keep from escaping, eased the chair in a circle and wheeled from the room.





Chapter 21



Vimal and Dev Nouri walked through a thick door into the factory proper.

Sunday is not the day of rest for most diamond cutters, given the ethnicity and religion of those in the profession, and this was just another workday for N&B. Here, sitting around grinding scaife turntables, were four Indian cutters and one Chinese, all wearing dark slacks and light-colored short-sleeve shirts. They ranged in age from late twenties to fifties and were all men. Vimal knew of only two women diamond cutters in New York. The unfortunate line, which he’d heard far too often, was: Making diamonds is for men; wearing them is for women.