The Broken Window

Chapter Thirty-three

Amelia Sachs arrived early.

But Lincoln Rhyme had been awake earlier, unable to sleep soundly because of the plans unfolding presently, both here and in England. He’d had dreams about his cousin Arthur and his uncle Henry.

Sachs joined him in the exercise room, where Thom was getting Rhyme back into the TDX wheelchair after he’d done five miles on the Electrologic stationary bicycle, part of his regular exercise scheme to improve his condition and to keep his muscles toned for the day when they might once again begin to replace the mechanical systems that now ran his life. Sachs took over, while the aide went downstairs to fix breakfast. It was a hallmark of their relationship that Rhyme had long ago lost any qualms about her helping him with his morning routine, which many people would find unpleasant.

Sachs had spent the night at her place in Brooklyn, so now he updated her on the 522 situation. But she was distracted, he could see. When he asked why, she exhaled slowly and told him, “It’s Pam.” And she explained that Pam’s boyfriend had turned out to be her former teacher. And a married one, at that.

“No…” Rhyme winced. “I’m sorry. The poor kid.” His initial reaction was to threaten this Stuart into getting the hell out of the picture. “You’ve got a shield, Sachs. Flash it. He’ll head for the hills. Or I’ll give him a call if you want.”

Sachs, however, didn’t think that was the right way to handle the matter. “I’m afraid if I’m too pushy or I report him, I’ll lose her. If I don’t do anything, she’s in for a lot of grief. God, what if she wants to have his baby?” She dug a nail into her thumb. Stopped herself. “It’d be different if I’d been her mother all along. I’d know how to handle it.”

“Would you?” Rhyme asked.

She considered this, then conceded with a smile, “Okay, maybe not…This parent stuff. Kids ought to come with an owner’s manual.”

In the bedroom, they had breakfast, which Sachs fed to Rhyme. Like the parlor and the lab downstairs, the bedroom was far homier than it had been when Sachs first saw it, years ago. Back then the place had been stark, the only decorations art posters, tacked up backward and used as impromptu whiteboards for the first case they’d worked on together. Now those posters had been turned around and others added: of paintings that Rhyme enjoyed-impressionistic landscapes and moody urban scenes by artists like George Inness and Edward Hopper. Then she sat back, next to his wheelchair, and took his right hand, the one in which he’d recently regained some control and touch. He could feel her fingertips, though the sensation was odd, a step or two removed from the pressure he’d sense on his neck or face where the nerves worked normally. It was as if her hand were water trickling onto his skin. He willed his fingers to close on hers. And felt the pressure of her response. Silence. But he sensed, through her posture, that she wanted to talk about Pam, and he said nothing, waiting for her to continue. He watched the peregrine falcons on the ledge, aware, taut, the female larger. The pair were muscular bundles of readiness. Falcons hunt by day, and there were fledglings to feed.

“Rhyme?”

“What?” he asked.

“You still haven’t called him, have you?”

“Who?”

“Your cousin.”

Ah, not Pam’s situation. That she’d been thinking of Arthur Rhyme had never occurred to him. “No. I haven’t.”

“You know something else? I didn’t even know you had a cousin.”

“Never mentioned him?”

“No. You talked about your uncle Henry and aunt Paula. But not Arthur. Why not?”

“We work too hard. No time for chitchat.” He smiled. She didn’t.

Should he tell her? Rhyme debated. His first reaction was not to. Because the explanation reeked of self-pity. And that was poison to Lincoln Rhyme. Still, she deserved to know something. That’s what happens in love. In the shaded portions where the two spheres of different lives meet, certain fundamentals-moods, loves, fears, angers-can’t be hidden. That’s the contract.

And so he told her now.

About Adrianna and Arthur, about the bitterly cold day of the science fair and the lies later, the embarrassing forensic examination of the Corvette and even the potential engagement present-a chunk of atomic-age concrete. Sachs nodded and Rhyme laughed to himself. Because he knew she’d be thinking: What was the big deal? A bit of teenage love, a little duplicity, a little heartbreak. Pretty small caliber in the arsenal of personal offenses. How did something so pedestrian ruin such a deep friendship?

You two were like brothers…

“But didn’t Judy say you and Blaine used to visit them years later? That sounds like everything got patched up.”

“Oh, yep. We did. I mean, it was only a high school crush. Adrianna was pretty…a tall redhead, as a matter of fact.”

Sachs laughed.

“But hardly worth destroying a friendship over.”

“So there’s more to the story, isn’t there?”

Rhyme said nothing at first. Then: “Not long before my accident, I went to Boston.” He sipped some coffee through a straw. “I was speaking at an international conference on forensic science. I’d finished the presentation and was in the bar afterward. A woman came up to me. She was a retired professor from M.I.T. She’d been struck by my last name, and said that she’d had a student from the Midwest in her class years ago. His name was Arthur Rhyme. Was he any relation?

“My cousin, I told her. She went on to tell me what an interesting thing Arthur had done. He’d submitted a scientific paper with his application in lieu of an essay. It was brilliant, she said. Original, well researched, rigorous-oh, if you want to compliment scientists, Sachs, say that their research is ‘rigorous.’” He fell silent briefly. “Anyway, she encouraged him to flesh it out and publish it in a journal. But Arthur never pursued it. She hadn’t stayed in touch with him and wondered if he’d done any research in the area since.

“I was curious. I asked her what the subject was. She actually remembered the title. ‘The Biologic Effects of Certain Nanoparticulate Materials’…Oh, and by the way, Sachs, I wrote it.”

“You?”

“It was a paper I’d written for a science fair project. Came in second in the state. It was some pretty original work, I will admit.”

“Arthur stole it?”

“Yep.” Even now, after all these years, the anger rippled within him. “But it gets worse.”

“Go on.”

“After the conference I couldn’t get what she’d told me out of my head. I contacted M.I.T.’s admissions. They kept all the applications on microfiche. They sent me a copy of mine. Something was wrong. My application was what I’d sent them, my signature. But everything sent by the school, from the counselor’s office, had been altered. Art got a hold of my high school transcript and changed it. He gave me B’s instead of the A’s I really had. He’d forged new letters of recommendation, which were lukewarm. He made them sound like form letters. They were probably the ones he’d gotten from his teachers. My uncle Henry’s recommendation wasn’t included in my packet.”

“He took it out?”

“And he’d replaced my essay with some generic Why-I-want-to-go-to-M.I.T. crap. He even added some very choice typos.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She squeezed his hand harder. “And Adrianna worked in the counselor’s office, right? So she helped him.”

“No. I thought so at first but I tracked her down and called her.” He gave a cool laugh. “We talked about life, our marriages, her kids, careers. Then the past. She always wondered why I’d cut things off the way I did. I said I thought she’d decided to go out with Arthur.”

That had surprised her and she’d explained that, no, she was only doing Art a favor-helping him with his college application. He’d come to her office a half dozen times simply to talk about schools, look at some samples of essays, letters of recommendation. He said his own college counselor was terrible and he was desperate to get into a good school. He asked her not to say anything to anyone, especially me; he was embarrassed that he needed the help, so they’d snuck off together a few times. She still felt guilty that Art had made her lie about it.

“And when she went to the bathroom or off to copy something he raided your file.”

“That’s right.”

Why, Arthur never hurt a single soul in his life. He isn’t capable of it…

Wrong, Judy.

“Are you absolutely sure?” Sachs asked.

“Yep. Because right after I hung up with her, I called Arthur.”

Rhyme could hear the conversation almost verbatim.

“Why, Arthur? Tell me why.” No greeting other than this.

A pause. Arthur’s breathing.

And even though years had passed since the transgression his cousin knew immediately what he was referring to. No interest in how Rhyme had found out. No interest in denying or feigning ignorance or innocence.

His response: to go on the offensive. He’d blustered angrily, “All right, you want to know the answer, Lincoln? I’ll tell you. The prize at Christmas.”

Mystified, Rhyme had asked, “The prize?”

“That my father gave you in the contest at the Christmas Eve party when we were seniors.”

“The concrete? From the Stagg Field stadium?” Rhyme had frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?” There had to be more to it than winning a souvenir of significance to only a handful of people in the world.

“I deserved it!” His cousin had raged, acting as if he were the victim. “Father named me after the man in charge of the atomic project. I knew he’d kept the memento. I knew he was going to give it to me when I graduated from high school or college. It was going to be my graduation present! I’d wanted it for years!”

Rhyme had been at a loss for words. There they were, grown men, talking like children about a stolen comic book or piece of candy.

“He gave away the one thing that was important to me. And he gave it to you.” His voice was breaking. Was he crying?

“Arthur, I just answered some questions. It was a game.”

“A game?…What kind of fucking game was that? It was Christmas Eve! We should’ve been singing carols or watching It’s a Wonderful Life. But, no, no, Father had to turn everything into a fucking classroom. It was embarrassing! It was boring. But nobody had the balls to say anything to the great professor.”

“Jesus, Art, it wasn’t my fault! It was just a prize I won. I didn’t steal anything from you.”

A cruel laugh. “No? Well, Lincoln, it ever occur to you that maybe you did?”

“What?”

“Think about it! Maybe…my father.” He’d paused, breathing deeply.

“What the hell’re you talking about?”

“You stole him! Did you ever wonder why I never tried out for varsity track? Because you had the lock on that! And academically? You were his other son, not me. You sat in on his classes at U of C. You helped him with his research.”

“This’s crazy… He asked you to come to class too. I know he did.”

“Once was enough for me. He picked me apart until I wanted to cry.”

“He cross-examined everybody, Art. That’s why he was so brilliant. He made you think, he pushed you until you got the right answer.”

“But some of us could never get the right answer. I was good. But I wasn’t great. And the son of Henry Rhyme was supposed to be great. It didn’t matter, though, because he had you. Robert went to Europe, Marie moved to California. And even then he didn’t want me. He wanted you!”

The other son…

“I didn’t ask for the role. I didn’t sabotage you.”

“Didn’t you? Ah, Mr. Innocent. You didn’t play the game? You just accidentally drove up to our house on weekends, even when I wasn’t there? You didn’t invite him to come to your track meets? Sure, you did. Answer me: Which of them would you really want for a father, mine or yours? Did your father ever fawn over you? Ever whistle for you from the stands? Give you that raised eyebrow of approval?”

“That’s all bullshit,” Rhyme had snapped. “You’ve got some issue with your father and what do you do? You sabotage me. I could’ve gotten into M.I.T. But you ruined that! And my whole life changed. If it weren’t for you, everything would’ve been different.”

“Well, I can say the same about you, Lincoln. I can say the same…” A harsh laugh. “Did you even try with your father? What do you think he felt, having a son like you, who was a hundred times smarter than he was? Going off all the time because he’d rather hang out with his uncle. Did you even give Teddy a chance?”

At that, Rhyme had slammed the phone into the cradle. It was the last time they talked. Several months later he was paralyzed at the crime scene.

Everything would’ve been different…

After he’d explained this to Sachs she said, “That’s why he never came to see you after you were hurt.”

He nodded. “Back then, after the accident, all I could do was lie in bed and think that if Art hadn’t changed the application I would have gotten into M.I.T. and maybe done graduate work at Boston University or joined the BPD or come to New York earlier or later. In any case I probably wouldn’t’ve been at the subway crime scene and…” His voice dissolved to silence.

“The butterfly effect,” she said. “A small thing in the past makes a big difference in the future.”

Rhyme nodded. And he knew that Sachs could take in this information with sympathy and understanding and make no judgments about the broader implications-which he would choose: walking and leading a normal life, or being a crip and perhaps a far better criminalist because of it…and, of course, being her partner.

This was the type of woman Amelia Sachs was.

He gave a faint smile. “The funny thing is, Sachs…”

“There was something to what he said?”

“My own father never seemed to notice me at all. He certainly never challenged me the way my uncle did. I did feel like Uncle Henry’s other son. And I liked it.” He’d come to realize that maybe, subconsciously, he had been pursuing boisterous, full-of-life Henry Rhyme. He was pelted with a dozen fast memories of the times he’d been embarrassed by his father’s shyness.

“But it’s no excuse for what he did,” she said.

“No, it’s not.”

“Still,” she began.

“You’re going to say that it happened a long time ago, let bygones be bygones, water over dams and under bridges?”

“Something like that,” she offered with a smile. “Judy said he asked about you. He’s reaching out. Forgive him.”

You two were like brothers…

Rhyme glanced over the still topography of his immobile body. Then back to Sachs. He said softly, “I’m going to prove he’s innocent. I’ll get him out of jail. I’ll give him his life back.”

“That’s not the same, Rhyme.”

“Maybe not. But it’s the best I can do.”

Sachs began to speak, perhaps to make her case again, but the subject of Arthur Rhyme and his betrayal vanished as the phone buzzed and on the computer screen came Lon Sellitto’s number.

“Command, answer phone… Lon. Where are we?”

“Hey, Linc. Just wanted to let you know our computer expert’s on his way.”

The guy was familiar, the doorman thought-the man who nodded pleasantly as he left the Water Street Hotel.

He nodded back.

The guy was on his cell phone and he paused near the door, as people eased around him. He was talking, the doorman deduced, to his wife. Then the tone changed. “Patty, sweetheart…” A daughter. After a brief conversation about a soccer game he was back on with the wife, sounding more adult, but still adoring.

He fell into a certain category, the doorman knew. Been married fifteen years. Faithful, looked forward to getting home-with a bag of tacky, heartfelt presents. He wasn’t like some guests: the businessman who’d arrive wearing his wedding ring and leave for dinner with finger naked. Or the tipsy businesswoman being escorted into the elevator by a hunky coworker (they never shed their rings; they didn’t need to).

The things a doorman knows. I could write a book.

But the question nagged: Why was this guy so familiar?

And then he was saying to the wife, with a laugh, “You saw me? It made the news there? Mom did too?”

Saw him. A TV celebrity?

Wait, wait. Almost there…

Ah, got it. Last night, watching the news on TV. Sure-this guy was a professor or doctor of some kind. Sloane…or Soames. A computer expert from some fancy school. The one that Ron Scott, the assistant mayor or whatever, was talking about. The prof was helping the police with that rape and murder on Sunday and some other crime.

Then the professor’s face went still and he said, “Sure, honey, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” He disconnected and looked around.

“Hey, sir,” the doorman said. “Saw you on TV.”

The professor smiled shyly. “Did you?” He seemed embarrassed by the attention. “Say, can you tell me how to get to One Police Plaza?”

“Right up there. About five blocks. By City Hall. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

“Good luck.” The doorman was watching a limo approach, pleased that he’d had a brush with a semi-celebrity. Something to tell his own wife about.

Then he felt a thunk on his back, almost painful, as another man hurried out the door of the hotel and pushed past him. The guy didn’t look back and said nothing by way of apology.

Prick, thought the doorman, watching the man, who was moving fast, head down, in the same direction as the professor. The doorman didn’t say anything, though. However rude they were, you just put up with it. They could be guests or friends of guests or they could be guests next week. Or even executives from the home office, testing you.

Just put up and shut up. That was the rule.

The TV professor and the rude asshole faded from the doorman’s thoughts as a limo stopped and he stepped forward to open the door. He got a nice view of soft cleavage as the guest climbed out; it was better than a tip, which he knew, absolutely knew, she wasn’t going to give him anyway.

I could write a book.

Chapter Thirty-four

Death is simple.

I’ve never understood why people complicate it. Movies, for instance. I’m not a fan of thrillers but I’ve seen my share. Sometimes I’ll take a sixteen out on a date, to stave off boredom, to keep up appearances or because I’m going to kill her later, and we’ll sit in a movie theater and it’s easier than dinner; you don’t have to talk so much. And I watch the film and think, What on earth is going on up there on the screen, setting up these contrived ways to kill?

Why use wires and electronics and elaborate weapons and plots when you can walk up to someone and beat them to death with a hammer in thirty seconds?

Simple. Efficient.

And make no mistake, the police are smart (and, how’s this for irony, a lot of them have SSD and innerCircle helping them out). The more complicated the scheme, the more chance of leaving behind something they can use to track you down, the more chance for witnesses.

And my plans today for this sixteen I’m following through the streets of lower Manhattan are simplicity itself.

The failure at the cemetery yesterday is behind me now and I’m exhilarated. I’m on a mission and, as part of it, I’ll be adding to one of my collections.

As I follow my target I dodge sixteens right and left. Why, look at them all… My pulse is picking up. My head is throbbing at the thought that these sixteens are themselves collections-of their past. More information than we can comprehend. DNA is, after all, nothing more than a database of our bodies and genetic history, stretching back millennia. If you could plug that into hard drives, how much data could you extract? Makes innerCircle look like a Commodore 64.

Breathtaking…

But back to the task at hand. I maneuver around a young sixteen, smell her perfume, which she dabbed on this morning in her Staten Island or Brooklyn apartment in a sad attempt to exude competence and came off as cheaply seductive. I move closer to my target, feeling the comfort of the pistol against my skin. Knowledge may be one kind of power, but there are others that are nearly as effective.

“Hey, Professor, we’ve got some activity.”

“Uh-huh,” Roland Bell replied, his voice spilling from the speakers in the surveillance van, where sat Lon Sellitto, Ron Pulaski and several tactical officers.

Bell, an NYPD detective who worked with Rhyme and Sellitto occasionally, was on his way from the Water Street Hotel to One Police Plaza. He’d traded his typical jeans, work shirt and sports coat for a rumpled suit, since he was playing the role of the fictional professor Carlton Soames.

Or, as he’d put it in his North Carolina drawl, “A stinkball on a hook and line.”

Bell now whispered into a lapel microphone as invisible as the tiny speaker in his ear, “How close?”

“He’s behind you about fifty feet.”

“Uhm.”

Bell was at the core of Lincoln Rhyme’s Expert Plan, which was based on his increasing understanding of 522. “He’s not taking our computer trap but he’s dying for information. I know it. We need a different sort of trap. Hold a press conference and lure him out into the open. Have them announce that we’ve hired an expert and get somebody undercover up onstage.”

“You’re assuming he watches TV.”

“Oh, he’ll be checking the media to see how we’re handling the case, especially after the incident at the cemetery.”

Sellitto and Rhyme had contacted somebody not connected with the 522 case-Roland Bell was always game, if he wasn’t on another assignment. Rhyme had then called a friend at Carnegie Mellon University, where he’d lectured several times. He told him about 522’s crimes, and the authorities at the school, which was renowned for its work in high-technology security, agreed to help. Their webmaster added Carlton Soames, Ph.D., to the school’s Web site.

Rodney Szarnek faked a résumé for Soames and sent it out to dozens of science Web sites, then cobbled together a credible site for Soames himself. Sellitto got a room for the professor at the Water Street Hotel, held the press conference and waited to see if 522 would take the bait in this trap.

Which apparently he had.

Bell had left the Water Street Hotel not long before and paused, carrying on a credible but fake phone call and standing in the open long enough to make sure he caught 522’s attention. Surveillance showed that a man had quickly left the hotel just after Bell and was now following him.

“You recognize him from SSD? He one of the suspects on our list?” Sellitto asked Pulaski, sitting beside him, staring at the monitor. Four plainclothes officers were a block or so from Bell; two wore hidden video cameras.

On the crowded streets, though, it was hard to get a clear view of the killer’s face. “Could be one of the service techs. Or, weird, it almost looks like Andrew Sterling himself. Or, no, maybe it’s that he kind of walks like him. I’m not sure. Sorry.”

Sweating heavily in the hot van, Sellitto wiped his face, then leaned forward and said into the mike, “Okay, Professor, Five Twenty-Two’s moving up. Maybe forty feet behind you. He’s in a dark suit, dark tie. He’s carrying a briefcase. His gait profile suggests that he’s armed.” Most cops who’ve worked the street for a few years can recognize the difference in posture and walking patterns when a suspect is carrying a weapon.

“Gotcha,” commented the laconic officer, who carried two pistols himself and was ambidextrously talented with them.

“Man,” Sellitto muttered, “I hope this works. Okay, Roland, go ahead with the right turn.”

“Uhm.”

Rhyme and Sellitto didn’t believe that 522 would shoot the professor on the street. What would killing him accomplish? Rhyme speculated that the killer’s intent was to abduct Soames, to learn what the police knew, then murder him later or perhaps threaten him and his family to have Soames sabotage the investigation. So the script called for Roland Bell to take a detour out of public view, where 522 would make his move and they’d nail him. Sellitto had found a construction site that would work well. It featured a long sidewalk, cordoned off to the public, that was a shortcut to One Police Plaza. Bell would ignore the Closed sign and head down the sidewalk, where he’d be lost to sight after thirty or forty feet. A team was hiding at the far end to move in when 522 approached.

The detective made the turn, stepping around the barrier tape and heading up the dusty sidewalk, while the rattle and slam of jackhammers and pile drivers filled the interior of the van from Bell’s sensitive mike.

“We’ve got you on visual, Roland,” Sellitto said as one of the officers beside him hit a switch and another camera took up surveillance. “You watching, Linc?”

“No, Lon, Dancing with the Celebrities is on. Jane Fonda and Mickey Rooney are up next.”

“It’s Dancing with the Stars, Linc.”

Rhyme’s voice clattered into the van. “Is Five Twenty-Two going to make the turn? Or is he going to balk?…Come on, come on…”

Sellitto moved the mouse and double-clicked. Another image, on a split screen, popped up, from a Search and Surveillance team’s video camera. It depicted a different angle: Bell’s back moving down the sidewalk, away from the camera. The detective was glancing with curiosity at the construction site, as any normal passerby would. A moment later, 522 appeared behind him, keeping his distance, looking around too, though obviously with no interest in the workers; he was scanning for witnesses or the police.

Then he hesitated, looked around once more. And started to close the distance.

“Okay, everybody, heads up,” Sellitto called. “He’s moving up on you, Roland. We’re going to lose you on visual in about five seconds so keep an eye out. You copy?”

“Yep,” said the easy-going officer. As if answering a bartender who’d asked if he wanted a glass with his bottle of Budweiser.

Chapter Thirty-five

Roland Bell wasn’t quite as calm as he sounded.

The widower father of two children, a nice house in the burbs and a sweetheart down in the Tarheel State he was getting pretty close to proposing to…All those domestic things tended to add up on the negative side when you were asked to be a sitting duck on an undercover set.

Still, Bell couldn’t help but do his duty-particularly when it came to a perp like this 522, a rapist and killer, a species of criminal that Bell had a particular dislike for. And, truth be told, he didn’t mind the rush from ops like this one.

“We all find our levels,” his daddy had often said, and once the boy realized that the man wasn’t talking about misplaced tools he embraced that philosophy as a cornerstone of his life.

His jacket was unbuttoned and his hand poised to draw, aim and let fly with his favorite pistol, an example of Italy’s finest firepower. He was glad Lon Sellitto had stopped his banter. He needed to hear this fellow’s approach, and the slam slam slam of the pile driver was plenty loud. Still, concentrating hard, he heard a scrape of shoes on the sidewalk behind him.

Make it thirty feet.

Bell knew the takedown team was in front of him, though he couldn’t see them, or they him, because of a sharp curve in the sidewalk. The plan was for them to take 522 as soon as the backdrop was safe and no bystanders were in danger. This portion of the sidewalk was still partly visible from a nearby street and the construction site and they’d been gambling that the killer wouldn’t attack until Bell was closer to the tactical officers. But he seemed to be moving in more quickly than they’d planned on.

Bell hoped, though, that the man would hold off for a few minutes; a firefight here could endanger a number of passersby and construction workers.

But the logistics of the takedown vanished from his mind as he heard two things simultaneously: the sound of 522’s footsteps breaking into a run toward him and, much more alarming, the cheerful Spanish chatter of two women, one pushing a baby carriage, as they emerged from the back of the building right next to Bell. The tac officers had sealed off the sidewalk but apparently nobody’d thought to notify the superintendents of the buildings whose rear doors faced it.

Bell glanced back and saw the women walk right in between him and 522, who was staring at the detective and running forward. In his hand was a gun.

“We’ve got trouble! Civvies between us. Suspect’s armed! Repeat, he’s got a weapon. Move in!”

Bell started for his Beretta but one of the women, seeing 522, screamed and jumped back, slamming into Bell, knocking him to his knees. His gun dropped to the sidewalk. The killer blinked in shock and froze, undoubtedly wondering why a college professor was armed, but he recovered fast and aimed at Bell, who was going for his second gun.

“No!” the killer shouted. “Don’t try it!”

The officer could do nothing but lift his hands. He heard Sellitto say, “First team’ll be there in thirty seconds, Roland.”

The killer said nothing, just snarled for the women to flee, which they did, and then he stepped forward, gun on Bell’s chest.

Thirty seconds, the detective thought, breathing hard.

It might as well have been a lifetime.

Walking from the parking garage to One Police Plaza, Captain Joseph Malloy was irritated that he hadn’t heard anything about the set involving Detective Roland Bell. He knew Sellitto and Rhyme were desperate to find this perp and he’d reluctantly agreed to the phony press conference but it really was over the line, and he wondered what the fallout would be if it didn’t work.

Hell, there’d be fallout if it did work. One of the top rules in city government: Don’t fuck with the press. Especially in New York.

He was just reaching into his pocket for his cell phone when he felt something touch his back. Insistent and purposeful. A pistol.

No, no…

His heart galloped.

Then came the voice, calm. “Do not turn around, Captain. If you turn around, you’ll see my face and that means you’ll die. You understand?” He sounded educated, surprising Malloy for some reason.

“Wait.”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes. Don’t-”

“At the next corner you’re going to turn to the right into that alley and keep going.”

“But-”

“I don’t have a silencer on the gun. But the muzzle is close enough to your body that nobody will know where the sound came from and I’ll be gone before you hit the ground. And the bullet will go through you and with these crowds I’m sure it will hit somebody else. You don’t want that.”

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

Joseph Malloy had made a lifelong career in law enforcement, and after his wife was killed by a drug-crazed burglar the profession became more than a career; it was an obsession. Maybe he was brass, an administrator now, but he still had the instincts he’d honed on the streets of Midtown South precinct years ago. He understood instantly. “Five Twenty-Two.”

“What?”

Calm. Stay calm. If you’re calm you’re in control. “You’re the man who killed that woman on Sunday and the groundskeeper in the cemetery last night.”

“What do you mean, ‘Five Twenty-Two’?”

“What the department’s calling you internally. An unknown subject, UNSUB, number Five Twenty-Two.” Give him some facts. Make him relax too. Carry on a conversation.

The killer gave a brief laugh. “A number? That’s interesting. Now, turn to the right.”

Well, if he wanted you dead, you’d be dead. He just needs to know something, or he’s kidnapping you for leverage. Relax. He’s obviously not going to kill you-he doesn’t want you to see his face. Okay, Lon Sellitto said they were calling him the man who knew everything? Well, get some information about him that you can use.

Maybe you can talk your way out.

Maybe you can lower his guard and get close enough to kill him with your bare hands.

Joe Malloy was perfectly capable of this, both mentally and physically.

After a brief walk 522 ordered him to stop in the alley. He put a stocking cap over Malloy’s head and pulled it down over his eyes. Good. A huge relief. As long as I don’t see him, I’ll live. Then his hands were taped and he was frisked. A firm hand on his shoulder, he was led forward and eased into a car trunk.

A drive in the stifling heat, the uncomfortable space, legs tucked up. A compact car. Okay, noted. No burning oil. And good suspension. Noted. No smell of leather. Noted. Malloy tried to keep track of the directions they turned but that was impossible. He paid attention to the sounds: traffic noises, a jackhammer. Nothing unique there. And seagulls and a boat horn. Well, how’s that going to help pinpoint where you are? Manhattan is an island. Get something useful!…Wait-the car has a noisy power-steering belt. That’s helpful. Tuck it away.

Twenty minutes later they came to a stop. He heard the rumble of a garage door closing, a big one, squeaky joints or wheels. Malloy gave a brief cry as the trunk popped, startling him. Musty but cool air embraced him. He gasped hard, sucking oxygen into his lungs through the damp wool of the cap.

“Out we go.”

“There are some things I’d like to talk to you about. I’m a captain-”

“I know who you are.”

“I have a lot of power in the department.” Malloy was pleased. His voice was steady. He was sounding reasonable. “We can work something out.”

“Come on over here.” Five Twenty-Two helped him over the smooth floor.

Then he was seated.

“I’m sure you have grievances. But I can help you. Tell me why you’re doing this, committing these crimes.”

Silence. What would happen next? Would he have a chance to fight physically? Malloy wondered. Or would he have to continue to work his way into the man’s mind? By now he’d be missed. Sellitto and Rhyme might have figured out what happened.

Then he heard a noise.

What was it?

Several clicks, followed by a tinny electronic voice. The killer was testing a tape recorder, it seemed.

Then another: the clink of metal against metal, like tools being gathered up.

And finally the disturbing screech of metal on concrete as the killer scooted his chair so close to Malloy’s that their knees touched.

Chapter Thirty-six

A bounty hunter.

They’d caught a goddamn bounty hunter.

Well, as the man corrected, a “bond recovery specialist.”

“How the fuck did that happen?” was Lincoln Rhyme’s question.

“We’re checking,” Lon Sellitto said, standing dusty and hot beside the construction site where the man who’d been following Roland Bell sat in cuffs.

He wasn’t exactly under arrest. In fact, he hadn’t done anything wrong at all; he was licensed to carry a pistol and was merely trying to effect a citizen’s arrest of a man he believed to be a wanted criminal. But Sellitto was pissed off and ordered him cuffed.

Roland Bell himself was on the phone, trying to find out if 522 had been spotted elsewhere in the area. But so far no one on the takedown teams had seen anyone fitting the scant profile of the killer. “Might as well be in Timbuktu,” Bell drawled to Sellitto and folded up his phone.

“Look-” began the bounty hunter from his curb perch.

“Shut up,” the heavy detective barked for the third or fourth time. He returned to his conversation with Rhyme. “He follows Roland, moves in and looks like he’s going to take him out. But seems he’s just serving a warrant. He thought Roland was somebody named William Franklin. They look alike, Franklin and Roland. Lives in Brooklyn and missed a trial date on an assault with a deadly, and firearm possession. The bond company’s been after him for six months.”

“Five Twenty-Two set it all up, you know. He found this Franklin in the system and sent the bondsman after him to keep us distracted.”

“I know, Linc.”

“Anybody see anything helpful? Somebody staking us out?”

“Nope. Roland just checked with all the teams.”

Silence. Then Rhyme asked, “How did he know it was a trap?”

Though that wasn’t the most important issue. There was really only one question they wanted the answer to and that was “What the hell is he really up to?”

Do They think I’m stupid?

Did They think I wouldn’t be suspicious?

They know about knowledge service providers at this point. About predicting how sixteens will act, based on past behavior and the behavior of others. This concept has been a part of my life for a long, long time. It should be part of everyone’s. How will your next-door neighbor react if you do X? How will he react if you do Y? How will a woman behave when you’re accompanying her to a car while you’re laughing? When you’re silent and fishing in your pocket for something?

I’ve studied Their transactions from the moment They became interested in me. I sorted them, analyzed Them. They’ve been brilliant at times-for instance, that trap of theirs: letting SSD employees and customers know about the investigation and waiting for me to peek at NYPD files on the Myra 9834 case. I almost did, came within an ENTER keystroke of searching but just had a feeling something was wrong. I know now I was right.

And the press conference? Ah, that transaction smelled off from the beginning. Hardly fit predictable and established patterns of behavior. I mean, for the police and the city to meet journalists at that time of night? And the particular assemblage up on the podium certainly didn’t ring true.

Of course, maybe it was legit-even the best fuzzy logic and predictive behavior algorithms get it wrong occasionally. But it was in my interest to check further. I couldn’t, even casually, talk to any of Them directly.

So instead, I did what I do best.

I looked into the closets, gazed through my secret window at the silent data. I learned more about the folks up there on the podium during the press conference: the deputy mayor, Ron Scott, and Captain Joseph Malloy-the man supervising the investigation against me.

And the third person, the professor. Carlton Soames, Ph.D.

Except…Well, he wasn’t.

He was a cop decoy.

A search engine request did turn up hits for Professor Soames on the Carnegie Mellon Web site, and on his own site as well. His C.V. was also tucked away conveniently into various other sites.

But it took me only a few seconds to open up the coding of those documents and examine the metadata. Everything about the phony prof had been written and uploaded yesterday.

Do They think I’m stupid?

If I’d had time I could have learned exactly who the cop was. I could have gone to the TV network’s Web site archive, found the press conference, frozen an image of the man’s face and done a biometric scan. I’d compare that image to DMV records in the area and police and FBI personnel photos to come up with the man’s real identity.

But that would have been a lot of work, and unnecessary. I didn’t care who he was. All I needed was to distract the police and give myself time to locate Captain Malloy, the one who would be a veritable database of information about the operation.

I easily found an outstanding warrant for a man bearing a rough resemblance to the cop playing Carlton Soames-a white male in his thirties. Simple matter then to call the bail bondsman, claiming to be an acquaintance of the fugitive and reporting that I’d spotted him at the Water Street Hotel. I described what he was wearing and hung up fast.

Meanwhile I waited at the parking garage near Police Plaza where Captain Malloy parks his low-end Lexus (its oil change and wheel rotation long overdue, the dealer’s data report) every morning between 7:48 and 9:02 A.M.

I engaged the enemy at exactly 8:35.

There followed the abduction, the drive to the warehouse on the West Side, and the judicious use of forged metal to execute a memory dump from the admirably courageous database. I’m feeling the inexplicable, more-than-sexual satisfaction of knowing I’ve completed a collection: the identities of all the sixteens who are after me, some of the people tethered to Them and how They’re running the case.

Some information was particularly revealing. (The name Rhyme, for instance. That’s the key as to why I’m in this fix, I now understand.)

My soldiers will soon be on their way, marching into Poland, marching into the Rhineland…

And, as I’d hoped, I got something for that collection of mine, one of my favorites, by the way. I should wait until I’m back in my Closet but I can’t resist. I fish for the tape recorder and I hit REWIND then PLAY.

A happy coincidence: I find the exact spot where Captain Malloy’s screams hit a crescendo. It chills even me.

He awoke from an uneasy sleep filled with bumpy nightmares. His throat hurt from the garrote, inside and out, though the stinging was worse in his mouth-from the dryness.

Arthur Rhyme glanced around at the dingy, windowless hospital room. Well, a cell in an infirmary inside the Tombs. No different from his own cell or that terrible common room where he’d almost been murdered.

A male nurse or orderly came into the room, examined an empty bed and wrote something down.

“Excuse me,” Arthur rasped. “Can I see a doctor?”

The man looked his way-a large African American. Arthur felt a surge of panic, thinking this was Antwon Johnson, who’d stolen a uniform and snuck in here to finish what he’d started…

But, no, it was somebody else. Still, the eyes were just as cold and they spent no more time regarding Arthur Rhyme than they would glancing at a spill on the floor. He left without a word.

A half hour passed, Arthur dipping into and out of waking.

Then the door opened again and he glanced up, startled, as another patient was brought in. He’d had appendicitis, Arthur deduced. The operation was over and he was recovering. An orderly got him into bed. He handed the man a glass. “Don’ drink it. Rinse ’n’ spit.”

The man drank.

“No, I’m tellin’ you-”

He threw up.

“Fuck.” The orderly tossed a handful of paper towels at him and left.

Arthur’s fellow patient fell asleep, clutching the towels.

It was then that Arthur looked out the window in the door. Two men stood outside, one Latino, one black. The latter squinted, staring directly at him, then whispered something to the other, who briefly looked too.

Something about their posture and expressions told Arthur their interest wasn’t mere curiosity-seeing the con who’d been saved by Mick, the tweaker.

No, they were memorizing his face. Why?

Did they want to kill him too?

Another surge of panic. Was it only a matter of time until they were successful?

He closed his eyes but then decided he shouldn’t sleep. He didn’t dare. They’d move on him when he was asleep, they’d move on him if he closed his eyes, they’d move on him if he didn’t pay complete attention to everything, everyone, every minute.

And now his agony was complete. Judy had said that Lincoln might have found something that could prove his innocence. She didn’t know what, and so Arthur had no way to judge if his cousin was simply being optimistic, or if he’d discovered some concrete proof that he’d been wrongly arrested. He was furious at this ambiguous hope. Before he’d talked to Judy, Arthur Rhyme had resigned himself to a living hell and an impending death.

I’m doin’ you a favor, man. Fuck, you’d do yourself in a month or two anyway… Now jus’ stop fightin’ it…

But now, realizing that freedom might be attainable, resignation blossomed into panic. He saw in front of him some hope that could be taken away.

His heart began its manic thudding again.

He grabbed the call button. Pushed it once. Then again.

No response. A moment later another pair of eyes appeared in the window. But they weren’t a doctor’s. Was it one of the cons he’d seen before? He couldn’t tell. The man was looking directly at him.

Struggling to control the fear that trickled down his spine like electricity, he pressed the call button again, then held it down.

Still no response.

The eyes in the window blinked once, then vanished.

Chapter Thirty-seven

“Metadata.”

On speakerphone Rodney Szarnek, in the NYPD computer lab, was explaining to Lincoln Rhyme how 522 most likely had learned that the “expert” was in fact an undercover cop.

Sachs, standing nearby, with her arms crossed and fingers picking at her sleeve, reminded him of what she’d learned from Calvin Geddes of Privacy Now. “That’s data about data. Embedded in documents.”

“Right,” Szarnek confirmed, hearing her comment. “He probably saw that we’d created the C.V. last night.”

“Shit,” Rhyme murmured. Well, you can’t think of everything. Then: But you have to when you’re up against the man who knows everything. And now the plan, which potentially could have netted him, had been wasted. The second time they’d failed.

And worse, they’d tipped their hand. Just like they’d learned about his suicide ploy, he’d learned how they operated and had a defense against future tactics.

Knowledge is power…

Szarnek added, “I had somebody at Carnegie Mellon trace the addresses of everyone who was in their site this morning. A half dozen hits originated in the city but they were from public terminals, no trace of the users. Two were from proxies in Europe, and I know the servers. They won’t cooperate.”

Naturally.

“Now we’ve got some information from the empty-space files Ron got from SSD. It’s taking some time. They were…” He apparently decided to avoid the technical explanation and said, “…pretty scrambled. But we’ve got fragments coming together. Looks like somebody did assemble dossiers and download them. We’ve got a nym-that’s a screen name or code name. ‘Runnerboy.’ That’s all so far.”

“Any idea who? An employee, customer, hacker?”

“Nope. I called a friend in the Bureau and checked their database for known nyms and e-mail addresses. They found about eight hundred Runnerboys. None in the metro area, though. We’ll know more later.”

Rhyme had Thom write the name Runnerboy on the list of suspects. “We’ll check with SSD. See if that’s a name anybody recognizes.”

“And the customer files on the CD?”

“I’ve got somebody going through it manually. The code I wrote only got us so far. There’re too many variables-different consumer products, Metro fare cards, E-ZPasses. Most of the companies downloaded certain information from the victims but statistically nobody’s jumping out as a suspect yet.”

“All right.”

He disconnected.

“We tried, Rhyme,” Sachs said.

Tried… He offered a lifted eyebrow, a gesture that meant absolutely nothing.

The phone buzzed and “Sellitto” popped up on caller ID.

“Command, answer… Lon, any-”

“Linc.”

Something was wrong. The tone, through the speakerphone, was hollow, the voice shaky.

“Another vic?”

Sellitto cleared his throat. “He got one of us.”

Alarmed, glancing at Sachs, who was involuntarily leaning forward toward the phone, her arms unfolding. “Who? Tell us.”

“Joe Malloy.”

“No,” whispered Sachs.

Rhyme’s eyes closed and his head eased into the wheelchair’s headrest. “Sure, of course. That was the setup, Lon. He had it all planned.” His voice lowered. “How bad was it?”

“What do you mean?” asked Sachs.

In a soft voice, Rhyme said, “He didn’t just kill Malloy, did he?”

Sellitto’s quivering voice was wrenching. “No, Linc, he didn’t.”

“Tell me!” Sachs said bluntly. “What are you talking about?”

Rhyme looked at her eyes, wide with the horror that they both felt. “He set up the whole thing because he wanted information. He tortured Joe to get it.”

“Oh, God.”

“Right, Lon?”

The big detective sighed. He coughed. “Yeah, got to say it was pretty bad. He used some tools. And from the amount of blood Joe held out for a long time. The prick finished him off with a gunshot.”

Sachs’s face was red with anger. She kneaded the grip of her Glock. Through clenched jaws she asked, “Did Joe have kids?”

Rhyme recalled that the captain’s wife had been killed a few years ago.

Sellitto answered, “A daughter in California. I made the call already.”

“You okay about it?” Sachs asked.

“Naw, I’m not.” His voice cracked again. Rhyme didn’t think he’d ever heard the detective sound so upset.

In his mind he could hear Joe Malloy’s voice when he was responding to Rhyme’s “forgetting” to share about the 522 case. The captain had looked beyond pettiness and backed them up, even after the criminalist and Sellitto hadn’t been honest with him.

Policing came before ego.

And 522 had tortured and killed him simply because he needed information. Goddamn information…

But then, from somewhere, Rhyme summoned the stone that resided within him. The detachment that, as some people had said, meant he had a damaged soul, but that he believed allowed him to better do his job. He said firmly, “Okay, you know what this means, don’t you?”

“What?” Sachs asked.

“He’s declaring war.”

“War?” It was Sellitto who asked this question.

“On us. He’s not going underground. He’s not running. He’s telling us to go fuck ourselves. He’s fighting back. And he thinks he can get away with it. Killing brass? Oh, yeah. He’s drawn the battle line. And he knows all about us now.”

“Maybe Joe didn’t tell him,” Sachs said.

“No, he told. He did everything he could to hold out but in the end he told.” Rhyme didn’t even want to picture what the captain had been through as he’d tried to keep silent. “It wasn’t his fault… But we’re all at risk now.”

“I’ve gotta go talk to the brass,” Sellitto said. “They want to know what went wrong. They weren’t happy about the plan in the first place.”

“I’m sure they weren’t. Where did it happen?”

“A warehouse. Chelsea.”

“Warehouse…perfect for a hoarder. Was he connected to it? Work there? Remember his comfortable shoes? Or did he just find out about it from going through the data? I want to know all of the above.”

“I’ll have it checked out,” Cooper said. “Sellitto gave him the details.”

“And we’ll get the scene searched.” Rhyme glanced at Sachs, who nodded.

After the detective disconnected, Rhyme asked, “Where’s Pulaski?”

“On his way back from the Roland Bell set.”

“Let’s call SSD, find out where all our suspects were at the time Malloy was killed. Some of them must have been in the office. I want to know who wasn’t. And I want to know about this Runnerboy. Think Sterling’ll help?”

“Oh, definitely,” Sachs said, reminding him how cooperative Sterling had been throughout the investigation. She hit the speakerphone button and placed the call.

An assistant answered and Sachs identified herself.

“Hello, Detective Sachs. This is Jeremy. How can I help you?”

“I need to talk to Mr. Sterling.”

“I’m afraid he’s not available.”

“It’s very important. There’s been another killing. A police officer.”

“Yes, I heard that on the news. I’m very sorry. Hold on a moment. Martin just walked in.”

They heard a muffled conversation and then another voice came through the speaker. “Detective Sachs. It’s Martin. I’m sorry to hear, another killing. But Mr. Sterling’s off-site.”

“It’s really important we talk to him.”

The calm assistant said, “I’ll relay the urgency.”

“What about Mark Whitcomb or Tom O’Day?”

“Hold for a moment, please.”

After a lengthy pause the young man’s voice said, “I’m afraid Mark is out of the office too. And Tom is in a meeting. I’ve left messages. I have another call, Detective Sachs. I should go. And I am truly sorry about your captain.”

“‘You that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more to my meditations, than you might suppose.’”

Sitting on a bench, overlooking the East River, Pam Willoughby felt a thud in her chest and her palms began to sweat.

She looked behind her at Stuart Everett, lit brilliantly by the sun over New Jersey. A blue shirt, jeans, a sports coat, the leather bag over his shoulder. His boyish face, a flop of brown hair, narrow lips about to break into a grin that often never arrived.

“Hi,” she said, sounding cheerful. She was angry with herself, wanted to sound harsh.

“Hey.” He glanced north, toward the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. “Fulton Street.”

“The poem? I know. It’s ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.’”

From Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman’s masterpiece. After Stuart Everett had mentioned in class that it was his favorite anthology of poems, she’d bought an expensive edition. Thinking that somehow it made them more connected.

“I didn’t assign that for class. You knew it anyway?”

Pam said nothing.

“Can I sit down?”

She nodded.

They sat in silence. She smelled his cologne. Wondered if his wife had bought it for him.

“Your friend talked to you, I’m sure.”

“Yeah.”

“I liked her. When she first called, okay, I thought she was going to arrest me.”

Pam’s frown softened into a smile.

Stuart continued, “She wasn’t happy about the situation. But that was good. She was looking out for you.”

“Amelia’s the best.”

“I couldn’t believe she was a cop.”

And a cop who ran a check on my boyfriend. Being in the dark wasn’t so bad, Pam reflected; having too much information sucked big-time.

He took her hand. Her impulse to pull it away vanished. “Look, let’s get this whole thing out in the open.”

She kept her eyes focused on the distance; looking into his brown eyes, under droopy lids, would be a way bad idea. She watched the river and the harbor beyond. Ferries still ran but most of the traffic was either private boats or cargo ships. She often sat near the river here and watched them. Forced to live underground, deep in the Midwest woods, with her crazy mother and a bunch of right-wing fanatics, Pam had developed a fascination with rivers and oceans. They were open and free and constantly in motion. That thought soothed her.

“I wasn’t honest, I know. But my relationship with my wife isn’t what it seems. I don’t sleep with her anymore. Haven’t for a long time.”

Was that the first thing a man said at a time like this? Pam wondered. She hadn’t even considered the sex, just the married.

He continued, “I didn’t want to fall in love with you. I thought we’d be friends. But you turned out to be different from everybody else. You lit up something in me. You’re beautiful, obviously. But you’re, well, you’re like Whitman. Unconventional. Lyrical. A poet in your own way.”

“You’ve got kids,” Pam couldn’t stop herself from saying.

A hesitation. “I do. But you’d like them. John’s eight. Chiara’s in middle school. She’s eleven. They’re wonderful kids. That’s why Mary and I are together, the only reason.”

Her name’s Mary. Was wondering.

He squeezed her hand. “Pam, I can’t let you go.”

She was leaning into him, feeling the comfort of his arm against hers, smelling the dry, pleasing scent, not caring who’d bought the aftershave. She thought: He was probably going to tell me sooner or later.

“I was going to tell you in a week or so. I swear. I was working up my courage.” She felt his hand trembling. “I see my children’s faces. I think, I can’t break up the family. And then you come along. The most incredible person I’ve ever met… I’ve been lonely for a long, long time.”

“But what about holidays?” she asked. “I wanted to do something on Thanksgiving or Christmas with you.”

“I can probably get away for one of them. At least part of the day. We just need to plan ahead of time.” Stuart lowered his head. “Here’s the thing. I can’t live without you. If you can be patient, we’ll make it work.”

She thought back to the one night they’d spent together. A secret night that nobody knew about. At Amelia Sachs’s town house, when she was staying at Lincoln Rhyme’s and Pam, and Stuart, had the place to themselves. It was magical. She wished every night of her life could be like that one.

She gripped his hand harder yet.

He whispered, “I can’t lose you.”

He inched closer on the bench. She found comfort in every square inch of contact. She actually had written a poem about him, describing their attraction as gravitational: one of the fundamental forces in the universe.

Pam rested her head against his shoulder.

“I promise I’ll never hide anything from you again. But please…I have to keep seeing you.”

She thought of the wonderful times they’d had, times that would seem insignificant to anyone else, silly.

Nothing like it.

The comfort was like warm water on a wound, washing away the pain.

When they’d been on the run, Pam and her mother had lived with and around petty men who would strike them “for their own good,” who didn’t share a word with their wives or children except when correcting or silencing them.

Stuart wasn’t even in the same universe with those monsters.

He whispered, “Just give me a little while. It’ll work out. I promise. We’ll see each other like we have been… Hey, here’s an idea. I know you want to travel. There’s a poetry conference in Montreal next month. I could fly you there, get you a room. You could attend the sessions. And we’d have the evenings free.”

“Oh, I love you.” She leaned toward his face. “I understand why you didn’t tell me, really.”

He gripped her hard, kissed her neck. “Pam, I’m so-”

Which is when she eased back and clutched her book bag to her chest like a shield. “But no, Stuart.”

“What?”

Pam believed her heart was beating faster than it ever had. “When you get divorced call me up and let’s see. But until then, no. I can’t see you anymore.”

She’d said what she thought Amelia Sachs would say at a time like this. But could she behave the same and not cry? Amelia wouldn’t. No way.

She slapped a smile onto her face, struggling to control the pain as the loneliness and panic killed the comfort instantly. The warmth froze to icy shards.

“But, Pam, you’re everything to me.”

“But what are you to me, Stuart? You can’t be everything. And I’m not willing to take less than that.” Keep your voice steady, she told herself. “If you get a divorce I’ll be with you… Will you?”

Now the seductive eyes lowered. “Yes.” A whisper.

“Now?”

“I can’t just now. It’s complicated.”

“No, Stuart. It’s really, really simple.” She rose. “If I don’t see you again, have a nice life.” She began walking away quickly, heading for Amelia’s town house, which was nearby.

Okay, maybe Amelia wouldn’t cry. But Pam could no longer hold the tears back. She walked straight down the sidewalk, eyes streaming, and-afraid she’d weaken-not daring to look back, not daring to think about what she’d done.

Though she did have one thought about the encounter, which she supposed someday she’d consider pretty funny: What a sucky parting line that was. Wish I’d come up with something better.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Mel Cooper was frowning.

“The warehouse? Where Joe was killed? Some publisher rents it to store paper there for recycling, though it hasn’t been used actively for months. But what’s strange is that the ownership’s not clear.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ve run all the corporate documents. It’s leased to a chain of three companies and owned by a Delaware corporation-and that’s owned by a couple of New York corporations. The ultimate ownership seems to be in Malaysia.”

But 522 had known about it and that it was safe to torture a victim there. How? Because he’s the man who knows everything.

The phone in the lab trilled and Rhyme glanced at caller ID. We’ve had such bad news in the 522 case, please let this be good. “Inspector Longhurst.”

“Detective Rhyme, just to update you. It’s looking rather productive here.” Her voice betrayed a rare excitement. She explained that d’Estourne, the team’s French security service agent, had sped to Birmingham and contacted some Algerians in a Muslim community in West Bromwich, outside the city. He’d learned that an American had commissioned a passport and transit papers to North Africa, traveling on to Singapore. He’d given them a large down payment and they promised the documents would be ready tomorrow evening. As soon as he picked them up he was heading for London to finish the job.

“Good,” Rhyme said, chuckling. “That means Logan’s already there, don’t you think? In London.”

“Quite certain of it,” Longhurst agreed. “Trying the shot tomorrow when our double meets the MI5 people at the shooting zone.”

“Exactly.”

So Richard Logan had ordered the papers, and paid a large price for them, to keep the team focused on Birmingham, while he hurried to London to complete his mission to kill the Reverend Goodlight.

“What do Danny Krueger’s people say?”

“That a boat will be waiting on the south coast to spirit him away to France.”

Spirit him away. Rhyme loved it. Cops don’t talk that way over here.

He thought again about the safe house near Manchester. And the break-in at Goodlight’s NGO in London. Was there anything Rhyme might’ve seen if he had walked the grid at either of those locales via the high-definition video? Some tiny clue that they’d missed that might give them a clearer idea of exactly where and when the killer was going to strike? If so, the evidence was gone now. He’d just have to hope they’d made the right deductions.

“What do you have in place?”

“Ten officers around the shooting zone. All plainclothed or in camouflage.” She added that Danny Krueger, along with the French security man and another tactical team, were making themselves “subtly visible” in Birmingham. Longhurst had also added an extra protection detail where the reverend was actually hiding; they had no evidence that the killer had learned the location but she didn’t want to take any chances.

“We’ll know something soon, Detective.”

Just as they disconnected, his computer dinged.

“mr Rhyme?”

The words appeared on the screen in front of him. A small window had opened. It was a webcam view of Amelia Sachs’s living room. He could see Pam at the keyboard, instant messaging him.

He spoke to her through his voice-recognition system. “Hello Pam owe are you dew in?”

Goddamn computer. Maybe he should have their digital guru, Rodney Szarnek, install a new system.

But she deduced the message just fine.

“Good,” she typed. “How R U?”

“I am good.”

“Amelia there?”

“No. She is how on a case.”

“:-(Bummer. Want 2 talk 2 her. Called but not picking up.”

“Any thing eye can dew-”

Damn. He sighed and tried again. “Anything we can do here?”

“No thx.” A pause and he saw her glance at her cell phone. She looked back at the computer. Typed, “Rachel calling. Back in minute.”

She left the webcam on but turned away, speaking into her mobile. She lugged a massive book bag onto her lap and dug through it, opened a text and found some notes inside. She read them aloud, it seemed.

Rhyme was about to turn to the whiteboards when he glanced at the webcam window.

Something had changed.

He frowned and maneuvered his chair closer, alarmed.

Someone else seemed to be in Sachs’s town house. Could it be? It was hard to tell for certain but as he squinted he saw that, yes, a man was there, hiding in a dark hallway, only twenty feet or so from Pam.

Rhyme squinted, moving his head as far forward as he could. An intruder, his face hidden by a hat. And he was holding something. Was it a gun? A knife?

“Thom!”

The aide wasn’t within earshot. Of course, he was taking the trash out.

“Command, dial Sachs, home.”

Thank God the ECU did exactly as instructed.

He could see Pam glance at the phone beside the computer. But she ignored the ringing; the house wasn’t hers-she’d let voice mail take a message. She continued speaking into her mobile.

The man leaned out of the hallway, his face, obscured by the brim of his hat, aimed directly at her.

“Command, instant message!”

The box popped up on the screen.

“Command, type: ‘Pam exclamation point.’ Command, send.”

“Pamex lamentation point.”

Fuck!

“Command, type, ‘Pam danger leave now.’ Command, send.”

This message went through pretty much unchanged.

Pam, read it, please! Rhyme begged silently. Look at the screen!

But the girl was lost in her conversation. Her face was no longer so carefree. The discussion had turned serious.

Rhyme called 911, and the operator assured him that a police car would be at the town house in five minutes. But the intruder was only seconds away from Pam, who was completely unaware of him.

Rhyme knew it was 522, of course. He’d tortured Malloy to get information about all of them. Amelia Sachs was the first on the list to die. Only it wouldn’t be Sachs. It would be this innocent girl.

His heart was pounding, a sensation registering as a fierce, throbbing headache. He tried the phone again. Four rings. “Hi, this is Amelia. Please leave your message at the tone.”

He tried again. “Command, type, ‘Pam call me period. Lincoln period.’”

And what would he tell her to do if he got through? Sachs had weapons in the place but he didn’t know where she kept them. Pam was an athletic girl, and the intruder didn’t seem much larger than she was. But he’d have a weapon. And, given where he was, he could get a garrote around her neck or a knife into her back before she was even aware of his presence.

And it would happen before his eyes.

Then at last she was swiveling toward the computer. She’d see the message.

Good, keep turning.

Rhyme saw a shadow on the floor across the room. Was the killer moving in closer?

Still talking on her phone, Pam moved toward the computer but she was looking at the keyboard, not the screen.

Look up! Rhyme urged silently.

Please! Read the goddamn message!

But like all kids today, Pam didn’t need to look at the screen to make sure she’d typed correctly. With her cell held tight between cheek and shoulder, she glanced fast at the keyboard as she stabbed the letters with quick strokes.

“gotta go. bye mr Rhyme. C U:-)”

The screen went black.

Amelia Sachs was uncomfortable in the crime-scene Tyvek jumpsuit, with surgeon’s hat and booties. Claustrophobic, nauseous from inhaling the bitter scent of damp paper and blood and sweat in the warehouse.

She hadn’t known Captain Joseph Malloy well. But he was, as Lon Sellitto had announced, “one of ours.” And she was appalled at what 522 had done to him, to extract the information he wanted. She was nearly finished running the scene and carried the evidence-collection bags outside, infinitely grateful for the air here, even though it reeked of diesel fumes.

She kept hearing the voice of her father. As a young girl she’d glanced into her parents’ bedroom and found him in his dress patrolman’s uniform, wiping tears. This had shaken her; she’d never seen him cry. He’d gestured her inside. Hermann Sachs always played straight with his daughter and he’d sat her down on a bedside chair and explained that a friend of his, a fellow officer, had been shot and killed while stopping a robbery.

“Amie, in this business, everybody’s family. You probably spend more time with the guys you work with than you do with your own wife and kids. Every time somebody in blue dies, you die a little bit too. Doesn’t matter, patrol or brass, they’re all family and it’s the same pain when you lose somebody.”

And she now felt the pain he’d been speaking of. Felt it very deeply.

“I’m finished,” she said to the crime-scene crew, who were standing beside their rapid response van. She’d searched the scene alone but the officers from Queens had videotaped and photographed it and walked the grid at the secondary scenes-the likely entrance and exit routes.

Nodding to the tour doctor and her associates from the M.E.’s office, Sachs said, “Okay, you can get him to the morgue.”

The men, in their thick green gloves and jumpsuits, walked inside. Assembling the evidence in the milk crates for transport to Rhyme’s lab, Sachs paused.

Someone was watching her.

She’d heard a tink of metal on metal or concrete or glass from up a deserted alleyway. A fast look, and she believed she saw a figure hiding near a deserted factory’s loading dock, which had collapsed years ago.

Search carefully, but watch your back…

She remembered the scene at the cemetery, the killer, wearing the swiped police hat, watching her. Felt the same uneasiness she had there. She left the evidence bags and walked down the alley, hand on her pistol. She saw no one.

Paranoia.

“Detective?” one of the techs called.

She kept going. Was there a face behind that filthy window?

“Detective,” he persisted.

“I’ll be right there.” A little irritation in her voice.

The crime-scene tech said, “Sorry, it’s a call. From Detective Rhyme.”

She always shut her phone off when she got to a scene to avoid distractions.

“Tell him I’ll call him right back.”

“Detective, he says it’s about somebody named Pam. There’s been an incident at your town house. You’re needed right away.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

Amelia Sachs ran inside fast, oblivious to the pain in her knees.

Past the police at the door, not even nodding to them. “Where?”

One officer pointed toward the living room.

Sachs hurried into the room…and found Pam on the couch. The girl looked up, her face pale.

The policewoman sat beside her. “You’re all right?”

“I’m fine. A little freaked out is all.”

“Nothing hurt? I can hug you?”

Pam laughed and Sachs flung her arms around the girl. “What happened?”

“Somebody broke in. He was here while I was. Mr. Rhyme could see him behind me on the webcam. He kept calling and on the, like, fifth ring or something, I picked up and he told me to start screaming and get out.”

“And you did?”

“Not really. I kind of ran into the kitchen and got a knife. I was pretty pissed. He took off.”

Sachs glanced at a detective from the local Brooklyn precinct, a squat African-American man, who said in a deep baritone, “He was gone when we got here. Neighbors didn’t see anything.”

So it had been her imagination at the warehouse crime scene where Joe Malloy was killed. Or maybe some kid or wino curious about what the cops were doing. After killing Malloy, 522 had come to her place-to look for files or evidence or to finish the job he’d started: kill her.

Sachs walked through the town house with the detective and Pam. The desk had been ransacked but nothing seemed to be missing.

“I thought maybe it was Stuart.” Pam took a breath. “I kind of broke up with him.”

“You did?”

A nod.

“Good for you… But it wasn’t him?”

“No. The guy here was wearing different clothes and wasn’t built like Stuart. And, yeah, he’s a son of a bitch but he’s not going to break into somebody else’s town house.”

“You get a look at him?”

“Naw. He turned and ran before I could see him real clearly.” She’d noticed only his outfit.

The detective explained that Pam had described the burglar as a male, white or light-skinned black or Latino, medium build, wearing blue jeans and a dark blue plaid sports jacket. He’d called Rhyme too, after he’d learned of the webcam, but the criminalist hadn’t seen anything more than a vague form in the hallway.

They found the window through which he’d broken in. Sachs had an alarm system but Pam had shut it off when she’d arrived.

She looked around the place. The anger and dismay she’d felt at Malloy’s horrible death faded, replaced by the same uneasiness, and vulnerability, that she’d been aware of at the cemetery, at the warehouse where Malloy had died, at SSD…in fact, everywhere since they’d started the pursuit of 522. Like at the scene near DeLeon’s house: Was he watching her now?

She saw motion outside the window, a flash of light… Was it from the blowing leaves in front of nearby windows reflecting the pale sunlight?

Or was it 522?

“Amelia?” Pam asked in a soft voice, looking around uneasily herself. “Everything okay?”

This brought Sachs back to reality. Get to work. And fast. The killer had been here-and not that long ago. Goddamnit, find out something useful. “Sure, honey. It’s fine.”

A patrol officer from the precinct asked, “Detective, you want somebody from Crime Scene to look it over?”

“That’s okay,” she said with a glance to Pam and a tight smile. “I’ll handle it.”

Sachs got her portable crime-scene kit from the trunk of her car, and she and Pam searched together.

Well, Sachs did the searching but Pam, standing clear of the perimeter, described exactly where the killer had been. Though her voice was unsteady, the girl was coolly efficient.

I kind of ran into the kitchen and got a knife.

Since Pam was here, Sachs asked a patrol officer to stand guard in the garden-where the killer had escaped. This didn’t allay her concern completely, though, not with 522’s uncanny ability to spy on his victims, to learn all about them, to get close. She wanted to search the scene and get Pam away as soon as she could.

With the teenager directing her, Sachs searched the places he’d stepped. But she found no evidence in the town house. The killer had either used gloves when he’d broken in or hadn’t touched any receptive surfaces, and the adhesive rollers revealed no signs of foreign trace.

“Where did he go outside?” Sachs asked.

“I’ll show you.” Pam glanced at Sachs’s face, which was apparently revealing her reluctance to expose the girl to more danger. “It’d be better than me just telling you.”

Sachs nodded and they walked into the garden. She looked around carefully. She asked the patrol officer, “See anything?”

“Nope. But I’ve gotta say, when you think somebody’s watching you, you see somebody watching you.”

“I hear that.”

He jerked a thumb toward a row of dark windows across the alley, then toward some thick azaleas and boxwood bushes. “I checked them out. Nothing. But I’ll keep on it.”

“Thanks.”

Pam directed Sachs to the path 522 had taken to escape and Sachs began walking the grid.

“Amelia?”

“What?”

“I was kind of a shit, you know. What I said to you yesterday. I felt, like, all desperate or something. Panicked…I guess what I’m saying is, I’m sorry.”

“You were the picture of restraint.”

“I didn’t feel very restrained.”

“Love makes us weird, honey.”

Pam laughed.

“We’ll talk about it later. Maybe tonight, depending on how the case goes. We’ll get dinner.”

“Okay, sure.”

Sachs continued her examination, struggling to put aside her uneasiness, the sense that 522 was still here. But despite her effort the search wasn’t very fruitful. The ground was mostly gravel and she found no footprints, except one near the gate through which he’d escaped from her yard into the alley. The only mark was the toe of a shoe-he’d been sprinting-and useless forensically. She found no fresh tire treadmarks.

But, returning to her yard, she saw a flash of white in the ivy and periwinkle covering the ground-exactly in the position where it would have landed after falling from 522’s pocket as he’d vaulted the locked gate.

“You found something?”

“Maybe.” With tweezers, Sachs picked up a small piece of paper. Returning to the town house, she set up a portable examining table and processed the rectangle. She sprayed ninhydrin on it, then, after donning goggles, hit it with an alternative light source. She was disappointed that no prints were revealed.

“Is it helpful?” Pam asked.

“Could be. It’s not going to point to his front door. But then evidence usually doesn’t. If it did,” she added, smiling, “they wouldn’t need people like Lincoln and me, right? I’m going to go check it out.”

Sachs got her toolbox, took out the drill and screwed shut the broken window. She locked up, setting the alarm.

She had called Rhyme briefly earlier to tell him Pam was all right but she now wanted to let him know about the possible lead. She pulled out her cell phone but, before she called, she paused on the curb and looked around.

“What’s the matter, Amelia?”

She put the phone back in its holster. “My car.” The Camaro was gone. Sachs felt a surge of alarm. Her gaze swiveled up and down the street, her hand strayed to the Glock. Was 522 here? Had he stolen the car?

The patrol officer was just leaving the backyard and she asked if he’d seen anybody.

“That car, that old one? It was yours?”

“Yeah, I think the perp might’ve boosted it.”

“Sorry, Detective, I think it got towed. I woulda said something if I’d known it was yours.”

Towed? Maybe she’d forgotten to put the NYPD placard on the dash.

She and Pam walked up the street to the girl’s beat-up Honda Civic and drove to the local precinct. The desk sergeant there, whom she knew, had heard about the break-in. “Hi, Amelia. The boys canvassed the hood real careful. Nobody saw the perp.”

“Listen, Vinnie, my wheels’re gone. They were by the hydrant across the street from my place.”

“Pool car?”

“No.”

“Not your old Chevy?”

“Yep.”

“Aw, no. That’s lousy.”

“Somebody said it got towed. I don’t know if I had the official-business sign on the dash.”

“Still, they ought to’ve run the plate, seen who it was registered to. Shit, that sucks. Sorry, miss.”

Pam smiled to show her immunity to words that she’d just uttered herself occasionally.

Sachs gave the sergeant the plate number and he made some calls, checked the computer. “Naw, it wasn’t Parking Violations. Hold on a second.” He made some other calls.

Son of a bitch. She couldn’t afford to be without her wheels. She wanted desperately to check out the lead she’d found at her town house.

But her frustration became concern when she noticed the frown on Vinnie’s face. “You sure?…Okay. Where’d it go to?…Yeah? Well, gimme a call back as soon as you know.” He hung up.

“What?”

“The Camaro, you have it financed?”

“Financed? No.”

“This is weird. A repo team got it.”

“Somebody repossessed it?”

“According to them, you missed six months’ payments.”

“Vinnie, it’s a ’sixty-nine. My dad bought it for cash in the seventies. It’s never had a lien on it. Who was the lender supposed to be?”

“My guy didn’t know. He’s going to check it out and call back. He’ll find out where they took it.”

“Goddamn last thing I need. You have wheels here?”

“Sorry, nope.”

She thanked him and walked outside, Pam beside her. “If there’s one scratch on her, heads’re going to roll,” she muttered. Could 522 have been behind the towing? It wouldn’t have surprised her, though how he’d arrange it she couldn’t imagine.

Another stab of uneasiness at how close he’d gotten to her, how much information about her he could access.

The man who knows everything…

She asked Pam, “Can I borrow your Civic?”

“Sure. Only, can you drop me at Rachel’s? We’re going to do our homework together.”

“Tell you what, honey, how ’bout if I have one of the guys from the precinct run you into the city?”

“Sure. How come?”

“This guy knows way too much about me already. Think it’s best just to keep a little distance.” She and the girl walked back into the precinct house to arrange for the ride. Outside once again, Sachs looked up and down the sidewalk. No sign of anyone watching her.

She glanced up fast at motion in a window across the street. She thought immediately of the SSD logo-the window in the watchtower. The person who’d glanced out was an elderly woman but that didn’t stop the chill from trickling down Sachs’s spine yet again. She walked quickly to Pam’s car and fired it up.

Chapter Forty

With a snap of systems shutting down, deprived of their lifeblood, the town house went dark.

“What the hell is going on?” Rhyme shouted.

“The electricity’s out,” Thom announced.

“That part I figured,” the criminalist snapped. “What I’d like to know is why.”

“We weren’t running the GC,” Mel Cooper said defensively. He looked out the window, as if checking to see if the rest of the neighborhood grid had gone down too, but since it was not yet dusk there were no ConEd references to tell the story.

“We can’t afford to be offline now. Goddamnit. Get it taken care of!”

Rhyme, Sellitto, Pulaski and Cooper remained in the silent, dim room, while Thom walked into the hall and, on his cell phone, made a call. He was soon talking with somebody at the electric company. “Impossible. I pay the bills online. Every month. Never missed one. I have receipts… Well, they’re in the computer and I can’t go online because there’s no electricity, now can I?…Canceled checks, yes, but once again, how can I fax them to you if there’s no electricity?…I don’t know where there’s a Kinko’s, no.”

“It’s him, you know,” Rhyme said to the others.

“Five Twenty-Two? He got your power shut off?”

“Yep. He found out about me and where I live. Malloy must’ve told him this is our command post.”

The silence was eerie. The first thing Rhyme thought of was how completely vulnerable he was. The devices that he relied on were useless now and he had no way to communicate, no way to lock or unlock the doors or use the ESU. If the blackout continued and Thom couldn’t recharge his wheelchair’s battery he’d be immobilized completely.

He couldn’t remember that last time he’d felt so vulnerable. Even having others around didn’t allay the concern; 522 was a threat to anybody, anywhere.

He was also wondering: Is the blackout a diversion, or the prelude to an attack?

“Keep an eye out, everybody,” he announced. “He could be moving in on us.”

Pulaski glanced out the window. Cooper too.

Sellitto pulled out his cell phone and called someone downtown. He explained the situation. He rolled his eyes-Sellitto was never one for stoic faces-then ended the conversation with: “Well, I don’t care. Whatever it takes. This asshole’s a killer. And we can’t do a thing to find him without any fucking electricity… Thanks.”

“Thom, any luck?”

“No,” came the aide’s abrupt reply.

“Shit.” Rhyme then reflected on something. “Lon, call Roland Bell. I think we need protection. Five Twenty-Two went after Pam, he went after Amelia.” The criminalist nodded at a dark monitor. “He knows about us. I want officers on Amelia’s mother’s place. Pam’s foster home. Pulaski’s house, Mel’s mother’s place. Your house too, Lon.”

“You think it’s that much of a risk?” the big detective asked. Then shook his head. “What the hell am I saying? Sure, it is.” He got the information-addresses and phone numbers-then called Bell and had him arrange for officers. After hanging up he said, “It’ll take a few hours but he’ll get it done.”

A loud knock on the door shattered the silence. Still clutching the phone, Thom started for it.

“Wait!” Rhyme shouted.

The aide paused.

“Pulaski, go with him.” Rhyme nodded at the pistol on his hip.

“Sure.”

They walked into the hallway. Then Rhyme heard a muted conversation and a moment later two men in suits, with trim hair and unsmiling faces, walked into the town house, looking around curiously-first at Rhyme’s body, then at the rest of the lab, surprised either at the amount of scientific equipment or the absence of lights, or both, most likely.

“We’re looking for a Lieutenant Sellitto. We were told he’d be here.”

“That’s me. Who’re you?”

Shields were displayed and ranks and names given-they were two NYPD detective sergeants. And they were with Internal Affairs.

“Lieutenant,” the older of the two said, “we’re here to take possession of your shield and weapon. I have to tell you that the results were confirmed.”

“I’m sorry. What’re you talking about?”

“You’re officially suspended. You’re not being arrested at this time. But we recommend you talk to an attorney-either your own or one from the PBA.”

“The hell is going on?”

The younger officer frowned. “The drug test.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to deny anything to us. We just do the fieldwork, pick up shields and weapons and inform suspects of their suspension.”

“What fucking test?”

The older looked at the younger. This apparently had never happened before.

Naturally it hadn’t, since whatever was going on had been ginned up by 522, Rhyme understood.

“Detective, really, you don’t have to act-”

“Do I fucking look like I’m acting?”

“Well, according to the suspension order, you took a drug test last week. The results just came in, showing significant levels of narcotics in your system. Heroin, cocaine and psychedelics.”

“I took the drug test, like everybody in my department. It can’t show up positive because I don’t do any fucking drugs. I have never done any fucking drugs. And…Oh, shit,” the big man spat out, grimacing. He jabbed a finger at the SSD brochure. “They’ve got drug-screening and background-check companies. He got into the system somehow and screwed up my file. The results were faked.”

“That would be very difficult to accomplish.”

“Well, it got accomplished.”

“And you or your attorney can bring up that defense at the hearing. Again, we really just need your shield and your weapon. And here’s the paperwork on that. Now, I hope there’s not going to be a problem. You don’t want to add to your difficulties, do you?”

“Shit.” The big, rumpled man handed over his gun-an old-style revolver-and the shield. “Gimme the fucking paperwork.” Sellitto snatched it out of the hand of the younger one, as the older wrote out a receipt and handed it to him, as well. He then unloaded the gun and placed it and the bullets in a thick envelope.

“Thank you, Detective. Have a good day.”

After they were gone, Sellitto flipped open his phone and called the head of IA. The man was out and he left a message. Then he called his own office. The assistant he shared with several other detectives in Major Cases had apparently heard the news.

“I know it’s bullshit. They what?…Oh, great. I’ll call you when I find out what’s going on.” He snapped the phone closed so hard Rhyme wondered if he’d broken it. He raised an eyebrow. “They just confiscated everything in my desk.”

Pulaski asked, “How the hell do you fight somebody like this?”

It was then that Rodney Szarnek called on Sellitto’s mobile. He set it to speakerphone. “What’s wrong with the landline there?”

“The prick got the electricity shut off. We’re working on it. What’s up?”

“The list of SSD customers, from the CD. We found something. One customer downloaded pages of data about all victims and fall guys the day before each killing.”

“Who is it?”

“His name’s Robert Carpenter.”

Rhyme said, “Okay. Good. What’s his story?”

“All I have is what’s on the spreadsheet. He’s got his own company in Midtown. Associated Warehousing.”

Warehousing? Rhyme was thinking of the place where Joe Malloy was murdered. Was there a connection?

“Have an address?”

The tech specialist recited it.

After disconnecting, Rhyme noted Pulaski was frowning. The young officer said, “I think we saw him at SSD.”

“Who?”

“Carpenter. When we were there yesterday. A big, bald guy. He was in a meeting with Sterling. He didn’t seem happy.”

“Happy? What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Just an impression.”

“Not helpful.” Rhyme said, “Mel, check this Carpenter out.”

Cooper called downtown on his mobile. He spoke for a few minutes, moving closer to the window for the light, then jotted notes. He disconnected. “You don’t seem to like the word ‘interesting,’ Lincoln, but it is. I’ve got the NCIC and department database results. Robert Carpenter. Lives on the Upper East Side. Single. And, get this, he’s got a record. Some credit card fraud and bad-check busts. Did six months in Waterbury. And he was arrested in a corporate extortion scheme. Those charges were dropped but he went nuts when they came to pick him up, tried to swing at the agent. They dropped those charges when he agreed to go into ED counseling.”

“Emotionally disturbed?” Rhyme nodded. “And his company’s in the warehousing business. Just the line of work for a hoarder… Okay, Pulaski, find out where this Carpenter was when Amelia’s town house got broken into.”

“Yes, sir.” Pulaski was lifting his phone from its holster when the unit trilled. He glanced at caller ID. He answered. “Hi, hon-What?…Hey, Jenny, calm down…”

Oh, no…Lincoln Rhyme knew that 522 had attacked on yet another front.

“What? Where are you?…Take it easy, it’s just a mistake.” The rookie’s voice was shaking. “It’ll all get taken care of… Give me the address… Okay, I’ll be right there.”

He snapped shut the phone, closed his eyes momentarily. “I have to go.”

“What’s wrong?” Rhyme asked.

“Jenny’s been arrested. By the INS.”

“Immigration?”

“She got put on a watch list at Homeland Security. They’re saying she’s illegal and a security threat.”

“Isn’t she-?”

“Our great-grandparents were citizens,” Pulaski snapped. “Jesus.” The young officer was wild-eyed. “Brad’s at Jenny’s mom’s but she has the baby with her now. They’re transporting her to detention-and they may take the baby. If they do that…Oh, man.” Pure despair filled his face. “I have to go.” His eyes told Rhyme that nothing would stop him being with his wife.

“Okay. Go. Good luck.”

The young man sprinted out the door.

Rhyme closed his eyes briefly. “He’s picking us off like a sniper.” He grimaced. “At least Sachs’ll be here any minute. She can check out Carpenter.”

Just then another pounding shook the door.

Alarmed, his eyes jerked open. What now?

But this, at least, wasn’t another disruption by 522.

Two crime-scene officers from the main facility in Queens walked inside, carrying a large milk crate, which Sachs had handed off to them before she’d raced to her town house. This would be the evidence from the scene of Malloy’s death.

“Hi, Detective. You know your doorbell’s not working.” One looked around. “And your lights’re off.”

“We’re pretty aware of that,” Rhyme said coolly.

“Anyway, here you go.”

After the officers had left, Mel Cooper put the box on an examination table and extracted the evidence and Sachs’s digital camera, which would contain images of the scene.

“Now, that’s helpful,” Rhyme growled sarcastically, pointing his chin at the silent computer and its black screen. “Maybe we can hold the memory chip up to the sunlight.”

He glanced at the evidence itself-a shoeprint, some leaves, duct tape and envelopes of trace. They had to examine it as soon as possible; since this wasn’t planted evidence it might provide the final clue as to where 522 was. But without their equipment to analyze it and check the databases, the bags were nothing more than paperweights.

“Thom,” Rhyme called, “the power?”

“I’m still on hold,” the aide shouted from the dark hallway.

He knew this was probably a bad idea. But he was out of control.

And it took a lot for Ron Pulaski to be out of control.

Yet he was furious. This was beyond anything he’d ever felt. When he’d signed up for the blue he’d expected to be beat up and threatened from time to time. But he’d never thought that his career would put Jenny at risk, much less his children.

So despite being straitlaced and by the book-Sergeant Friday-he was taking the matter into his own hands. Going behind the backs of Lincoln Rhyme and Detective Sellitto and even his mentor, Amelia Sachs. They wouldn’t be happy at what he was going to do but Ron Pulaski was desperate.

And so on the way to the INS detention center in Queens, he’d made a call to Mark Whitcomb.

“Hey, Ron,” the man had said, “what’s going on?…You sound upset. You’re out of breath.”

“I’ve got a problem, Mark. Please. I need some help. My wife’s being accused of being an illegal alien. They say her passport’s forged and she’s a security threat. It’s crazy.”

“But she’s a citizen, isn’t she?”

“Her family’s been here for generations. Mark, we think this killer we’ve been after got into your system. He’s had one detective fail a drug test…and now he’s had Jenny arrested. He could do that?”

“He must’ve swapped her file with somebody who’s on a watch list and then called it in… Look, I know some people at INS. I can talk to them. Where are you?”

“On my way to the detention center in Queens.”

“I’ll meet you outside in twenty minutes.”

“Oh, thanks, man. I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t worry, Ron. We’ll get it worked out.”

Now, waiting for Whitcomb, Ron Pulaski was pacing in front of INS detention, beside a temporary sign indicating that the service was now operated by the Department of Homeland Security. Pulaski thought back to all the TV news reports he and Jenny had seen about illegal immigrants, how terrified they’d looked.

What was happening to his wife at the moment? Would she be stuck for days or weeks in some kind of bureaucratic purgatory? Pulaski wanted to scream.

Calm down. Handle it smart. Amelia Sachs always told him that.

Handle it smart.

Finally, thank you, Lord, Pulaski saw Mark Whitcomb walking quickly toward him, the expression one of urgent concern. He wasn’t sure exactly what the man could do to help but he hoped that the Compliance Department, with its connections to the government, could pull strings with Homeland Security and get his wife and child released, at least until the matter was officially resolved.

Whitcomb, breathless, came up to him. “Have you found out anything else?”

“I called about ten minutes ago. They’re inside now. I didn’t say anything. I wanted to wait for you.”

“You okay?”

“No. I’m pretty frantic here, Mark. Thanks for this.”

“Sure,” the Compliance officer said earnestly. “It’ll be okay, Ron. Don’t worry. I think I can do something.” Then he looked up into Pulaski’s eyes; the SSD Compliance officer was just slightly taller than Andrew Sterling. “Only…it’s pretty important for you to get Jenny out of there, right?”

“Oh, yeah, Mark. This’s just a nightmare.”

“Okay. Come this way.” He led Pulaski around the corner of the building, then into an alley. “I’ve got a favor to ask, Ron,” Whitcomb whispered.

“Whatever I can do.”

“Really?” The man’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, calm. And his eyes had a sharpness that Pulaski hadn’t seen before. As if he’d dropped an act and was now being himself. “You know, sometimes, Ron, we have to do things that we don’t think are right. But in the end it’s for the best.”

“What do you mean?”

“To help your wife out you might have to do something you might think isn’t so good.”

The officer said nothing, his thoughts whirling. Where was this going?

“Ron, I need you to make this case go away.”

“Case?”

“The murder investigation.”

“Go away? I don’t get it.”

“Stop the case.” Whitcomb looked around and whispered, “Sabotage it. Destroy the evidence. Give them some false leads. Point them anywhere but at SSD.”

“I don’t understand, Mark. Are you joking?”

“No, Ron. I’m real serious. This case’s got to stop and you can do it.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, yes, you can. If you want Jenny out of there.” A nod toward the detention center.

No, no…this was 522. Whitcomb was the killer! He’d used the passcodes of his boss, Sam Brockton, to get access to innerCircle.

Instinctively Pulaski started for his gun.

But Whitcomb drew first, a black pistol appearing in his hand. “No, Ron. That’s not going to get us anywhere.” Whitcomb reached into the holster and pulled Pulaski’s Glock out by the grip, slipped it into his waistband.

How could he have misjudged this so badly? Was it the head injury? Or was he just stupid? Whitcomb’s friendship had been feigned, which hurt as much as it shocked. Bringing him the coffee, defending him to Cassel and Gillespie, suggesting they get together socially, helping with the time sheets…it was all a tactic to get close to the cop and use him.

“It’s all a goddamn lie, isn’t it, Mark? You didn’t grow up in Queens at all, did you? And you don’t have a brother who’s a cop?”

“No to both.” Whitcomb’s face was dark. “I tried to reason with you, Ron. But you wouldn’t work with me. Goddamnit! You could have. Now look what you’ve made me do.”

The killer pushed Pulaski farther into the alley.

Chapter Forty-one

Amelia Sachs was in the city, cruising through traffic, frustrated at the noisy, tepid response of the Japanese engine.

It sounded like an ice maker. And had just about as much horsepower.

She’d called Rhyme twice but both times the line went right to voice mail. This rarely happened; Lincoln Rhyme obviously wasn’t away from home very much. And something odd was going on at the Big Building: Lon Sellitto’s phone was out of order. And neither he nor Ron Pulaski was answering his mobile.

Was 522 behind this too?

All the more reason to move fast in following up on the lead she’d discovered at her town house. It was a solid one, she believed. Maybe it was the final clue, the one missing piece of the puzzle they needed to bring this case to its conclusion.

Now she saw her destination, not far away. Mindful of what had happened to the Camaro, and not wanting to jeopardize Pam’s car too-if 522 had been behind the repossession, as she suspected-Sachs cruised around the block until she found the rarest of all phenomena in Manhattan: a legal, unoccupied parking space.

How ’bout that?

Maybe it was a good sign.

“Why are you doing this?” Ron Pulaski whispered to Mark Whitcomb as they stood in a deserted Queens alleyway.

But the killer ignored him. “Listen to me.”

“We were friends, I thought.”

“Well, everybody thinks a lot of things that turn out not to be true. That’s life.” Whitcomb cleared his throat. He seemed edgy, uncomfortable. Pulaski remembered Sachs saying that the killer was feeling the pressure of their pursuit, which made him careless. It also made him more dangerous.

Pulaski was breathing hard.

Whitcomb looked around again, fast, then back at the young officer. He kept the gun steady and it was clear he knew how to use it. “Are you fucking listening to me?”

“Goddamnit. I’m listening.”

“I don’t want this investigation to go any further. It’s time for it to stop.”

“Stop? I’m in Patrol. How can I stop anything?”

“I was telling you: Sabotage it. Lose some evidence. Send people in the wrong direction.”

“I won’t do that,” the young officer muttered defiantly.

Whitcomb shook his head, looking almost disgusted. “Yes, you will. You can make this easy or hard, Ron.”

“What about my wife? Can you get her out of there?”

“I can do anything I want.”

The man who knows everything…

The young officer closed his eyes, grinding his teeth together the way he’d done as a kid. He looked at the building where Jenny was being held.

Jenny, the woman who looked just like Myra Weinburg.

Ron Pulaski now resigned himself to what he had to do. It was terrible, it was foolish, but he had no choice. He was cornered.

His head down, he muttered, “Okay.”

“You’ll do it?”

“I sa­id I wo­uld,” he snap­ped. “That’s smart, Ron. Very smart.” “But I want you to pro­mi­se”—Pu­las­ki he­si­ta­ted for a frac­ti­on of a se­cond, glan­cing be­hind Whit­comb and then back—“that she and the baby’ll be out to­day.” Whit­comb ca­ught the glan­ce and qu­ickly lo­oked be­hind him. As he did, the muz­zle of his gun mo­ved slightly off tar­get. Pu­las­ki de­ci­ded he’d pla­yed it just right, and he struck fast. With his left hand the yo­ung of­fi­cer sho­ved the gun fart­her away and lif­ted his leg, pul­ling a small re­vol­ver from an ank­le hols­ter. Ame­lia Sachs had inst­ruc­ted him al­ways to ha­ve one with him. The kil­ler cur­sed and tri­ed to back up but Pu­las­ki kept a de­ath grip on his sho­oting hand and he swung the pis­tol in­to Whit­comb’s fa­ce hard, snap­ping car­ti­la­ge. The man ga­ve a muf­fled scre­am, blo­od stre­aming. The Comp­li­an­ce of­fi­cer went down and Pu­las­ki ma­na­ged to rip his pis­tol out of his fin­gers but he co­uldn’t ke­ep a grip on it him­self. Whit­comb’s black we­apon went cart-whe­eling to the gro­und as the men loc­ked to­get­her in a clumsy wrest­ling match. The gun clun­ked to the asp­halt wit­ho­ut disc­har­ging and Whit­comb, wi­de-eyed with pa­nic and fury, sho­ved Pu­las­ki in­to the wall and grab­bed for his hand. “No, no!” Whit­comb snap­ped for­ward with a he­ad butt and Pu­las­ki, re­cal­ling the ter­ror of the club hit­ting him in the fo­re­he­ad ye­ars ago, re­co­iled ins­tinc­ti­vely. Which ga­ve Whit­comb just the chan­ce he ne­eded to sho­ve Pu­las­ki’s bac­kup to­ward the sky, and with his ot­her hand draw the Glock, aiming it at the yo­ung of­fi­cer’s he­ad. Le­aving him with only eno­ugh ti­me to is­sue a so­und bi­te of pra­yer and to fix on an ima­ge of his wi­fe and child­ren, a vi­vid port­ra­it to carry with him to he­aven.

Fi­nal­ly the elect­ri­city ca­me back on, and Co­oper and Rhyme qu­ickly got back to work on the evi­den­ce from the Joe Mal­loy kil­ling. They we­re alo­ne in the lab; Lon Sel­lit­to was down­town, trying to get his sus­pen­si­on over­tur­ned.

The pic­tu­res of the sce­ne we­re un­re­ve­aling and the physi­cal evi­den­ce wasn’t ext­re­mely help­ful. The sho­ep­rint was cle­arly 522’s, the sa­me as they’d fo­und ear­li­er. The frag­ments of le­aves we­re from ho­usep­lants: fi­cus and Ag­la­one­ma, or Chi­ne­se everg­re­en. The tra­ce was un­so­ur­ce­ab­le so­il, mo­re of the Tra­de To­wers dust, and a whi­te pow­der that tur­ned out to be Cof­fee-ma­te. The duct ta­pe was ge­ne­ric; no so­ur­ce co­uld be lo­ca­ted. Rhyme was surp­ri­sed at the amo­unt of blo­od on the evi­den­ce. He tho­ught back to Sel­lit­to’s desc­rip­ti­on of the cap­ta­in. He’s a cru­sa­der… Des­pi­te his pro­tests of de­tach­ment, he fo­und him­self very tro­ub­led by Mal­loy’s de­ath—and how vi­ci­o­us it had be­en. And Rhyme’s an­ger bur­ned hot­ter. His une­asi­ness too. Se­ve­ral ti­mes he glan­ced out the win­dow, as if 522 we­re sne­aking up at that mo­ment, tho­ugh he’d had Thom lock all the do­ors and win­dows and turn on the se­cu­rity ca­me­ras.

Rhyme was surp­ri­sed at the amo­unt of blo­od on the evi­den­ce. He tho­ught back to Sel­lit­to’s desc­rip­ti­on of the cap­ta­in.

He’s a cru­sa­der…

Des­pi­te his pro­tests of de­tach­ment, he fo­und him­self very tro­ub­led by Mal­loy’s de­ath — and how vi­ci­o­us it had be­en. And Rhyme’s an­ger bur­ned hot­ter. His une­asi­ness too. Se­ve­ral ti­mes he glan­ced out the win­dow, as if 522 we­re sne­aking up at that mo­ment, tho­ugh he’d had Thom lock all the do­ors and win­dows and turn on the se­cu­rity ca­me­ras.

JOSEPH MALLOY HOMICIDE SCENE

- Si­ze-11 Skec­hers work shoe

- Ho­usep­lant le­aves: fi­cus and Ag­la­one­ma—Chi­ne­se everg­re­en

- Dirt, unt­ra­ce­ab­le

- Dust, from Tra­de Cen­ter at­tack

- Cof­fee-ma­te

- Duct ta­pe, ge­ne­ric, unt­ra­ce­ab­le

“Add the plants and Cof­fee-ma­te to the nonp­lan­ted evi­den­ce chart, Mel.”

The tech­ni­ci­an wal­ked to the whi­te­bo­ard and pen­ned in the ad­di­ti­ons.

“Not much. Damn, not much at all.”

Then Rhyme blin­ked. Anot­her po­un­ding on the do­or. Thom went to ans­wer it. Mel Co­oper mo­ved away from the whi­te­bo­ard and his hand slip­ped to the thin pis­tol on his hip.

But the vi­si­tor wasn’t 522. It was an ins­pec­tor with the NYPD, Her­bert Glenn. A mid­dle-aged man, with imp­res­si­ve pos­tu­re, Rhyme ob­ser­ved. His su­it was che­ap but the sho­es we­re po­lis­hed to per­fec­ti­on. Se­ve­ral ot­her vo­ices so­un­ded in the hal­lway, be­hind.

After int­ro­duc­ti­ons, Glenn sa­id, “I’m af­ra­id I ha­ve to talk to you abo­ut an of­fi­cer you work with.”

Sel­lit­to? Or Sachs? What had hap­pe­ned?

Glenn sa­id evenly, “His na­me is Ron Pu­las­ki. You do work with him, don’t you?”

Oh, no.

The ro­okie…

Pu­las­ki de­ad, and his wi­fe in the bu­re­a­uc­ra­tic hell of de­ten­ti­on with her baby. What wo­uld she do?

“Tell me what hap­pe­ned!”

Glenn glan­ced be­hind him and ges­tu­red two ot­her men in­to the ro­om, a gray-ha­ired man in a dark su­it and a yo­un­ger, shor­ter one, dres­sed si­mi­larly, but with a lar­ge ban­da­ge on his no­se. The ins­pec­tor int­ro­du­ced Sa­mu­el Brock­ton and Mark Whit­comb, emp­lo­ye­es of SSD. Brock­ton, Rhyme no­ted, was on the sus­pect list, tho­ugh ap­pa­rently he had an ali­bi for the ra­pe/mur­der. Whit­comb, it tur­ned out, was his as­sis­tant in the Comp­li­an­ce De­part­ment.

“Tell me abo­ut Pu­las­ki!”

Inspec­tor Glenn con­ti­nu­ed. “I’m af­ra­id—” His pho­ne rang and he to­ok the call. Glenn glan­ced at Brock­ton and Whit­comb as he spo­ke in hus­hed to­nes. Fi­nal­ly he dis­con­nec­ted.

“Tell me what’s hap­pe­ned to Ron Pu­las­ki. I want to know now!”

The do­or­bell rang and Thom and Mel Co­oper us­he­red mo­re pe­op­le in­to Rhyme’s lab. One was a burly man with an FBI agent iden­ti­fi­ca­ti­on bad­ge aro­und his neck and the ot­her was Ron Pu­las­ki, who was in hand­cuf­fs.

Brock­ton po­in­ted to a cha­ir and the FBI agent de­po­si­ted the yo­ung of­fi­cer the­re. Pu­las­ki was ob­vi­o­usly sha­ken, and dusty and rump­led, flec­ked with blo­od, but ot­her­wi­se un­hurt, it se­emed. Whit­comb too sat and gin­gerly to­uc­hed his no­se. He didn’t lo­ok at an­yo­ne.

Sa­mu­el Brock­ton sho­wed him his ID. “I’m an agent with the Comp­li­an­ce Di­vi­si­on of the U.S. De­part­ment of Ho­me­land Se­cu­rity. Mark’s my as­sis­tant. Yo­ur of­fi­cer at­tac­ked a fe­de­ral agent.”

“Who was thre­ate­ning me at gun­po­int wit­ho­ut iden­tif­ying him­self. Af­ter he’d—”

Comp­li­an­ce Di­vi­si­on? Rhyme had ne­ver he­ard of it. But wit­hin the comp­lex war­ren of Ho­me­land Se­cu­rity, or­ga­ni­za­ti­ons ca­me and went li­ke un­suc­ces­sful Det­ro­it cars.

“I tho­ught you we­re with SSD?”

“We ha­ve of­fi­ces at SSD but we’re fe­de­ral go­vern­ment emp­lo­ye­es.”

And what the hell had Pu­las­ki be­en up to? Re­li­ef now eb­bing, whi­le ir­ri­ta­ti­on flo­wed.

The ro­okie star­ted to con­ti­nue but Brock­ton si­len­ced him. Rhyme, tho­ugh, sa­id sternly to the gray-su­ited man, “No, let him talk.”

Brock­ton de­ba­ted. His eyes re­ve­aled a pa­ti­ent con­fi­den­ce that sug­ges­ted Pu­las­ki, or an­yo­ne el­se, co­uld say wha­te­ver he wan­ted and it wo­uldn’t af­fect Brock­ton in the le­ast. He nod­ded.

The ro­okie told Rhyme abo­ut me­eting Whit­comb, in ho­pes of get­ting Jen­ny re­le­ased from INS de­ten­ti­on. The man as­ked him to sa­bo­ta­ge the 522 in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on, then pul­led a gun and thre­ate­ned him when he re­fu­sed. Pu­las­ki had struck Whit­comb in the fa­ce with his bac­kup gun and they’d fo­ught.

Rhyme snap­ped to Brock­ton and Glenn, “Why’re you in­ter­fe­ring with our ca­se?”

Brock­ton now se­emed to no­ti­ce that Rhyme was di­sab­led, then dis­re­gar­ded the fact im­me­di­ately. He sa­id in a calm ba­ri­to­ne, “We tri­ed it the subt­le way. If Of­fi­cer Pu­las­ki had ag­re­ed we wo­uldn’t ha­ve to crack the whip… This ca­se has ca­used a lot of he­adac­hes for a lot of pe­op­le. I was sup­po­sed to be me­eting with Cong­ress and Jus­ti­ce all we­ek. Had to can­cel everyt­hing and high­ta­il it back up he­re to see what the hell was go­ing on… All right, this is off the re­cord. Every­body?”

Rhyme mut­te­red ag­re­ement, and Co­oper and Pu­las­ki con­cur­red.

“The Comp­li­an­ce Di­vi­si­on do­es thre­at analy­sis and pro­vi­des se­cu­rity to pri­va­te com­pa­ni­es that might be tar­gets of ter­ro­rists. Big pla­yers in the co­untry’s inf­rast­ruc­tu­re. Oil com­pa­ni­es, air­li­nes, banks. Da­ta mi­ners, li­ke SSD. We ha­ve agents on si­te.”

Sachs had sa­id Brock­ton spent a lot of ti­me in Was­hing­ton. That exp­la­ined why.

“Then why lie abo­ut it, why say you’re SSD emp­lo­ye­es?” Pu­las­ki blur­ted. Rhyme had ne­ver se­en the yo­ung man angry. He su­re was now.

“We ne­ed to ke­ep a low pro­fi­le,” Brock­ton exp­la­ined. “You can see why pi­pe­li­nes and drug com­pa­ni­es and fo­od pro­ces­sors wo­uld be gre­at tar­gets for ter­ro­rists. Well, think what so­me­one co­uld do with the in­for­ma­ti­on that SSD has. The eco­nomy wo­uld be crip­pled if the­ir com­pu­ters we­re bro­ught down. Or what if as­sas­sins le­ar­ned de­ta­ils of exe­cu­ti­ves’ or po­li­ti­ci­ans’ whe­re­abo­uts and ot­her per­so­nal in­for­ma­ti­on from in­ner­Circ­le?”

“Did you ha­ve Lon Sel­lit­to’s drug test re­port chan­ged?”

“No, this sus­pect of yo­urs—Fi­ve Twenty-Two—must’ve do­ne that,” Ins­pec­tor Glenn sa­id. “And had Of­fi­cer Pu­las­ki’s wi­fe ar­res­ted.”

“Why do you want the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on stop­ped?” Pu­las­ki blur­ted. “Don’t you see how dan­ge­ro­us this man is?” He was spe­aking to Mark Whit­comb but the Comp­li­an­ce as­sis­tant con­ti­nu­ed to exa­mi­ne the flo­or and re­ma­ined si­lent.

“Our pro­fi­le is that he’s an out­li­er,” Glenn exp­la­ined.

“A what?”

“An ano­maly. He’s a non­re­cur­ring event,” Brock­ton exp­la­ined. “SSD has run an analy­sis of the si­tu­ati­on. The pro­fi­ling and pre­dic­ti­ve mo­de­ling told us that a so­ci­opath li­ke this will hit a sa­tu­ra­ti­on po­int any ti­me now. He’ll stop what he’s do­ing. He’ll simply go away.”

“But he hasn’t, now has he?”

“Not yet,” Brock­ton sa­id. “But he will. The prog­rams’re ne­ver wrong.”

“They’ll be wrong if one mo­re per­son di­es.”

“We ha­ve to be re­alis­tic. It’s a ba­lan­ce. We can’t let any­body know how va­lu­ab­le SSD is as a ter­ro­rist tar­get. And we can’t let any­body know abo­ut the Comp­li­an­ce Di­vi­si­on of DHS. We ha­ve to ke­ep SSD and Comp­li­an­ce off the grid as much as pos­sib­le. A mur­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on puts them both on it in a very big way.”

Glenn ad­ded, “You want to fol­low up con­ven­ti­onal le­ads, Lin­coln, go ahe­ad. Fo­ren­sics, wits, fi­ne. But you’ll ha­ve to ke­ep SSD out of it. That press con­fe­ren­ce was a hu­ge mis­ta­ke.”

“We tal­ked to Ron Scott in the ma­yor’s of­fi­ce, we tal­ked to Joe Mal­loy. They oka­yed it.”

“Well, they didn’t check with the right pe­op­le. It’s je­opar­di­zed our re­la­ti­ons­hip with SSD. And­rew Ster­ling do­esn’t ha­ve to pro­vi­de us with com­pu­ter sup­port, you know.”

He so­un­ded li­ke the shoe-com­pany pre­si­dent, ter­ri­fi­ed of up­set­ting Ster­ling and SSD.

Brock­ton ad­ded, “Okay, now, the party li­ne is that yo­ur kil­ler didn’t get his in­for­ma­ti­on from SSD. Ac­tu­al­ly, that’s the only li­ne.”

“Do you un­ders­tand that Joseph Mal­loy is de­ad be­ca­use of SSD and in­ner­Circ­le?”

Glenn’s fa­ce tigh­te­ned. He sig­hed. “I’m sorry abo­ut that. Very sorry. But he was kil­led in the co­ur­se of an in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on. Tra­gic. But that’s the na­tu­re of be­ing a cop.”

The party li­ne…the only li­ne…

“So” Brock­ton sa­id, “SSD is no lon­ger part of the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on. Un­ders­to­od?”

A chill nod.

Glenn ges­tu­red to the FBI agent. “You can let him go now.”

The man un­cuf­fed Pu­las­ki, who sto­od, rub­bing his wrists.

Rhyme sa­id, “Get Lon Sel­lit­to re­ins­ta­ted. And ha­ve Pu­las­ki’s wi­fe re­le­ased.”

Glenn lo­oked at Brock­ton, who sho­ok his he­ad. “Do­ing that at this po­int in ti­me wo­uld be an ad­mis­si­on that may­be da­ta-mi­ned in­for­ma­ti­on and SSD we­re in­vol­ved in the cri­mes. We’ll ha­ve to let tho­se things go for the ti­me be­ing.”

“That is bul­lshit. You know Lon Sel­lit­to’s ne­ver do­ne any drugs in his li­fe.”

Glenn sa­id, “And the in­qu­iry will cle­ar him. We’ll let the mat­ter run its co­ur­se.”

“No, god­dam­nit! Ac­cor­ding to the in­for­ma­ti­on the kil­ler put in­to the system—he’s al­re­ady gu­ilty. Just li­ke Jen­ny Pu­las­ki. All this is on the­ir re­cord!”

The ins­pec­tor sa­id calmly, “This is how we’ll ha­ve to le­ave it for now.”

The fe­de­ral agents and Glenn wal­ked to the do­or.

“Oh, Mark,” Pu­las­ki cal­led. Whit­comb tur­ned back. “Sorry.”

The fe­de­ral of­fi­cer blin­ked in surp­ri­se at the apo­logy and to­uc­hed his ban­da­ged no­se. Then Pu­las­ki con­ti­nu­ed, “That it was just yo­ur no­se I bro­ke. Fuck you, Judas.”

Well, the ro­okie’s got so­me back­bo­ne af­ter all.

After they’d left, Pu­las­ki cal­led his wi­fe but co­uldn’t get thro­ugh. He ang­rily snap­ped his pho­ne shut. “I’ll tell you, Lin­coln, I don’t ca­re what they say, I’m not just pac­king up.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll ke­ep right on go­ing. Hey, they can’t fi­re me—I’m a ci­vi­li­an. They can only fi­re you and Mel.”

“Well, I—” Co­oper was frow­ning.

“Re­lax, Mel. I do ha­ve a sen­se of hu­mor, des­pi­te what every­body thinks. No­body’ll find out—as long as the ro­okie he­re do­esn’t be­at up any mo­re fe­de­ral agents. Okay, this Ro­bert Car­pen­ter, the SSD cus­to­mer. I want him. Now.”

Chapter Forty-Two

So I’m “522.”

I’ve be­en won­de­ring why They pic­ked that num­ber. Myra 9834 wasn’t my fi­ve hund­red twenty-se­cond vic­tim (what a lo­vely tho­ught!). No­ne of the vic­tims’ ad­dres­ses con­ta­ined the num­ber… Wa­it. The da­te. Of co­ur­se. She was kil­led last Sun­day—the twenty-se­cond day of the fifth month—and that’s when They star­ted af­ter me.

So to Them I’m a num­ber. Just li­ke They’re num­bers to me. I fe­el flat­te­red. I’m in my Clo­set now, ha­ving comp­le­ted most of my re­se­arch. It’s af­ter work, pe­op­le are he­ading ho­me, out to din­ner, off to see fri­ends. But that’s the gre­at thing abo­ut da­ta; they ne­ver sle­ep, and my sol­di­ers can call in an air stri­ke on an­yo­ne’s li­fe at any ho­ur I cho­ose, in any lo­ca­ti­on.

At the mo­ment the Pres­cott fa­mily and I are spen­ding a few mo­ments to­get­her be­fo­re the at­tacks be­gin. The po­li­ce will so­on be gu­ar­ding the ho­uses of my ene­mi­es and the­ir fa­mi­li­es… But they don’t un­ders­tand the na­tu­re of my we­apons. Po­or Joseph Mal­loy ga­ve me plenty to work with.

For ins­tan­ce, this De­tec­ti­ve Lo­ren­zo—that is, Lon—Sel­lit­to (he’s ta­ken gre­at pa­ins to con­ce­al his re­al first na­me) is sus­pen­ded but mo­re awa­its. That un­for­tu­na­te in­ci­dent a few ye­ars ago in which the perp was shot and kil­led du­ring an ar­rest…new evi­den­ce will ari­se re­ve­aling that the sus­pect did not in fact ha­ve a gun—the wit­ness was lying. The de­ad boy’s mot­her will he­ar abo­ut that. And I’ll send a few ra­cist let­ters in his na­me to so­me right-wing Web si­tes. Then get the Re­ve­rend Al in­vol­ved—that’ll be the de­ath knell. Po­or Lon may ac­tu­al­ly do ti­me.

And I’ve be­en chec­king Sel­lit­to’s tet­he­red in­di­vi­du­als. I’ll dre­am up so­met­hing for his te­ena­ge son by his first wi­fe. A few drug char­ges, may­be. Li­ke fat­her, li­ke son. Ni­ce ap­pe­al to it.

That Po­lish fel­low, Pu­las­ki, well, he’ll even­tu­al­ly be ab­le to con­vin­ce Ho­me­land Se­cu­rity that his wi­fe isn’t a ter­ro­rist or an il­le­gal. But won’t they both be surp­ri­sed when his child’s birth re­cords di­sap­pe­ar and anot­her co­up­le, who­se new­born va­nis­hed from the hos­pi­tal a ye­ar ago, hap­pens to le­arn that the­ir mis­sing boy might be Pu­las­ki’s? If not­hing el­se the lit­tle guy’ll be in fos­ter-ca­re lim­bo over the months it’ll ta­ke to sort things out. That’ll da­ma­ge him fo­re­ver. (I know this only too well.)

And then we co­me to Ame­lia 7303 and this Lin­coln Rhyme. Well, just be­ca­use I’m in a bad mo­od, Ro­se Sachs, who’s sche­du­led for car­di­ac sur­gery next month, will lo­se her in­su­ran­ce due to—well, I think I’ll ma­ke it past ins­tan­ces of fra­ud. And Ame­lia 7303’s pro­bably pis­sed off abo­ut her car but wa­it till she gets the re­al­ly bad news: her ca­re­less con­su­mer debt. May­be $200,000 or so. With a ne­arly usu­ri­o­us ra­te of in­te­rest.

But tho­se are simply ap­pe­ti­zers. I’ve le­ar­ned that a for­mer boyf­ri­end of hers was con­vic­ted of hi­j­ac­king, as­sa­ult, lar­ceny and ex­tor­ti­on. So­me new wit­nes­ses will send anony­mo­us e-ma­ils that she was in­vol­ved, too, and that the­re’s hid­den lo­ot in her mot­her’s ga­ra­ge, which I’ll plant the­re be­fo­re I call In­ter­nal Af­fa­irs.

She’ll be­at the char­ges—sta­tu­te of li­mi­ta­ti­ons—but the pub­li­city will ru­in her re­pu­ta­ti­on. Thank you, fre­edom of the press. God bless Ame­ri­ca…

De­ath is one type of tran­sac­ti­on gu­aran­te­ed to slow yo­ur pur­su­ers down, but the non­let­hal tac­tics can be just as ef­fec­ti­ve and are, to me, far mo­re ele­gant.

And as for this Lin­coln Rhyme…Well, that’s an in­te­res­ting si­tu­ati­on. Of co­ur­se, I ma­de the mis­ta­ke of se­lec­ting his co­usin in the first pla­ce. But, in fa­ir­ness, I chec­ked all of Art­hur 3480’s tet­he­red in­di­vi­du­als and didn’t find any hits for his co­usin. Which is cu­ri­o­us. They’re re­la­ted by blo­od, yet they’ve had no con­tact in a de­ca­de.

I’ve ma­de the mis­ta­ke of stin­ging the be­ast awa­ke. He’s the best ad­ver­sary I’ve ever be­en up aga­inst. He stop­ped me on the way to De­Le­on 6832’s ho­use; he ac­tu­al­ly ca­ught me in the act, which no one has ever do­ne. And, ac­cor­ding to Mal­loy’s bre­ath­less ac­co­unt, he’s get­ting clo­ser all the ti­me.

But, of co­ur­se, I ha­ve a plan for this too. I don’t ha­ve the be­ne­fit of in­ner­Circ­le at the mo­ment—ha­ve to be ca­re­ful now—but jo­ur­na­lists’ ar­tic­les and ot­her so­ur­ces of da­ta are suf­fi­ci­ently il­lu­mi­na­ting. The prob­lem, of co­ur­se, is how to dest­roy the li­fe of so­me­one li­ke Rhyme, who­se physi­cal li­fe is lar­gely dest­ro­yed any­way. Fi­nal­ly a so­lu­ti­on oc­curs to me: If he’s so de­pen­dent I’ll dest­roy so­me­one he’s tet­he­red to. Rhyme’s ca­re­gi­ver, Thom Res­ton, will be my next tar­get. If the yo­ung man di­es—in a par­ti­cu­larly unp­le­asant way—I do­ubt Rhyme will ever re­co­ver from that. The in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on will wit­her; no one el­se will pur­sue it the way he’s be­en do­ing.

I’ll get Thom in­to the trunk of my car and we’ll he­ad to anot­her wa­re­ho­use. The­re, I’ll ta­ke my ti­me with the Kru­si­us Brot­hers ra­zor. I’ll re­cord the who­le ses­si­on on ta­pe and e-ma­il that to Rhyme. Be­ing the hard­wor­king cri­mi­na­list that he se­ems to be, he’ll ha­ve to vi­ew the gru­eso­me ta­pe ca­re­ful­ly to lo­ok for clu­es. He’ll ha­ve to watch it over and over aga­in.

I gu­aran­tee it will ru­in him for the ca­se, if not dest­roy him al­to­get­her.

I go in­to ro­om three of my Clo­set and find one of my vi­deo cams. Bat­te­ri­es are ne­arby. And in ro­om two I col­lect the Kru­si­us in its old box. The­re’s still a brown wash of dri­ed blo­od on the bla­de. Nancy 3470. Two ye­ars ago. (The co­urt has just tur­ned down the fi­nal ap­pe­al of her mur­de­rer, Jason 4971, the gro­unds for re­ver­sal be­ing fab­ri­ca­ted evi­den­ce, a cla­im that even his at­tor­ney pro­bably fo­und pat­he­tic.)

The ra­zor is dull. I re­mem­ber me­eting so­me re­sis­tan­ce from Nancy 3470’s ribs; she thras­hed aro­und mo­re than I ex­pec­ted. No mat­ter. A lit­tle work with one of my eight grin­ding whe­els, then a le­at­her strop and I’ll be in bu­si­ness.

Now, the ad­re­na­li­ne from the hunt was flo­oding thro­ugh Ame­lia Sachs.

The evi­den­ce in her gar­den had led her on a con­vo­lu­ted tra­il but she had a gut fe­eling—excu­se me, Rhyme—that this pre­sent mis­si­on wo­uld be pro­duc­ti­ve. She par­ked Pam’s car along the city stre­et and hur­ri­ed to the ad­dress of the next per­son on her list of a half do­zen, one of whom she des­pe­ra­tely ho­ped wo­uld gi­ve her the fi­nal clue to 522’s iden­tity.

Two had be­en un­suc­ces­sful. Wo­uld the third one be the ans­wer? Dri­ving aro­und town li­ke this was a sort of ma­cab­re sca­ven­ger hunt, she ref­lec­ted.

It was eve­ning now and Sachs chec­ked the ad­dress un­der a stre­et­light, fo­und the town ho­use and wal­ked up the few steps to the front do­or. She was re­ac­hing for the bell when so­met­hing be­gan to nag.

She pa­used.

Was it the pa­ra­no­ia she’d be­en fe­eling all day? A sen­se of be­ing watc­hed?

Sachs glan­ced aro­und fast—at the few men and wo­men on the stre­et; at the win­dows of the re­si­den­ces and small shops ne­arby… But no­body se­emed thre­ate­ning. No­body se­emed to be pa­ying at­ten­ti­on to her.

She be­gan to press the buz­zer aga­in but lo­we­red her hand.

So­met­hing was off…

What?

Then she un­ders­to­od. It wasn’t that she was be­ing watc­hed; it was a scent that tro­ub­led her. And with a jolt she knew what it was: mold. She was smel­ling mold, the scent co­ming from the very town ho­use whe­re she now sto­od.

Just a co­in­ci­den­ce?

Sachs si­lently wal­ked down the sta­irs and aro­und to the si­de of the pla­ce in­to the cob­bles­to­ned al­ley. The bu­il­ding was very lar­ge—nar­row from the front but qu­ite de­ep. She mo­ved fart­her in­to the al­ley and eased up to a win­dow. Which was co­ve­red with news­pa­per. Scan­ning the si­de of the bu­il­ding; yes, they we­re all co­ve­red over. She re­cal­led Terry Dobyns’s words: And the win­dows will be pa­in­ted black or ta­ped over. He has to ke­ep the out­si­de world away…

She’d co­me he­re me­rely to get in­for­ma­ti­on—this co­uldn’t be 522’s pla­ce; the clu­es didn’t add up. But she knew now that they’d be­en wrong; the­re was no do­ubt this was the kil­ler’s ho­me.

She re­ac­hed for her pho­ne but sud­denly he­ard a scut­tling on the al­ley cob­bles­to­nes be­hind her. Eyes wi­de, for­sa­king the pho­ne for the gun, she tur­ned fast. But be­fo­re her hand ma­de it to the Glock’s grip, she was tack­led hard. She slam­med in­to the si­de of the town ho­use. Stun­ned, she drop­ped to her kne­es.

Glan­cing up, gas­ping, she saw the hard dots of eyes in the kil­ler’s fa­ce, saw the sta­ined bla­de of the ra­zor he held as it be­gan its jo­ur­ney to her thro­at.

Chapter Forty-Three

“Com­mand, call Sachs.”

But the pho­ne went to vo­ice ma­il.

“Dam­nit, whe­re is she? Find her… Pu­las­ki?” Rhyme whe­eled his cha­ir aro­und to fa­ce the yo­ung man, who was on the pho­ne. “What’s the story with Car­pen­ter?”

He held up a hand. Then hung up. “I fi­nal­ly got his as­sis­tant. Car­pen­ter left work early, had so­me er­rands. He sho­uld be ho­me by now.”

“I want so­me­body over the­re. Now.”

Mel Co­oper tri­ed pa­ging Sachs and, when the­re was no res­pon­se, sa­id, “Not­hing.” He ma­de a few ot­her calls and re­por­ted, “No­pe. No luck.”

“Did Fi­ve Twenty-Two get her ser­vi­ce drop­ped, li­ke the elect­ri­city?”

“No, they say the ac­co­unts’re ac­ti­ve. It’s just that the de­vi­ces are di­sab­led—bro­ken or the bat­te­ri­es re­mo­ved.”

“What? Are they su­re?” The dre­ad wit­hin him be­gan to ex­pand.

The do­or­bell rang and Thom went to ans­wer it.

Lon Sel­lit­to, his shirt half un­tuc­ked and fa­ce swe­aty, stro­de in­to the ro­om. “They can’t do anyt­hing abo­ut the sus­pen­si­on. It’s auto­ma­tic. Even if I ta­ke anot­her test they ha­ve to ke­ep it ac­ti­ve un­til IA in­ves­ti­ga­tes. Fuc­king com­pu­ters. I had so­me­body call Pub­lic­Su­re. They’re qu­ote ‘lo­oking in­to it,’ which you know what that me­ans.” He glan­ced at Pu­las­ki. “What hap­pe­ned with yo­ur wi­fe?”

“Still in de­ten­ti­on.”

“Jesus.”

“And it gets wor­se.” Rhyme told Sel­lit­to abo­ut Brock­ton, Whit­comb and Glenn and the Comp­li­an­ce Di­vi­si­on of Ho­me­land Se­cu­rity.

“Shit. Ne­ver he­ard of it.”

“And they want us to hold off on the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on, at le­ast as far as SSD’s in­vol­ved. But we’ve got anot­her prob­lem. Ame­lia’s mis­sing.”

“What?” Sel­lit­to bar­ked.

“Lo­oks that way. I don’t know whe­re she was go­ing af­ter she went to her town ho­use. She ne­ver cal­led… Oh, Christ, the po­wer was out, the pho­nes we­re off. Check vo­ice ma­il. May­be she cal­led.”

Co­oper di­aled the num­ber. And they le­ar­ned that Sachs had cal­led. But she’d sa­id only that she was fol­lo­wing up on a le­ad and sa­id not­hing mo­re. She as­ked that Rhyme call her and she’d exp­la­in.

Rhyme jam­med his eyes clo­sed in frust­ra­ti­on.

A le­ad…

To whe­re? One of the­ir sus­pects. He ga­zed at the chart.

Andrew Ster­ling, Pre­si­dent, Chi­ef Exe­cu­ti­ve Of­fi­cer

Ali­bi—on Long Is­land, ve­ri­fi­ed. Con­fir­med by son

Se­an Cas­sel, Di­rec­tor of Sa­les and Mar­ke­ting

No ali­bi

Way­ne Gil­les­pie, Di­rec­tor of Tech­ni­cal Ope­ra­ti­ons

No ali­bi

Sa­mu­el Brock­ton, Di­rec­tor, Comp­li­an­ce De­par­t­ment

Ali­bi—ho­tel re­cords con­firm pre­sen­ce in Was­hin­g­ton

Pe­ter Ar­lon­zo-Kem­per, Di­rec­tor of Hu­man Re­so­ur­ces

Ali­bi—with wi­fe, ve­ri­fi­ed by her (bi­ased?)

Ste­ven Shra­eder, Tech­ni­cal Ser­vi­ce and Sup­port Ma­na­ger, day shift

Ali­bi—in of­fi­ce, ac­cor­ding to ti­me she­ets

Fa­ruk Ma­me­da, Tech­ni­cal Ser­vi­ce and Sup­port Ma­na­ger, night shift

No ali­bi

Ali­bi for gro­unds­ke­eper’s kil­ling (in of­fi­ce, ac­cor­ding to ti­me she­ets)

Cli­ent of SSD (?)

Ro­bert Car­pen­ter (?)

UNSUB rec­ru­ited by And­rew Ster­ling (?)

Run­ner­boy?

Did the le­ad in­vol­ve one of them?

“Lon, go check out Car­pen­ter.”

“What, li­ke, ‘Hi, I used to be a cop but will you let me qu­es­ti­on you ’ca­use I’m such a ni­ce per­son even tho­ugh you don’t ha­ve to’?”

“Ye­ah, Lon, just li­ke that.”

Sel­lit­to tur­ned to Co­oper. “Mel, gim­me yo­ur shi­eld.”

“My shi­eld?” the tech as­ked ner­vo­usly.

“I won’t get it scratc­hed,” the big man mut­te­red.

“I’m mo­re wor­ri­ed abo­ut get­ting me sus­pen­ded.”

“Wel­co­me to the fuc­king club.” Sel­lit­to to­ok the bad­ge and got Car­pen­ter’s ad­dress from Pu­las­ki. “I’ll let you know what hap­pens.”

“Lon, be ca­re­ful. Fi­ve Twenty-Two’s fe­eling cor­ne­red. He’s go­ing to hit back hard. And re­mem­ber he’s—”

“The son of a bitch who knows everyt­hing.” Sel­lit­to stal­ked out of the lab.

Rhyme no­ti­ced Pu­las­ki sta­ring at the charts. “De­tec­ti­ve?”

“What?”

“The­re’s so­met­hing el­se I’m thin­king of.” He tap­ped the whi­te­bo­ard con­ta­ining the sus­pects’ na­mes. “Andrew Ster­ling’s ali­bi. Well, when he was on Long Is­land he told me his son was hi­king in Westc­hes­ter. He’d cal­led Andy from out of town, and we co­uld see the ti­me in his pho­ne re­cords. That chec­ked out.”

“So?”

“Well, I re­mem­be­red Ster­ling sa­id his son to­ok the tra­in to Westc­hes­ter. But when I tal­ked to Andy, he sa­id he dro­ve up the­re.” Pu­las­ki coc­ked his he­ad. “And the­re’s so­met­hing el­se, sir. The day the gro­unds­ke­eper was kil­led, I chec­ked the ti­me she­ets. I saw Andy’s na­me. He left right af­ter Mi­gu­el Ab­re­ra, the jani­tor. I me­an, se­conds af­ter­wards. I didn’t think abo­ut it be­ca­use Andy wasn’t a sus­pect.”

“But the son do­esn’t ha­ve any ac­cess to in­ner­Circ­le,” Co­oper sa­id, nod­ding at the sus­pect chart.

“Not ac­cor­ding to what his fat­her sa­id. But…” Pu­las­ki sho­ok his he­ad. “See, And­rew Ster­ling’s be­en so help­ful, we to­ok wha­te­ver he told us at fa­ce va­lue. He sa­id that no­body but tho­se pe­op­le on the sus­pect list ha­ve ac­cess. But we don’t know that in­de­pen­dently. We ne­ver ve­ri­fi­ed who co­uld or co­uldn’t log in­to in­ner­Circ­le.”

Co­oper of­fe­red, “May­be Andy went thro­ugh his dad’s PDA or com­pu­ter to get a pas­sco­de.”

“You’re on a roll, Pu­las­ki. Okay, Mel, you’re top dog now. Get a tac­ti­cal te­am over to Andy Ster­ling’s ho­use.”

Even the best pre­dic­ti­ve analy­sis, po­we­red by bril­li­ant ar­ti­fi­ci­al bra­ins li­ke Xpec­ta­ti­on, can’t get it right all the ti­me.

Who in a mil­li­on ye­ars wo­uld ha­ve gu­es­sed that Ame­lia 7303, sit­ting stun­ned and hand­cuf­fed twenty fe­et away, wo­uld ha­ve co­me right to my do­or?

So­me luck, I must say. I was just abo­ut to he­ad off to get Thom’s vi­vi­sec­ti­on un­der way when I no­ti­ced her thro­ugh the win­dow. My li­fe se­ems to work that way, go­od for­tu­ne a tra­de-off for the ed­gi­ness.

I con­si­der the si­tu­ati­on calmly. Okay, her col­le­agu­es at the po­li­ce de­part­ment don’t sus­pect me; she only ca­me he­re to show me the com­po­si­te pic­tu­re I fo­und in her poc­ket, along with a list of six ot­her pe­op­le. Two at the top are cros­sed off. I’m un­lucky num­ber three. So­me­one will su­rely ask abo­ut her; when they do I’ll say, yes, she ca­me he­re to show me the com­po­si­te and then left. And that’ll be it.

I’ve dis­mant­led her elect­ro­nics and am pla­cing them in ap­prop­ri­ate bo­xes. I’d con­si­de­red using her pho­ne to re­cord the fi­nal, thras­hing mo­ments of Thom Res­ton. It has a ni­ce symmetry, an ele­gan­ce. But, of co­ur­se, she’ll ha­ve to va­nish comp­le­tely. She’ll go to sle­ep in my ba­se­ment, next to Ca­ro­li­ne 8630 and Fi­ona 4892.

Di­sap­pe­ar comp­le­tely.

Not as tidy as it co­uld be—po­li­ce do lo­ve to ha­ve the body—but it’s go­od news for me.

I’ll get to ta­ke a pro­per trophy this ti­me. No me­re fin­ger­na­ils from my Ame­lia 7303…

Chapter Forty-Four

“Well, what’s the god­damn story?” Rhyme snap­ped to Pu­las­ki.

The ro­okie was three mi­les away, in Man­hat­tan, at the Up­per East Si­de town ho­use of And­rew Ster­ling, Jr.

“Ha­ve you go­ne in? Is Sachs the­re?”

“I don’t think Andy’s the one, sir.”

“You think? Or he isn’t the one?”

“He’s not the one.”

“Expla­in.”

Pu­las­ki told Rhyme that, yes, Andy Ster­ling had li­ed abo­ut his ac­ti­vi­ti­es on Sun­day. But not to co­ver up his ro­le as a kil­ler and ra­pist. He’d told his fat­her he’d ta­ken the tra­in to Westc­hes­ter to go hi­king but the truth was that he’d dri­ven, as he’d let slip when tal­king to Pu­las­ki.

With two ESU of­fi­cers and Pu­las­ki in front of him, the flus­te­red yo­ung man blur­ted out why he’d li­ed to his fat­her when he sa­id he’d be­en on Met­ro North. Andy him­self didn’t ha­ve a dri­ver’s li­cen­se.

But his boyf­ri­end did. And­rew Ster­ling might ha­ve be­en the world’s num­ber-one pur­ve­yor of in­for­ma­ti­on but he didn’t know his son was gay, and the yo­ung man had ne­ver sum­mo­ned the co­ura­ge to tell him.

A call to Andy’s boyf­ri­end con­fir­med that they we­re both out of town at the ti­me of the kil­lings. The E-ZPass ope­ra­ti­ons cen­ter con­fir­med that this was the ca­se.

“Damn, okay, get on back he­re, Pu­las­ki.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wal­king along the dusky si­de­walk, Lon Sel­lit­to was thin­king, Shit, sho­uld’ve got­ten Co­oper’s gun too. Of co­ur­se, bor­ro­wing a shi­eld was one thing if you we­re sus­pen­ded but a we­apon was so­met­hing el­se. That wo­uld’ve mo­ved the sor­ta bad in­to the shits­torm bad, if In­ter­nal Af­fa­irs fo­und out.

And it’d gi­ve them gro­unds to le­gi­ti­ma­tely sus­pend him, when the drug test ca­me back cle­an.

Drugs. Shit.

He fo­und the ad­dress he so­ught, Car­pen­ter’s, a town ho­use on the Up­per East Si­de in a qu­i­et ne­igh­bor­ho­od. The lights we­re on but he saw no one in­si­de. He stro­de up to the do­or­way and pres­sed the buz­zer.

He be­li­eved he he­ard so­me no­ise from in­si­de. Fo­ots­teps. A do­or.

Then not­hing for a long mi­nu­te.

Sel­lit­to ins­tinc­ti­vely re­ac­hed for whe­re his we­apon had on­ce be­en.

Shit.

Fi­nal­ly the cur­ta­in on a si­de win­dow par­ted and fell back. The do­or ope­ned and Sel­lit­to fo­und him­self lo­oking at a so­lidly bu­ilt man, ha­ir com­bed over. He was ga­zing at the il­li­cit gold shi­eld. His eyes flic­ke­red with un­cer­ta­inty.

“Mr. Car­pen­ter—”

He got not­hing el­se out be­fo­re the une­asi­ness va­nis­hed and the man’s fa­ce scre­wed up in pu­re an­ger and he ra­ged, “God­damn. God­dam­nit!”

Lon Sel­lit­to hadn’t be­en in a fight with a perp for ye­ars, and he now re­ali­zed that this man co­uld easily be­at him blo­ody and then cut his thro­at. Why the hell didn’t I bor­row Co­oper’s gun af­ter all, wha­te­ver hap­pe­ned?

But, it tur­ned out, Sel­lit­to wasn’t the so­ur­ce of the an­ger.

It was, cu­ri­o­usly, the he­ad of SSD.

“That fuc­ker And­rew Ster­ling did this, right? He cal­led you? He’s imp­li­ca­ted me in tho­se mur­ders we ke­ep he­aring abo­ut. Oh, Christ, what’m I go­ing to do? I’m pro­bably al­re­ady in the system and Watch­to­wer’s got my na­me on lists all over the co­untry. Oh, man. What a fuc­king idi­ot I’ve be­en, get­ting ca­ught up in SSD.”

Sel­lit­to’s con­cern di­mi­nis­hed. He put away the bad­ge and as­ked the man to step out­si­de. He did.

“So I’m right—Andrew’s be­hind this, isn’t he?” Car­pen­ter snar­led.

Sel­lit­to didn’t reply but as­ked his whe­re­abo­uts at the ti­me Mal­loy had di­ed ear­li­er that day.

Car­pen­ter tho­ught back. “I was in me­etings.” He vo­lun­te­ered the na­me of se­ve­ral of­fi­ci­als from a lar­ge bank in town, the­ir pho­ne num­bers too.

“And Sun­day af­ter­no­on?”

“My fri­end and I had so­me pe­op­le over. A brunch.”

An easily ve­ri­fi­ab­le ali­bi.

Sel­lit­to pho­ned Rhyme to gi­ve him what he’d fo­und. He got Co­oper, who sa­id he’d check the ali­bis. Af­ter he’d dis­con­nec­ted, the de­tec­ti­ve tur­ned back to the agi­ta­ted Bob Car­pen­ter.

“He’s the most vin­dic­ti­ve prick I’ve ever do­ne bu­si­ness with.”

Sel­lit­to told him that, yes, his na­me had be­en pro­vi­ded by SSD. At this news Car­pen­ter clo­sed his eyes mo­men­ta­rily. The an­ger was les­se­ning, rep­la­ced by dis­may.

“What did he say abo­ut me?”

“It se­ems you down­lo­aded in­for­ma­ti­on abo­ut the vic­tims just be­fo­re they we­re kil­led. In se­ve­ral mur­ders over the past few months.”

Car­pen­ter sa­id, “This’s what hap­pens when And­rew’s up­set. He gets even. I ne­ver tho­ught it’d be li­ke that…” Then he frow­ned. “Over the past few months? This down­lo­ading—when was the most re­cent?”

“In the last co­up­le we­eks.”

“Well, it co­uldn’t be me. I’ve be­en loc­ked out of the Watch­to­wer system sin­ce early March.”

“Loc­ked out?”

Car­pen­ter nod­ded. “Andrew bloc­ked me.”

Sel­lit­to’s pho­ne tril­led, Mel Co­oper cal­ling back. He exp­la­ined that at le­ast two of the so­ur­ces had con­fir­med Car­pen­ter’s whe­re­abo­uts. Sel­lit­to had the tech call Rod­ney Szar­nek to do­ub­le-check the da­ta on the CD Pu­las­ki had be­en gi­ven. He snap­ped the pho­ne shut and told Car­pen­ter, “Why we­re you bloc­ked out?”

“See, what hap­pe­ned was I ha­ve a da­ta-wa­re­ho­using com­pany, and—”

“Da­ta wa­re­ho­using?”

“We sto­re da­ta that com­pa­ni­es li­ke SSD pro­cess.”

“Not, li­ke, a wa­re­ho­use whe­re you sto­re merc­han­di­se?”

“No, no. It’s all com­pu­ter sto­ra­ge. On ser­vers out in New Jer­sey and Pen­nsyl­va­nia. Any­way, I got…well, you co­uld say I got se­du­ced by And­rew Ster­ling. All his suc­cess, the mo­ney. I wan­ted to start mi­ning the da­ta too, li­ke SSD, not just sto­ring it. I was go­ing to car­ve out a nic­he mar­ket in a few in­dust­ri­es that SSD isn’t that strong in. I wasn’t re­al­ly com­pe­ting, it wasn’t il­le­gal.”

Sel­lit­to co­uld he­ar the des­pe­ra­ti­on in the man’s vo­ice as he jus­ti­fi­ed wha­te­ver he’d do­ne.

“It was only nic­kel-and-di­me stuff. But And­rew fo­und out and loc­ked me out of in­ner­Circ­le and Watch­to­wer. He thre­ate­ned to sue me. I’ve be­en trying to ne­go­ti­ate but to­day he fi­red me. Well, ter­mi­na­ted our cont­ract. I re­al­ly didn’t do anyt­hing wrong.” His vo­ice crac­ked. “It was just bu­si­ness…”

“And you think Ster­ling chan­ged the fi­les to ma­ke it lo­ok li­ke you we­re the kil­ler?”

“Well, so­me­body at SSD had to.”

So the bot­tom li­ne, Sel­lit­to ref­lec­ted, is that Car­pen­ter’s not a sus­pect and this was all a big fuc­king was­te of ti­me. “I don’t ha­ve any mo­re qu­es­ti­ons. ’Night.”

But Car­pen­ter was ha­ving a chan­ge of he­art. The an­ger was go­ne comp­le­tely, rep­la­ced by an exp­res­si­on that Sel­lit­to de­ci­ded was des­pe­ra­ti­on, if not fe­ar. “Wa­it, Of­fi­cer, don’t get the wrong idea. I spo­ke too fast. I’m not sug­ges­ting it was And­rew. I was mad. But it was just a re­ac­ti­on. You won’t tell him, will you?”

As he wal­ked away the de­tec­ti­ve glan­ced back. The bu­si­nes­sman ac­tu­al­ly lo­oked li­ke he was go­ing to cry.

So yet anot­her sus­pect was in­no­cent.

First, Andy Ster­ling. Now, Ro­bert Car­pen­ter. When Sel­lit­to re­tur­ned he im­me­di­ately cal­led Rod­ney Szar­nek, who sa­id he’d find out what went wrong. The tec­hie cal­led back ten mi­nu­tes la­ter. The first thing he sa­id was, “Heh. Oops.”

Rhyme sig­hed. “Go ahe­ad.”

“Okay, Car­pen­ter did down­lo­ad eno­ugh lists to gi­ve him the in­for­ma­ti­on he’d ne­ed to tar­get the vic­tims and fall guys. But it was over the co­ur­se of two ye­ars. All part of le­gi­ti­ma­te mar­ke­ting cam­pa­igns. And not­hing sin­ce early March.”

“You sa­id the in­for­ma­ti­on was down­lo­aded just be­fo­re the cri­mes.”

“That’s what it sa­id on the spre­ads­he­et it­self. But the me­ta­da­ta sho­wed that so­me­body at SSD had chan­ged the da­tes. The in­for­ma­ti­on on yo­ur co­usin, for ins­tan­ce, he got two ye­ars ago.”

“And so so­me­body at SSD did that to po­int us away from him and to­ward Car­pen­ter.”

“Right.”

“Now, the big qu­es­ti­on: Who the hell re­ar­ran­ged the da­tes? That’s Fi­ve Twenty-Two.”

But the com­pu­ter man sa­id, “The­re’s no ot­her in­for­ma­ti­on en­co­ded in the me­ta­da­ta. The ad­mi­nist­ra­tor and ro­ot-access logs aren’t—”

“Just no. That’s the short ans­wer?”

“Cor­rect.”

“You’re su­re?”

“Po­si­ti­ve.”

“Thanks,” he mut­te­red. They dis­con­nec­ted.

The son eli­mi­na­ted, Car­pen­ter eli­mi­na­ted…

Whe­re are you, Sachs?

Rhyme felt a jolt. He’d al­most used her first na­me. But it was an uns­po­ken ru­le bet­we­en them, they used only the­ir last na­mes when re­fer­ring to the ot­her. Bad luck ot­her­wi­se. As if the luck co­uld get any wor­se.

“Linc,” sa­id Sel­lit­to, po­in­ting at the bo­ard con­ta­ining the list of sus­pects. “The only thing I can think of is to check out every one of ’em. Now.”

“Well, how do we do that, Lon? We’ve got an ins­pec­tor who do­esn’t even want this ca­se to exist. We can’t exactly…” His vo­ice fa­ded as his eyes set­tled on the pro­fi­le of 522 and then the evi­den­ce charts.

His co­usin’s dos­si­er too, on the tur­ning fra­me ne­arby.

Lifestyle

Dos­si­er 1A. Con­su­mer pro­ducts pre­fe­ren­ces

Dos­si­er 1B. Con­su­mer ser­vi­ces pre­fe­ren­ces

Dos­si­er 1C. Tra­vel

Dos­si­er 1D. Me­di­cal

Dos­si­er 1E. Le­isu­re-ti­me pre­fe­ren­ces

Financial/Educational/Professional

Dos­si­er 2A. Edu­ca­ti­onal his­tory

Dos­si­er 2B. Emp­loy­ment his­tory, w/inco­me

Dos­si­er 2C. Cre­dit his­tory/cur­rent re­port and ra­ting

Dos­si­er 2D. Bu­si­ness pro­ducts and ser­vi­ces pre­fe­ren­ces

Governmental/Legal

Dos­si­er 3A. Vi­tal re­cords

Dos­si­er 3B. Vo­ter re­gist­ra­ti­on

Dos­si­er 3C. Le­gal his­tory

Dos­si­er 3D. Cri­mi­nal his­tory

Dos­si­er 3E. Comp­li­an­ce

Dos­si­er 3F. Im­mig­ra­ti­on and na­tu­ra­li­za­ti­on

Rhyme re­ad thro­ugh the do­cu­ment se­ve­ral ti­mes qu­ickly. Then he lo­oked at ot­her do­cu­ments ta­ped up on the evi­den­ce bo­ards. So­met­hing wasn’t right.

He cal­led Szar­nek back. “Rod­ney, tell me: How much sto­ra­ge spa­ce on a hard dri­ve do­es a thirty-pa­ge do­cu­ment ta­ke up? Li­ke that SSD dos­si­er I ha­ve he­re.”

“Heh. A dos­si­er? Text only, I as­su­me.”

“Yes.”

“It’d be in a da­ta­ba­se so it’d be comp­res­sed…Ma­ke it twenty-fi­ve K, tops.”

“That’s pretty small, right?”

“Heh. A fart in the hur­ri­ca­ne of da­ta sto­ra­ge.”

Rhyme rol­led his eyes at the res­pon­se. “I’ve got one mo­re qu­es­ti­on for you.”

“Heh. Sho­ot.”

Her he­ad throb­bed in agony and she tas­ted blo­od from the cut in her mo­uth af­ter col­li­ding with the sto­ne wall.

With the ra­zor at her thro­at, the kil­ler had ta­ken her gun and drag­ged her thro­ugh a ba­se­ment do­or then up ste­ep sta­irs in­to the “fa­ça­de” si­de of the town ho­use, the front, a mo­dern, stark pla­ce ec­ho­ing the black-and-whi­te de­cor of SSD.

Then he led her to a do­or aga­inst the back wall in the li­ving ro­om.

It tur­ned out to be, iro­ni­cal­ly, a clo­set. He pus­hed thro­ugh so­me sta­le-smel­ling clot­hes and ope­ned anot­her do­or aga­inst the back wall, drag­ged her in­si­de and re­li­eved her of her pa­ger, PDA, cell pho­ne, keys and the switchb­la­de kni­fe in the back poc­ket of her slacks. He sho­ved her aga­inst a ra­di­ator, bet­we­en tall stacks of news­pa­per, and cuf­fed her to the rusty me­tal. She lo­oked aro­und at the ho­ar­der’s pa­ra­di­se, moldy, dim, stin­king of old, stin­king of used, and fil­led with mo­re junk and re­fu­se than she’d ever se­en in one pla­ce. The kil­ler to­ok all her ge­ar to a lar­ge, clut­te­red desk. With her own kni­fe he be­gan to di­sas­semb­le her elect­ro­nics. He wor­ked me­ti­cu­lo­usly, sa­vo­ring each com­po­nent he ext­rac­ted, as if dis­sec­ting a corp­se for the or­gans.

Now she was watc­hing the kil­ler at his desk, typing on his key­bo­ard. He was sur­ro­un­ded by hu­ge stacks of news­pa­pers, to­wers of fol­ded pa­per bags, bo­xes of matc­hes, glas­swa­re, bo­xes la­be­led “Ci­ga­ret­tes” and “But­tons” and “Pa­per Clips,” old cans and bo­xes of fo­od from the six­ti­es and se­ven­ti­es, cle­aning sup­pli­es. Hund­reds of ot­her con­ta­iners.

But she wasn’t pa­ying at­ten­ti­on to the in­ven­tory. She was ref­lec­ting, in shock, how he’d tric­ked them. Fi­ve Twenty-Two wasn’t one of the­ir sus­pects at all. They we­re wrong abo­ut the bul­lying exe­cu­ti­ves, the techs, the cli­ents, the hac­ker, And­rew Ster­ling’s hi­red gun to drum up bu­si­ness for the com­pany.

And yet he was an emp­lo­yee of SSD.

Why the hell hadn’t she con­si­de­red the ob­vi­o­us?

Fi­ve Twenty-Two was the se­cu­rity gu­ard who’d ta­ken her on a to­ur of the da­ta pens on Mon­day. She re­mem­be­red the na­me bad­ge. John. His last na­me was Rol­lins. He must ha­ve se­en her and Pu­las­ki ar­ri­ve at the gu­ard sta­ti­on in the SSD lobby on Mon­day and mo­ved in qu­ickly to vo­lun­te­er to es­cort them to Ster­ling’s of­fi­ce. He’d then ho­ve­red ne­arby to find out abo­ut the pur­po­se of the­ir vi­sit. Or may­be he’d even known ahe­ad of ti­me they we­re co­ming and ar­ran­ged to be on duty that mor­ning.

The man who knows ever­y­t­hing…

Be­ca­use he’d fre­ely es­cor­ted her aro­und the Gray Rock on Mon­day she sho­uld ha­ve known that the gu­ards had ac­cess to all the pens and the In­ta­ke Cen­ter. She re­cal­led that on­ce you we­re in the pens, you didn’t ne­ed a pas­sco­de to log on to in­ner­Circ­le. She still wasn’t su­re how he’d smug­gled out disks con­ta­ining da­ta—even he had be­en se­arc­hed when they’d left the da­ta pen—but so­me­how he’d ma­na­ged to.

She squ­in­ted, ho­ping the pa­in in her skull wo­uld di­mi­nish. It didn’t. She glan­ced up—to the wall in front of the desk, whe­re a pa­in­ting hung—a pho­to­re­alis­tic port­ra­it of a fa­mily. Of co­ur­se: the Har­vey Pres­cott he’d mur­de­red Ali­ce San­der­son for, her de­ath bla­med on in­no­cent Art­hur Rhyme.

Her eyes fi­nal­ly ac­cus­to­med to the dim light, Sachs was lo­oking over the ad­ver­sary. She hadn’t pa­id at­ten­ti­on to him when he’d es­cor­ted her aro­und SSD. But now she co­uld see him cle­arly—a thin man, pa­le, a non­desc­ript but hand­so­me fa­ce. His hol­low eyes mo­ved qu­ickly and his fin­gers we­re very long, his arms strong.

The kil­ler sen­sed her scru­tiny. He tur­ned and lo­oked her over with hungry eyes. Then he re­tur­ned to the com­pu­ter and con­ti­nu­ed typing fu­ri­o­usly. Do­zens of ot­her key­bo­ards, most of them bro­ken or with the let­ters worn down, sat in pi­les on the flo­or. Use­less to any­body el­se. But 522, of co­ur­se, was in­ca­pab­le of thro­wing them away. Sur­ro­un­ding him we­re tho­usands of yel­low le­gal pads, fil­led with mi­nu­te, pre­ci­se handw­ri­ting—the so­ur­ce of the flecks of pa­per they’d fo­und at one of the sce­nes.

The smell of mold and un­was­hed clot­hing and li­nens was overw­hel­ming. He must be so used to the stench he do­esn’t even no­ti­ce it. Or may­be he enj­oys it.

Sachs clo­sed her eyes and res­ted her he­ad aga­inst a stack of news­pa­pers. No we­apons, help­less…What co­uld she pos­sibly do? She was fu­ri­o­us with her­self for not le­aving a mo­re de­ta­iled mes­sa­ge with Rhyme abo­ut whe­re she was go­ing.

Help­less…

But then so­me words ca­me to her. The slo­gan of the en­ti­re 522 ca­se: Know­led­ge is po­wer.

Well, get so­me know­led­ge, dam­nit. Fi­gu­re out so­met­hing abo­ut him you can use for a we­apon.

Think!

SSD se­cu­rity gu­ard John Rol­lins…That na­me me­ant not­hing to her. It had ne­ver co­me up du­ring the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on. What was his con­nec­ti­on to SSD, to the cri­mes, to the da­ta?

Sachs scan­ned the dark ro­om aro­und her, overw­hel­med by the amo­unt of junk she saw.

No­ise…

Fo­cus. One thing at a ti­me.

And then she no­ti­ced so­met­hing aga­inst the far wall that ca­ught her at­ten­ti­on. It was one of his col­lec­ti­ons: a hu­ge stack of ski-re­sort lift tic­kets.

Va­il, Cop­per Mo­un­ta­in, Brec­kin­rid­ge, Be­aver Cre­ek.

Co­uld it be?

Okay, it was worth the gamb­le.

“Pe­ter,” she sa­id con­fi­dently, “you and I ha­ve to talk.”

At the na­me, he blin­ked and lo­oked her way. For an ins­tant his eyes flic­ke­red with un­cer­ta­inty. It was al­most li­ke a slap in the fa­ce.

Yes, she was right. John Rol­lins was—what el­se?—an as­su­med iden­tity. In re­ality he was Pe­ter Gor­don, the fa­mo­us da­ta scro­un­ger who’d di­ed…who’d pre­ten­ded to die when SSD to­ok over the com­pany he wor­ked for in Co­lo­ra­do so­me ye­ars ago.

“We we­re cu­ri­o­us abo­ut the fa­ked de­ath. The DNA? How’d you ma­na­ge that?”

He stop­ped typing, sta­ring up at the pa­in­ting. Fi­nal­ly he sa­id, “Isn’t it funny abo­ut da­ta? How we be­li­eve them wit­ho­ut qu­es­ti­on.” He tur­ned to her. “If it’s in a com­pu­ter, we know it has to be true. If it in­vol­ves the DNA de­ity then it de­fi­ni­tely has to be right. Ask no mo­re. End of story.”

Sachs sa­id, “So you—Pe­ter Gor­don—go mis­sing. The po­li­ce find yo­ur bi­ke and a de­com­po­sed body we­aring yo­ur clot­hes. Not much left af­ter the ani­mals, right? And they ta­ke ha­ir and sa­li­va samp­les from yo­ur ho­use. Yep, the DNA matc­hes. No do­ubt in the world. You’re de­ad. But it wasn’t yo­ur ha­ir or sa­li­va in yo­ur bath­ro­om, was it? The man you kil­led, you to­ok so­me ha­ir from him and left it in yo­ur bath­ro­om. And brus­hed his te­eth, right?”

“And a lit­tle blo­od on the Gil­let­te. You po­li­ce do lo­ve yo­ur blo­od, don’t you?”

“Who was the man you kil­led?”

“So­me kid from Ca­li­for­nia. Hitch­hi­ker on I-70.”

Ke­ep him une­asy—infor­ma­ti­on’s yo­ur only we­apon. Use it! “We ne­ver knew why you did it, tho­ugh, Pe­ter. Was it to sa­bo­ta­ge the SSD ta­ke­over of Rocky Mo­un­ta­in Da­ta? Or was it mo­re?”

“Sa­bo­ta­ge?” he whis­pe­red in as­to­nish­ment. “You just don’t get it, do you? When And­rew Ster­ling and his folks from SSD ca­me to Rocky Mo­un­ta­in and wan­ted to ac­qu­ire it, I scro­un­ged every bit of da­ta I co­uld find on him and the com­pany. And what I saw was bre­ath­ta­king! And­rew Ster­ling is God. He’s the fu­tu­re of da­ta, which me­ans he’s the fu­tu­re of so­ci­ety. He co­uld find da­ta that I co­uldn’t even ima­gi­ne exis­ted, and use it li­ke a gun, or li­ke me­di­ci­ne, or li­ke holy wa­ter. I ne­eded to be part of what he was do­ing.”

“But you co­uldn’t be a da­ta scro­un­ger for SSD. Not for what you had plan­ned, right? For yo­ur…other col­lec­ting? And the way you li­ved.” She nod­ded at the fil­led ro­oms.

His fa­ce grew dark, his eyes wi­de. “I wan­ted to be part of SSD. Do you think I didn’t? Oh, the pla­ces I co­uld ha­ve go­ne! But that’s not the card I was de­alt.” He fell si­lent, then he wa­ved a hand aro­und him, in­di­ca­ting his col­lec­ti­ons. “You think li­ving this way is what I’d cho­ose? Do you think I li­ke it?” He vo­ice ca­me clo­se to crac­king. Bre­at­hing hard, he ga­ve a fa­int smi­le. “No, my li­fe has to be off the grid. That’s the only way I can sur­vi­ve. Off. The. Grid.”

“So you fa­ked yo­ur de­ath and sto­le an iden­tity. Got yo­ur­self a new na­me and So­ci­al Se­cu­rity num­ber, so­me­body who’d di­ed.”

The emo­ti­on was go­ne now. “A child, ye­ah. Jonat­han Rol­lins, three, from Co­lo­ra­do Springs. It’s easy to get a new iden­tity. Sur­vi­va­lists do it every day. You can buy bo­oks on the su­bj­ect…” A fa­int smi­le. “Just re­mem­ber to pay cash for them.”

“And you got a job as a se­cu­rity gu­ard. But wo­uldn’t so­me­body from SSD re­cog­ni­ze you?”

“I ne­ver met any­body at the com­pany in per­son. That’s the won­der of the da­ta-mi­ning bu­si­ness. You can col­lect da­ta and ne­ver le­ave the pri­vacy of yo­ur own Clo­set.”

Then his vo­ice fa­ded. He se­emed une­asy, con­si­de­ring what she’d told him. We­re they in fact get­ting clo­se to matc­hing Rol­lins with Pe­ter Gor­don? Wo­uld so­me­one el­se co­me to the town ho­use to check things out furt­her? He ap­pa­rently de­ci­ded he co­uldn’t ta­ke the chan­ce. Gor­don snatc­hed up the key to Pam’s car. He’d want to hi­de it. The kil­ler exa­mi­ned the fob. “Che­ap. No RFIDs. But ever­y­body’s scan­ning the li­cen­se pla­tes now. Whe­re’d you park?”

“You think I’d tell you?”

He shrug­ged and left.

Her stra­tegy had wor­ked, grab­bing a bit of know­led­ge and using it as a we­apon. Not much, of co­ur­se, but at le­ast she’d bo­ught a lit­tle ti­me.

Was it, ho­we­ver, eno­ugh to do what she plan­ned: get to the hand­cuff key stuf­fed de­ep in her slacks poc­ket?

Chapter Forty-Five

“Lis­ten to me. My part­ner’s mis­sing. And I ne­ed to lo­ok at so­me fi­les.”

Rhyme was spe­aking to And­rew Ster­ling via a high-de­fi­ni­ti­on vi­deo link.

The he­ad of SSD was back in his aus­te­re of­fi­ce in the Gray Rock. He sat comp­le­tely up­right in what se­emed to be a pla­in wo­oden cha­ir, iro­ni­cal­ly mi­mic­king Rhyme’s stiff pos­tu­re in his TDX. Ster­ling sa­id in a soft vo­ice, “Sam Brock­ton tal­ked to you. Ins­pec­tor Glenn too.” Not a splin­ter of une­asi­ness in the vo­ice. No emo­ti­on at all, in fact, tho­ugh a ple­asant smi­le res­ted on his fa­ce.

“I want to see my part­ner’s dos­si­er. The of­fi­cer you met, Ame­lia Sachs. Her who­le dos­si­er.”

“What do you me­an, ‘who­le,’ Cap­ta­in Rhyme?”

The cri­mi­na­list no­ted that Ster­ling had used his tit­le, which wasn’t com­mon know­led­ge. “You know exactly what I me­an.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I want to see her 3E Comp­li­an­ce dos­si­er.”

Anot­her he­si­ta­ti­on. “Why? It’s not­hing. So­me tech­ni­cal go­vern­ment fi­ling in­for­ma­ti­on. Pri­vacy Act disc­lo­su­res.”

But the man was lying. CBI agent Kathryn Dan­ce had gi­ven him so­me in­sights in­to ki­ne­sics—body lan­gu­age—and the analy­sis of how pe­op­le com­mu­ni­ca­te. A he­si­ta­ti­on be­fo­re ans­we­ring is of­ten a sign of co­ming de­cep­ti­on, sin­ce the su­bj­ect is trying to for­mu­la­te a cre­dib­le, but fal­se, ans­wer. One spe­aks qu­ickly when tel­ling the truth; the­re’s not­hing to fab­ri­ca­te.

“Why don’t you want me to see it, then?”

“The­re’s just no re­ason to… It wo­uldn’t help you at all.”

Lie.

Ster­ling’s gre­en eyes re­ma­ined calm, tho­ugh on­ce they flic­ked si­de­ways, and Rhyme re­ali­zed he’d glan­ced at whe­re Ron Pu­las­ki wo­uld ap­pe­ar on his scre­en; the yo­ung of­fi­cer was back in the lab, stan­ding be­hind Rhyme.

“Then ans­wer me a qu­es­ti­on.”

“Yes?”

“I was just tal­king to an NYPD com­pu­ter man. I had him es­ti­ma­te how big my co­usin’s SSD dos­si­er was.”

“Yes?”

“He sa­id a thirty-pa­ge dos­si­er of text wo­uld be abo­ut twenty-fi­ve K in si­ze.”

“I’m as con­cer­ned as you are abo­ut yo­ur part­ner’s well-be­ing but—”

“I do­ubt that very much. Now lis­ten to me.” A slightly ra­ised eyeb­row was Ster­ling’s only res­pon­se. “A typi­cal dos­si­er is twenty-fi­ve ki­loby­tes of da­ta. But yo­ur broc­hu­re says you ha­ve over fi­ve hund­red pe­tab­y­tes of in­for­ma­ti­on. That’s so much da­ta most pe­op­le can’t even comp­re­hend it.”

Ster­ling wasn’t res­pon­ding.

“If a dos­si­er ave­ra­ges twenty-fi­ve K, then the da­ta­ba­se for every hu­man be­ing on Earth wo­uld ta­ke up may­be a hund­red and fifty bil­li­on K, to be ge­ne­ro­us. But in­ner­Circ­le has mo­re than fi­ve hund­red tril­li­on K. What’s in the rest of in­ner­Circ­le’s hard dri­ve spa­ce, Ster­ling?”

Anot­her he­si­ta­ti­on. “Well, lots of things…Grap­hics and pho­tog­raphs, they ta­ke up a hu­ge amo­unt of spa­ce. Ad­mi­nist­ra­ti­ve da­ta, for ins­tan­ce.”

Lie.

“And tell me why wo­uld so­me­body ha­ve a Comp­li­an­ce fi­le in the first pla­ce? Who has to comply with what?”

“We ma­ke su­re that ever­yo­ne’s fi­le com­p­li­es with the re­qu­ire­ments of the law.”

“Ster­ling, if that fi­le isn’t on its way to my com­pu­ter in fi­ve mi­nu­tes I’m go­ing stra­ight to the Ti­mes with the story that you aided and abet­ted a cri­mi­nal who used yo­ur in­for­ma­ti­on to ra­pe and mur­der. The Comp­li­an­ce Di­vi­si­on folks in Was­hing­ton aren’t go­ing to sa­ve you from tho­se he­ad­li­nes. And the story’ll run abo­ve the fold. I gu­aran­tee that.”

Now Ster­ling simply la­ug­hed, his fa­ce exu­ding con­fi­den­ce. “I don’t think that will hap­pen. Now, Cap­ta­in, I’m go­ing to say go­od-bye.”

“Ster­ling—”

The scre­en went black.

Rhyme clo­sed his eyes in frust­ra­ti­on. The cri­mi­na­list ma­ne­uve­red his cha­ir to the whi­te­bo­ards con­ta­ining the evi­den­ce charts and the list of sus­pects. He sta­red at Thom’s and Sachs’s let­te­ring, so­me scraw­led fast, so­me pen­ned met­ho­di­cal­ly.

But no ans­wers pre­sen­ted them­sel­ves.

Whe­re are you, Sachs?

He knew she li­ved on the ed­ge, that he wo­uld ne­ver sug­gest she avo­id the high-risk si­tu­ati­ons she se­emed drawn to. But he was fu­ri­o­us that she’d fol­lo­wed up on her damn le­ad wit­ho­ut bac­kup.

“Lin­coln?” Ron Pu­las­ki as­ked softly. Rhyme glan­ced up to see the yo­ung of­fi­cer’s eyes unu­su­al­ly cold as he sta­red at the cri­me-sce­ne pic­tu­res of Myra We­in­burg’s body.

“What?”

He tur­ned to the cri­mi­na­list. “I ha­ve an idea.”

The fa­ce, with the ban­da­ged no­se, was now fil­ling the high-def scre­en.

“You do ha­ve ac­cess to in­ner­Circ­le, don’t you?” Ron Pu­las­ki as­ked Mark Whit­comb in a co­ol vo­ice. “You sa­id you we­ren’t cle­ared but you are.”

The Comp­li­an­ce as­sis­tant sig­hed. But fi­nal­ly he sa­id, “That’s right.” Hol­ding eye con­tact with the web­cam bri­efly, then lo­oking away.

“Mark, we ha­ve a prob­lem. We ne­ed you to help us.”

Pu­las­ki exp­la­ined abo­ut Sachs’s di­sap­pe­aran­ce and Rhyme’s sus­pi­ci­on that the Comp­li­an­ce fi­le might help them fi­gu­re out whe­re she’d go­ne. “What’s in the dos­si­er?”

“A Comp­li­an­ce dos­si­er?” Mark Whit­comb whis­pe­red. “It’s ab­so­lu­tely for­bid­den to ac­cess one. If they find out, I co­uld go to ja­il. And what Ster­ling’s re­ac­ti­on will be…it’ll be wor­se than ja­il.”

Pu­las­ki snap­ped, “You we­ren’t ho­nest with us and pe­op­le di­ed.” Then he ad­ded mo­re softly, “We’re the go­od guys, Mark. Help us out. Don’t let any­body el­se get hurt. Ple­ase.”

He sa­id not­hing mo­re, let­ting the si­len­ce roll up.

Go­od job, ro­okie, tho­ught Rhyme, who was con­tent to ta­ke the co­pi­lot’s se­at on this one.

Whit­comb gri­ma­ced. He lo­oked aro­und and up at the ce­iling. Was he af­ra­id of lis­te­ning de­vi­ces or sur­ve­il­lan­ce ca­me­ras? Rhyme won­de­red. It se­emed so, be­ca­use both re­sig­na­ti­on and ur­gency fil­led his vo­ice as he sa­id, “Wri­te this down. We won’t ha­ve much ti­me.”

“Mel! Get over he­re. We’re go­ing in­to SSD’s system, in­ner­Circ­le.”

“We are? Uh-oh, this do­esn’t so­und go­od. First, Lon hi­j­acks my shi­eld, now this.” The tech hur­ri­ed to a sta­ti­on next to Rhyme. Whit­comb re­ci­ted a Web si­te ad­dress, which Co­oper typed in. On the scre­en ap­pe­ared so­me mes­sa­ges in­di­ca­ting that they’d ma­de con­tact with SSD’s se­cu­re ser­ver. Whit­comb ga­ve Co­oper a tem­po­rary user na­me and, af­ter a mo­ment of he­si­ta­ti­on, three long ran­dom-cha­rac­ter pas­sco­des.

“Down­lo­ad the decryp­ti­on fi­le in the box in the cen­ter of the scre­en and hit EXE­CU­TE.”

Co­oper did and a mo­ment la­ter anot­her scre­en ap­pe­ared.

Wel­co­me, NGHF235, ple­ase en­ter (1) the Su­bj­ect’s 16-di­git SSD co­de; or (2) co­untry and num­ber of Su­bj­ect’s pas­sport, or (3) Su­bj­ect’s na­me, cur­rent re­si­den­ce, So­ci­al Se­cu­rity num­ber and one te­lep­ho­ne num­ber.

“Type in the in­for­ma­ti­on for the per­son you’re in­te­res­ted in.”

Rhyme dic­ta­ted the de­ta­ils abo­ut Sachs. On the scre­en ap­pe­ared: Con­firm ac­cess to 3E Comp­li­an­ce Dos­si­er? Yes No.

Co­oper clic­ked on the for­mer and a box ap­pe­ared, as­king for yet anot­her pas­sco­de.

With anot­her glan­ce at the ce­iling, Whit­comb as­ked, “You re­ady?”

As if so­met­hing sig­ni­fi­cant was abo­ut to hap­pen. “Re­ady.”

Whit­comb ga­ve them anot­her six­te­en-di­git pas­sco­de, which Co­oper typed in. He hit EN­TER.

As the text be­gan fil­ling the com­pu­ter scre­en, the cri­mi­na­list whis­pe­red an as­to­nis­hed, “Oh, my God.”

And it to­ok a lot to as­to­nish Lin­coln Rhyme.

RESTRICTED

POS­SES­SI­ON OF THIS DOS­SI­ER BY ANY PER­SON NOT HOL­DING AN A-18 CLE­ARAN­CE OR HIG­HER IS A VI­OLA­TI­ON OF FE­DE­RAL LAW

Dos­si­er 3E—Com­p­li­an­ce

SSD Su­bj­ect Num­ber: 7303—4490—7831—3478

Na­me: Ame­lia H. Sachs

Pa­ges: 478

TABLE OF CONTENTS

- Click on to­pic to vi­ew

- No­te: Arc­hi­ved ma­te­ri­al may ta­ke up to fi­ve mi­nu­tes to ac­cess

PROFILE

- Na­me/Ali­ases/Nics/Nyms/A.K.A.s

- So­ci­al Se­cu­rity Num­ber

- Pre­sent ad­dress

- Sa­tel­li­te vi­ew of pre­sent ad­dress

- Pri­or ad­dres­ses

- Ci­ti­zens­hip

- Ra­ce

- An­cest­ral his­tory

- Na­ti­onal ori­gin

- Physi­cal desc­rip­ti­on/dis­tin­gu­is­hing cha­rac­te­ris­tics

- Bi­omet­ric de­ta­ils

- Pho­tog­raphs

- Vi­deo

- Fin­ger­p­rints

- Fo­ot­p­rints

- Re­ti­nal scan

- Iris scan

- Ga­it pro­fi­le

- Fa­ci­al scan

- Vo­ice pat­tern

- Tis­sue samp­les

- Me­di­cal his­tory

- Po­li­ti­cal party af­fi­li­ati­ons

- Pro­fes­si­onal or­ga­ni­za­ti­ons

- Fra­ter­nal or­ga­ni­za­ti­ons

- Re­li­gi­o­us af­fi­li­ati­ons

- Mi­li­tary

- Ser­vi­ce/dis­c­har­ge

- DOD eva­lu­ati­on

- Na­ti­onal Gu­ard eva­lu­ati­on

- We­apons systems tra­ining

- Do­na­ti­ons

- Po­li­ti­cal

- Re­li­gi­o­us

- Me­di­cal

- Phi­lan­t­h­ro­pic

- Pub­lic Bro­ad­cas­ting System/Na­ti­onal Pub­lic Ra­dio

- Ot­her

- Psycho­lo­gi­cal/psychi­at­ric his­tory

- Myers-Brig­gs per­so­na­lity pro­fi­le

- Se­xu­al pre­fe­ren­ce pro­fi­le

- Hob­bi­es/inte­rests

- Clubs/fra­ter­nal or­ga­ni­za­ti­ons

INDIVIDUALS TETHERED TO SUBJECT

- Spo­uses

- In­ti­ma­te re­la­ti­ons­hips

- Of­fsp­ring

- Pa­rents

- Sib­lings

- Grand­pa­rents (pa­ter­nal)

- Grand­pa­rents (ma­ter­nal)

- Ot­her blo­od re­la­ti­ves, li­ving

- Ot­her blo­od re­la­ti­ves, de­ce­ased

- Re­la­ti­ves re­la­ted by mar­ri­age or tet­he­ring

- Ne­igh­bors

- Pre­sent

- Past fi­ve ye­ars (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Co-wor­kers, cli­ents, etc.

- Pre­sent

- Past fi­ve ye­ars (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Ac­qu­a­in­tan­ces

- In per­son

- On­li­ne

- Per­sons of In­te­rest (PE­OI)

FINANCIAL

- Emp­loy­ment—pre­sent

- Ca­te­gory

- Sa­lary his­tory

- Days ab­sent/re­asons for ab­sen­ce

- Dis­c­har­ge/unem­p­loy­ment cla­ims

- Ci­ta­ti­ons/rep­ri­mands

- Tit­le 7 disc­ri­mi­na­ti­on in­ci­dents

- OS­HA in­ci­dents

- Ot­her ac­ti­ons

- Emp­loy­ment—past (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Ca­te­gory

- Sa­lary his­tory

- Days ab­sent/re­asons for ab­sen­ce

- Dis­c­har­ge/unem­p­loy­ment cla­ims

- Ci­ta­ti­ons/rep­ri­mands

- Tit­le 7 disc­ri­mi­na­ti­on in­ci­dents

- OS­HA in­ci­dents

- Ot­her ac­ti­ons

- In­co­me—pre­sent

- IRS re­por­ted

- Non­re­por­ted

- Fo­re­ign

- In­co­me—past

- IRS re­por­ted

- Non­re­por­ted

- Fo­re­ign

- As­sets cur­rently held

- Re­al pro­perty

- Ve­hic­les and bo­ats

- Bank ac­co­un­ts/se­cu­ri­ti­es

- In­su­ran­ce po­li­ci­es

- Ot­her

- As­sets, past twel­ve months, unu­su­al dis­po­si­ti­on or ac­qu­isi­ti­on of

- Re­al pro­perty

- Ve­hic­les and bo­ats

- Bank ac­co­un­ts/se­cu­ri­ti­es

- In­su­ran­ce po­li­ci­es

- Ot­her

- As­sets, past fi­ve ye­ars, unu­su­al dis­po­si­ti­on or ac­qu­isi­ti­on of (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Re­al pro­perty

- Ve­hic­les and bo­ats

- Bank ac­co­un­ts/se­cu­ri­ti­es

- In­su­ran­ce po­li­ci­es

- Ot­her

- Cre­dit re­port/ra­ting

- Fi­nan­ci­al tran­sac­ti­ons, U.S.-ba­sed ins­ti­tu­ti­ons

- To­day

- Past se­ven days

- Past thirty days

- Past ye­ar

- Past fi­ve ye­ars (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Fi­nan­ci­al tran­sac­ti­ons, fo­re­ign-ba­sed ins­ti­tu­ti­ons

- To­day

- Past se­ven days

- Past thirty days

- Past ye­ar

- Past fi­ve ye­ars (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Fi­nan­ci­al tran­sac­ti­ons, Ha­wa­la and ot­her cash tran­sac­ti­ons, U.S. and fo­re­ign

- To­day

- Past se­ven days

- Past thirty days

- Past ye­ar

- Past fi­ve ye­ars (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

COMMUNICATIONS

- Pre­sent pho­ne num­bers

- Mo­bi­le

- Lan­d­li­ne

- Sa­tel­li­te

- Pri­or pho­ne num­bers past twel­ve months

- Mo­bi­le

- Lan­d­li­ne

- Sa­tel­li­te

- Pri­or pho­ne num­bers past fi­ve ye­ars (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Mo­bi­le

- Lan­d­li­ne

- Sa­tel­li­te

- Fax num­bers

- Pa­ger num­bers

- In­co­ming/out­go­ing pho­ne/pa­ger cal­ls—mo­bi­le/PDA

- Past thirty days

- Past ye­ar (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- In­co­ming/out­go­ing pho­ne/pa­ger/fax cal­ls—land­li­ne

- Past thirty days

- Past ye­ar (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- In­co­ming/out­go­ing pho­ne/pa­ger/fax cal­ls—sa­tel­li­te

- Past thirty days

- Past ye­ar (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Wi­re­taps/inter­cepts

- Fo­re­ign In­tel­li­gen­ce Sur­ve­il­lan­ce Act (FI­SA)

- Pen re­gis­ters

- Tit­le 3

- Ot­her, war­rants

- Ot­her, col­la­te­ral

- Web-ba­sed te­lep­ho­ne ac­ti­vi­ti­es

- In­ter­net ser­vi­ce pro­vi­ders, pre­sent

- In­ter­net ser­vi­ce pro­vi­ders, past 12 months

- In­ter­net ser­vi­ce pro­vi­ders, past fi­ve ye­ars (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Fa­vo­ri­te pla­ce/bo­ok­mar­ked Web si­tes

- E-ma­il ad­dres­ses

- Pre­sent

- Past

- E-ma­il ac­ti­vity, past ye­ar

- TC/PIP his­tory

- Out­go­ing ad­dres­ses

- In­co­ming ad­dres­ses

- Con­tent (war­rant may be re­qu­ired to vi­ew)

- E-ma­il ac­ti­vity, past fi­ve ye­ars (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- TC/PIP his­tory

- Out­go­ing ad­dres­ses

- In­co­ming ad­dres­ses

- Con­tent (war­rant may be re­qu­ired to vi­ew)

- Web si­tes, pre­sent

- Per­so­nal

- Pro­fes­si­onal

- Web si­tes, past fi­ve ye­ars (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Per­so­nal

- Pro­fes­si­onal

- Blogs, li­fe­logs, Web si­tes (See ap­pen­di­ces for text of Pas­sa­ges of In­te­rest (POI))

- So­ci­al Web si­te mem­bers­hips (mySpa­ce, Fa­ce­bo­ok, Our­World, ot­hers) (See ap­pen­di­ces for text of Pas­sa­ges of In­te­rest (POI))

- Ava­tars/other per­so­nas on­li­ne

- Ma­iling lists

- “Bud­di­es” on e-ma­il ac­co­unts

- In­ter­net Re­lay Chat par­ti­ci­pa­ti­on

- Web brow­sing and se­arch en­gi­ne re­qu­ests/re­sults

- Key­bo­ar­ding tech­ni­que pro­fi­le

- Se­arch en­gi­ne gram­mar, syntax and punc­tu­ati­on pro­fi­le

- Pac­ka­ge de­li­very ser­vi­ce his­tory

- Pos­tal bo­xes

- Exp­ress Ma­il/Re­gis­te­red/Cer­ti­fi­ed USPS ac­ti­vity

LIFESTYLE ACTIVITIES

- Purc­ha­ses to­day

- Thre­at-ori­en­ted items or com­mo­di­ti­es

- Clot­hing

- Ve­hic­les and ve­hic­le re­la­ted

- Fo­od

- Li­qu­or

- Ho­use­hold items

- Ap­pli­an­ces

- Ot­her

- Purc­ha­ses in past 7 days

- Thre­at-ori­en­ted items or com­mo­di­ti­es

- Clot­hing

- Ve­hic­les and ve­hic­le re­la­ted

- Fo­od

- Li­qu­or

- Ho­use­hold items

- Ap­pli­an­ces

- Ot­her

- Purc­ha­ses in past thirty days

- Thre­at-ori­en­ted items or com­mo­di­ti­es

- Clot­hing

- Ve­hic­les and ve­hic­le re­la­ted

- Fo­od

- Li­qu­or

- Ho­use­hold items

- Ap­pli­an­ces

- Ot­her

- Purc­ha­ses in past ye­ar (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Thre­at-ori­en­ted items or com­mo­di­ti­es

- Clot­hing

- Ve­hic­les and ve­hic­le re­la­ted

- Fo­od

- Li­qu­or

- Ho­use­hold items

- Ap­pli­an­ces

- Ot­her

- Bo­oks/ma­ga­zi­nes purc­ha­sed on­li­ne

- Sus­pi­ci­o­us/sub­ver­si­ve

- Ot­hers of in­te­rest

- Bo­oks/ma­ga­zi­nes purc­ha­sed in re­ta­il sto­res

- Sus­pi­ci­o­us/sub­ver­si­ve

- Ot­hers of in­te­rest

- Bo­oks/ma­ga­zi­nes chec­ked out from lib­ra­ri­es

- Sus­pi­ci­o­us/sub­ver­si­ve

- Ot­hers of in­te­rest

- Bo­oks/ma­ga­zi­nes ob­ser­ved by air­port/air­li­ne per­son­nel

- Sus­pi­ci­o­us/sub­ver­si­ve

- Ot­hers of in­te­rest

- Ot­her lib­rary ac­ti­vi­ti­es

- Bri­dal/sho­wer/anni­ver­sary gift re­gist­ri­es

- The­at­ri­cal films

- Cab­le te­le­vi­si­on prog­rams/pay-per-vi­ew watc­hed past thirty days

- Cab­le te­le­vi­si­on prog­rams/pay-per-vi­ew watc­hed, past ye­ar (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Subsc­rip­ti­on ra­dio sta­ti­ons

- Tra­vel

- Auto­mo­ti­ve

- Ow­ned ve­hic­les

- Ren­tal

- Pub­lic tran­s­por­ta­ti­on

- Ta­xis/li­mos

- Bus

- Tra­ins

- Air­p­la­nes, com­mer­ci­al

- Do­mes­tic

- In­ter­na­ti­onal

- Air­p­la­nes, pri­va­te

- Do­mes­tic

- In­ter­na­ti­onal

- TSA se­cu­rity scre­ens

- Ap­pe­aran­ce on no-fly lists

- Pre­sen­ce in Lo­ca­ti­ons of In­te­rest (LOI)

- Lo­cal

- Mos­qu­es

- Ot­her lo­ca­ti­ons—U.S.

- Mos­qu­es

- Ot­her lo­ca­ti­ons—inter­na­ti­onal

- Pre­sen­ce in or tran­sit thro­ugh Red Flag Lo­ca­ti­ons (RFL): Cu­ba, Ugan­da, Lib­ya, So­uth Ye­men, Li­be­ria, Gha­na, Su­dan, De­moc­ra­tic Re­pub­lic of Con­go, In­do­ne­sia, Pa­les­ti­ni­an Ter­ri­to­ri­es, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Egypt, Sa­udi Ara­bia, Jor­dan, Pa­kis­tan, Erit­rea, Afg­ha­nis­tan, Chechn­ya, So­ma­lia, Su­dan, Ni­ge­ria, Phi­lip­pi­nes, North Ko­rea, Azer­ba­i­j­an, Chi­le.

GEOGRAPHIC POSITIONING OF SUBJECT

- GPS de­vi­ces (all po­si­ti­ons to­day)

- Ve­hi­cu­lar

- Han­d­held

- Mo­bi­le pho­nes

- GPS de­vi­ces (all po­si­ti­ons past se­ven days)

- Ve­hi­cu­lar

- Han­d­held

- Mo­bi­le pho­nes

- GPS de­vi­ces (all po­si­ti­ons past thirty days)

- Ve­hi­cu­lar

- Han­d­held

- Mo­bi­le pho­nes

- GPS de­vi­ces (all po­si­ti­ons past ye­ar) (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Ve­hi­cu­lar

- Han­d­held

- Mo­bi­le pho­nes

- Bi­omet­ric ob­ser­va­ti­ons

- To­day

- Past se­ven days

- Past thirty days

- Past ye­ar (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- RFID re­ports, ot­her than high­way toll re­aders

- To­day

- Past se­ven days

- Past thirty days

- Past ye­ar (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- RFID re­ports, high­way toll re­aders

- To­day

- Past se­ven days

- Past thirty days

- Past ye­ar (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Traf­fic vi­ola­ti­on pho­tos/vi­deo

- CCTV pho­tos/vi­deo

- War­ran­ted sur­ve­il­lan­ce pho­tos/vi­deo

- Col­la­te­ral sur­ve­il­lan­ce pho­tos/vi­deo

- In-per­son fi­nan­ci­al tran­sac­ti­on hits

- To­day

- Past se­ven days

- Past thirty days

- Past ye­ar (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- Mo­bi­le pho­ne/PDA/te­le­com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons hits

- To­day

- Past se­ven days

- Past thirty days

- Past ye­ar (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

- In­ci­dents of pro­xi­mity to se­cu­rity tar­gets

- To­day

- Past se­ven days

- Past thirty days

- Past ye­ar (archi­ved, may be de­lay in ac­ces­sing)

LEGAL

- Cri­mi­nal his­tory—U.S.

- De­ten­ti­on/qu­es­ti­oning

- Ar­rests

- Con­vic­ti­ons

- Cri­mi­nal his­tory—fo­re­ign

- De­ten­ti­on/qu­es­ti­oning

- Ar­rests

- Con­vic­ti­ons

-- Watch lists

- Sur­ve­il­lan­ce

- Ci­vil li­ti­ga­ti­on

- Rest­ra­ining or­ders

- Whist­leb­lo­wer his­tory

ADDITIONAL DOSSIERS

- Fe­de­ral Bu­re­au of In­ves­ti­ga­ti­on

- Cent­ral In­tel­li­gen­ce Agency

- Na­ti­onal Se­cu­rity Agency

- Na­ti­onal Re­con­na­is­san­ce Or­ga­ni­za­ti­on

- NPIA

- U.S. Mi­li­tary In­tel­li­gen­ce Agen­ci­es

- Army

- Navy

- Air For­ce

- Ma­ri­nes

- Sta­te and lo­cal po­li­ce in­tel­li­gen­ce de­part­ments

THREAT ASSESSMENT

- As­ses­sment as se­cu­rity risk

- Pri­va­te sec­tor

- Pub­lic sec­tor

And this was just the tab­le of con­tents. Ame­lia Sachs’s dos­si­er it­self was clo­se to fi­ve hund­red pa­ges long.

Rhyme scrol­led thro­ugh the list and clic­ked on va­ri­o­us to­pics. The ent­ri­es we­re den­se as wo­od. He whis­pe­red, “SSD has this in­for­ma­ti­on? On ever­yo­ne in Ame­ri­ca?”

“No,” Whit­comb sa­id. “For child­ren un­der fi­ve the­re’s very lit­tle, ob­vi­o­usly. And with many adults, the­re’re a lot of gaps. But SSD do­es the best they can. They’re imp­ro­ving it every day.”

Impro­ving? Rhyme won­de­red.

Pu­las­ki nod­ded at the sa­les broc­hu­re Mel Co­oper had down­lo­aded. “Fo­ur hund­red mil­li­on pe­op­le?”

“That’s right. And gro­wing.”

“And it’s up­da­ted ho­urly?” Rhyme as­ked.

“Often in re­al ti­me.”

“So yo­ur go­vern­ment agency, Whit­comb, this Comp­li­an­ce Di­vi­si­on…it isn’t abo­ut gu­ar­ding the da­ta; you’re using it, right? To find ter­ro­rists?”

Whit­comb pa­used. But sin­ce he’d al­re­ady sent the dos­si­er to so­me­body who didn’t ha­ve an A-18 cle­aran­ce, wha­te­ver the hell that was, he must ha­ve fi­gu­red that sha­ring a bit mo­re wasn’t go­ing to ma­ke the con­se­qu­en­ces any wor­se. “That’s right. And it’s not just ter­ro­rists. It’s ot­her cri­mi­nals too. SSD uses pre­dic­ti­ve soft­wa­re to fi­gu­re out who’s go­ing to com­mit cri­mes and when and how. A lot of the tips that go to po­li­ce of­fi­ci­als and in­tel­li­gen­ce de­part­ments co­me from what lo­ok li­ke anony­mo­us con­cer­ned ci­ti­zens. They’re ac­tu­al­ly ava­tars. Fic­ti­ons. Cre­ated by Watch­to­wer and in­ner­Circ­le. So­me­ti­mes they even col­lect the re­wards, which are then sent back to the go­vern­ment to be used aga­in.”

It was Mel Co­oper who as­ked, “But if you’re a go­vern­ment agency, why are you gi­ving the job to a pri­va­te com­pany? Why not do it yo­ur­self?”

“We ha­ve to use a pri­va­te com­pany. The De­fen­se De­part­ment tri­ed to do so­met­hing li­ke this them­sel­ves af­ter ni­ne-ele­ven: the To­tal In­for­ma­ti­on Awa­re­ness prog­ram. It was run by for­mer Na­ti­onal Se­cu­rity Ad­vi­sor John Po­in­dex­ter and an exe­cu­ti­ve from SA­IC. But it got clo­sed down—vi­ola­ti­ons of the Pri­vacy Act. And the pub­lic tho­ught it was too Big Brot­her. But SSD isn’t su­bj­ect to the sa­me le­gal rest­ric­ti­ons that the go­vern­ment is.”

Whit­comb ga­ve a cyni­cal la­ugh. “Also, with all res­pect to my emp­lo­yer, Was­hing­ton wasn’t very ta­len­ted. SSD is. The two ma­in words in And­rew Ster­ling’s vo­ca­bu­lary are ‘know­led­ge’ and ‘effi­ci­ency.’ And no­body com­bi­nes tho­se bet­ter than him.”

“It’s not il­le­gal?” Mel Co­oper as­ked.

“We’re in so­me gray are­as,” Whit­comb con­ce­ded.

“Well, can it help us? That’s all I want to know.”

“May­be.”

“How?”

Whit­comb exp­la­ined, “We’ll run De­tec­ti­ve Sachs’s ge­og­rap­hic-po­si­ti­oning pro­fi­le for to­day. I’ll ta­ke over the key­bo­ar­ding.” He be­gan to type. “You’ll see what I do on yo­ur scre­en in the box at the bot­tom.”

“How long will that ta­ke?”

A la­ugh, mu­ted thanks to the bro­ken no­se. “Not very long. It’s pretty spe­edy.”

He hadn’t fi­nis­hed spe­aking be­fo­re text fil­led the scre­en.

GEOGRAPHIC POSITIONING PROFILE SUBJECT 7303—4490—7831—3478

Ti­me pa­ra­me­ters: Past fo­ur ho­urs.

· 1632 ho­urs. Pho­ne call. From su­bj­ect’s mo­bi­le pho­ne to land­li­ne of Su­bj­ect 5732-4887-3360-4759 (Lin­coln Henry Rhyme) (tet­he­red in­di­vi­du­al). 52 se­conds. Su­bj­ect was in her Bro­oklyn, NY, re­si­den­ce.

· 1723 ho­urs. Bi­omet­ric hit. CCTV, NYPD 84th Pre­cinct, Bro­oklyn, NY. 95% pro­ba­bi­lity match.

· 1723 ho­urs. Bi­omet­ric hit. Su­bj­ect 3865-6453-9902-7221 (Pa­me­la D. Wil­lo­ughby) (tet­he­red in­di­vi­du­al). CCTV, NYPD 84th Pre­cinct, Bro­oklyn, NY. 92.4% pro­ba­bi­lity match.

· 1740 ho­urs. Pho­ne call. From su­bj­ect’s mo­bi­le pho­ne to land­li­ne of Su­bj­ect 5732-4887-3360-4759 (Lin­coln Henry Rhyme) (tet­he­red In­di­vi­du­al). 12 se­conds.

· 1827 ho­urs. RFID scan. Man­hat­tan Style Bo­uti­que cre­dit card, 9 West Eighth Stre­et. No purc­ha­ses.

· 1841 ho­urs. Bi­omet­ric hit. CCTV, Pres­co Dis­co­unt Gas and Oil, 546 W. 14th Stre­et, Pump 7, 2001 Hon­da Ci­vic, NY Li­cen­se Num­ber MDH459, re­gis­te­red to 3865-6453-9902-7221 (Pa­me­la D. Wil­lo­ughby) (tet­he­red in­di­vi­du­al).

· 1846 ho­urs. Cre­dit card purc­ha­se. Pres­co Dis­co­unt Gas and Oil, 546 W. 14th Stre­et. Pump 7. Purc­ha­se of 14.6 gal­lons, re­gu­lar gra­de. $43.86 US.

· 1901 ho­urs. Li­cen­se pla­te scan. CCTV, Ave­nue of the Ame­ri­cas and 23rd Stre­et, Hon­da Ci­vic MDH459 north­bo­und.

· 1903 ho­urs. Pho­ne call. From su­bj­ect’s mo­bi­le pho­ne to land­li­ne of Su­bj­ect 5732-4887-3360-4759 (Lin­coln Henry Rhyme) (tet­he­red in­di­vi­du­al). Su­bj­ect was at Ave­nue of the Ame­ri­cas and 28th Stre­et. 14 se­conds.

· 1907 ho­urs. RFID scan, As­so­ci­ated Cre­dit Uni­on cre­dit card, Ave­nue of the Ame­ri­cas and 34th Stre­et. 4 se­conds. No purc­ha­se.

“Okay, she’s in Pam’s car. Why’s that? Whe­re’s hers?”

“What’s the li­cen­se?” Whit­comb as­ked. “Ne­ver mind, it’s fas­ter just to use her co­de. Let’s see…”

A win­dow pop­ped up and they co­uld see a re­port that her Ca­ma­ro had be­en im­po­un­ded and to­wed from in front of her ho­use. No­body had any in­for­ma­ti­on on the po­und it was des­ti­ned for.

“Fi­ve Twenty-Two did that,” Rhyme whis­pe­red. “He must ha­ve. Li­ke yo­ur wi­fe, Pu­las­ki. And the elect­ri­city he­re. He’s go­ing af­ter all of us, ho­we­ver he can.”

Whit­comb typed and the auto­mo­bi­le in­for­ma­ti­on was rep­la­ced with a map, sho­wing the hits on the ge­og­rap­hic-po­si­ti­oning pro­fi­le. It re­ve­aled Sachs’s mo­ve­ment from Bro­oklyn to Mid­town. But then the tra­il stop­ped.

“The last one?” Rhyme as­ked. “The RFID scan. What was that?”

Whit­comb sa­id, “A sto­re re­ad the chip in one of her cre­dit cards. But it was bri­ef. Pro­bably she was in the car. She’d ha­ve to be wal­king pretty fast for that short a re­ading.”

“Did she ke­ep go­ing north?” Rhyme mu­sed.

“That’s all the in­for­ma­ti­on we ha­ve. It’ll up­da­te so­on.”

Mel Co­oper sa­id, “She might’ve ta­ken Thirty-fo­urth Stre­et to the West Si­de High­way. And go­ne north, out of the city.”

“The­re’s a toll brid­ge,” Whit­comb sa­id. “If she cros­ses it we’ll get a hit on the li­cen­se pla­te num­ber. The girl who­se car it is—Pam Wil­lo­ughby—do­esn’t ha­ve an E-ZPass. in­ner­Circ­le wo­uld tell us if she did.”

At Rhyme’s inst­ruc­ti­on, Mel Co­oper—the se­ni­or po­li­ce of­fi­cer among them—had an emer­gency ve­hic­le lo­ca­tor sent out on Pam’s li­cen­se num­ber and car ma­ke.

Rhyme cal­led the pre­cinct ho­use in Bro­oklyn, whe­re he le­ar­ned only that Sachs’s Ca­ma­ro had in­de­ed be­en to­wed. Sachs and Pam had be­en the­re bri­efly but had left qu­ickly and hadn’t sa­id whe­re they we­re go­ing. Rhyme cal­led the girl on her mo­bi­le. She was in the city with a girlf­ri­end. Pam con­fir­med that Sachs had dis­co­ve­red a le­ad af­ter the bre­ak-in at her town ho­use in Bro­oklyn but hadn’t men­ti­oned what it was or whe­re she was go­ing.

Rhyme dis­con­nec­ted.

Whit­comb sa­id, “We’ll fe­ed the ge­opo­si­ti­oning hits and everyt­hing we’ve got abo­ut her and the ca­se thro­ugh FORT, the obs­cu­re re­la­ti­ons­hip prog­ram, then Xpec­ta­ti­on. That’s the pre­dic­ti­ve soft­wa­re. If the­re’s any way to find out whe­re she’s go­ne, this’ll do it.”

Whit­comb lo­oked up at the ce­iling aga­in. Gri­ma­ced. He ro­se and wal­ked to the do­or. Rhyme co­uld see him lock it, then wed­ge a wo­oden cha­ir un­der the knob. He ga­ve a fa­int smi­le as he sat down at the com­pu­ter. He be­gan to type.

“Mark?” Pu­las­ki as­ked.

“Yes?”

“Thanks. And this ti­me, I me­an it.”

Chapter Forty-Six

Li­fe is a strug­gle, of co­ur­se.

My idol—Andrew Ster­ling—and I sha­re the sa­me pas­si­on for da­ta, and we both ap­pre­ci­ate the­ir mystery, the­ir al­lu­re, the­ir im­men­se po­wer. But un­til I step­ped in­to his sphe­re I ne­ver ap­pre­ci­ated the full ex­tent of using da­ta as a we­apon to ex­pand yo­ur vi­si­on to every cor­ner of the world. Re­du­cing all of li­fe, all of exis­ten­ce to num­bers, then watc­hing them bil­low in­to so­met­hing trans­cen­dent.

Immor­tal so­ul…

I was in lo­ve with SQL, the work­hor­se stan­dard for da­ta­ba­se ma­na­ge­ment, un­til I was se­du­ced by And­rew and Watch­to­wer. Who wo­uldn’t ha­ve be­en? Its po­wer and ele­gan­ce are enth­ral­ling. And I’ve co­me to fully ap­pre­ci­ate the world of da­ta, thanks to him—tho­ugh in­di­rectly. He’s ne­ver gi­ven me mo­re than a ple­asant nod in the hall and a qu­ery abo­ut the we­ekend, tho­ugh he knew my na­me wit­ho­ut a glan­ce at the ID on my chest (what a bre­ath­ta­kingly bril­li­ant mind he has). I think of all the la­te nights I spent in his of­fi­ce, 2:00 A.M. or so, SSD empty, sit­ting in his cha­ir and fe­eling his pre­sen­ce as I re­ad thro­ugh his spi­ne-up lib­rary. Not a sing­le one of tho­se pe­dan­tic and silly bu­si­nes­sman’s self-help bo­oks, but vo­lu­mes and vo­lu­mes re­ve­aling a much gre­ater vi­si­on: bo­oks abo­ut the col­lec­ti­on of po­wer and ge­og­rap­hic ter­ri­tory: the con­ti­nen­tal U.S. un­der the Ma­ni­fest Des­tiny doct­ri­ne in the 1800s, Euro­pe un­der the Third Re­ich, ma­re nos­t­ra un­der the Ro­mans, the en­ti­re world un­der the Cat­ho­lic Church and Is­lam. (And they all ap­pre­ci­ated the in­ci­si­ve po­wer of da­ta, by the way.)

Ah, the things I’ve le­ar­ned just from over­he­aring And­rew, sa­vo­ring what he’s writ­ten in drafts of me­mos and let­ters and the bo­ok he’s wor­king on.

“Mis­ta­kes are no­ise. No­ise is con­ta­mi­na­ti­on. Con­ta­mi­na­ti­on must be eli­mi­na­ted.”

“Only in vic­tory can we af­ford to be ge­ne­ro­us.”

“Only the we­ak com­p­ro­mi­se.”

“Eit­her find a so­lu­ti­on to yo­ur prob­lem, or stop con­si­de­ring it a prob­lem.”

“We are born to bat­tle.”

“He who un­ders­tands wins; he who knows un­der­s­tands.”

I con­si­der what And­rew wo­uld think abo­ut what I’m up to, and I be­li­eve he’d be ple­ased.

And now, the bat­tle aga­inst Them mo­ves for­ward.

On the stre­et ne­ar my ho­me I press the key fob aga­in and fi­nal­ly a horn gi­ves a mu­ted ble­ep.

Let’s see, let’s see… Ah, he­re we go. Lo­ok at this pi­ece of junk, a Hon­da Ci­vic. Bor­ro­wed, of co­ur­se, sin­ce Ame­lia 7303’s car is now sit­ting in a po­und—a co­up I’m rat­her pro­ud of. Ne­ver tho­ught of trying that be­fo­re.

My tho­ughts stray back to my be­a­uti­ful red­he­ad. Was she bluf­fing abo­ut what They knew? Abo­ut Pe­ter Gor­don? That’s the funny thing abo­ut know­led­ge; such a fi­ne li­ne bet­we­en truth and a lie. But I can’t ta­ke the chan­ce. I’ll ha­ve to hi­de the car.

My tho­ughts go back to her.

The wo­man’s wild eyes, her red ha­ir, the body…I’m not su­re I can wa­it much lon­ger.

Trop­hi­es…

A fast exa­mi­na­ti­on of the car. So­me bo­oks, ma­ga­zi­nes, Kle­enex, so­me empty Vi­ta­min Wa­ter bot­tles, a Star­bucks nap­kin, run­ning sho­es shed­ding rub­ber, a Se­ven­te­en ma­ga­zi­ne in the back­se­at and a text­bo­ok on po­etry…And who owns this su­perb cont­ri­bu­ti­on to the world of Japa­ne­se tech­no­logy? The re­gist­ra­ti­on tells me it’s Pa­me­la Wil­lo­ughby.

I’ll get a lit­tle mo­re in­for­ma­ti­on on her from in­ner­Circ­le then I’ll pay her a vi­sit. Won­der what she lo­oks li­ke? I’ll check DMV to ma­ke su­re she’s worth the tro­ub­le.

The car starts up just fi­ne. Ease out ca­re­ful­ly, no up­set­ting ot­her dri­vers. Don’t want to ma­ke a sce­ne.

A half block, in­to the al­ley.

What do­es Miss Pam li­ke to lis­ten to? Rock, rock, al­ter­na­ti­ve, hip-hop, talk and NPR. Pre­sets are ext­re­mely in­for­ma­ti­ve.

I’m al­re­ady for­ming a ga­me plan to ar­ran­ge a tran­sac­ti­on with the girl: get­ting to know her. We’ll me­et at Ame­lia 7303’s me­mo­ri­al ser­vi­ce (no body, no fu­ne­ral). I’ll of­fer sympathy. I met her du­ring the ca­se she was wor­king on. I re­al­ly li­ked her. Oh, don’t cry, ho­ney. It’s okay. Tell you what. Let’s get to­get­her. I can tell you all abo­ut the sto­ri­es Ame­lia sha­red with me. Her fat­her. And the in­te­res­ting story of her grand­fat­her’s co­ming to this co­untry. (After I le­ar­ned she was sno­oping aro­und, I chec­ked out her dos­si­er. What an in­te­res­ting his­tory.) We got to be go­od fri­ends. I’m re­al­ly de­vas­ta­ted… How abo­ut cof­fee? You li­ke Star­bucks? I al­ways go the­re af­ter my run in Cent­ral Park every eve­ning. No! You too?

We su­re se­em to ha­ve so­met­hing in com­mon.

Oh, the­re’s that fe­eling aga­in, thin­king abo­ut Pam. How ugly can she be?

It might be a wa­it to get her in­to my trunk… I ha­ve to ta­ke ca­re of Thom Res­ton first—and a few ot­her things. But at le­ast I ha­ve Ame­lia 7303 for to­night.

I dri­ve in­to the ga­ra­ge and ditch the car—it’ll rest he­re un­til I swap pla­tes and it go­es to the bot­tom of the Cro­ton re­ser­vo­ir. But I can’t think abo­ut that now. I’m pretty con­su­med, plan­ning out the tran­sac­ti­on with my red-ha­ired fri­end, wa­iting back ho­me in my Clo­set, li­ke a wi­fe for her hus­band af­ter a re­al­ly to­ugh day at the of­fi­ce.

Sorry, no pre­dic­ti­on can be ma­de at this ti­me. Ple­ase in­put mo­re da­ta and try yo­ur re­qu­est aga­in.

Des­pi­te dra­wing from the world’s lar­gest da­ta­ba­se, des­pi­te the sta­te-of-the-art soft­wa­re exa­mi­ning every de­ta­il of Ame­lia Sachs’s li­fe at the spe­ed of light, the prog­ram struck out.

“I’m sorry,” Mark Whit­comb sa­id, dab­bing his no­se. The high-def system on the vi­deo-con­fe­ren­cing system disp­la­yed the na­sal inj­ury qu­ite pro­mi­nently. It lo­oked bad; Ron Pu­las­ki had re­al­ly slam­med him.

The yo­ung man con­ti­nu­ed, snif­fing, “The­re just aren’t eno­ugh de­ta­ils. What you get out is only as go­od as what you put in. It works best with a pat­tern of be­ha­vi­ors. All it tells us is that she’s go­ing so­mep­la­ce she’s ne­ver be­en be­fo­re, at le­ast not on that ro­ute.”

Right to the kil­ler’s ho­use, Rhyme ref­lec­ted in frust­ra­ti­on.

Whe­re the hell was she?

“Hold on a mi­nu­te. The system’s up­da­ting…”

The scre­en flic­ke­red and chan­ged. Whit­comb blur­ted, “I’ve got her! So­me RFID hits twenty mi­nu­tes ago.”

“Whe­re?” Rhyme whis­pe­red.

Whit­comb put them on the scre­en. They we­re in a qu­i­et block on the Up­per East Si­de. “Two hits at sto­res. The du­ra­ti­on of the first RFID scan was two se­conds. The next was slightly lon­ger, eight se­conds. May­be she was pa­using to check an ad­dress.”

“Call Bo Ha­umann now!” Rhyme sho­uted.

Pu­las­ki hit spe­ed di­al and a mo­ment la­ter the he­ad of Emer­gency Ser­vi­ce ca­me on the pho­ne.

“Bo, I’ve got a le­ad on Ame­lia. She went af­ter Fi­ve Twenty-Two and she’s di­sap­pe­ared. We’ve got a com­pu­ter mo­ni­to­ring her whe­re­abo­uts. Abo­ut twenty mi­nu­tes ago she was ne­ar six forty-two East Eighty-eighth.”

“We can be the­re in ten mi­nu­tes, Linc. Hos­ta­ge si­tu­ati­on?”

“That’s what I’d say. Call me when you know so­met­hing.”

They dis­con­nec­ted.

Rhyme tho­ught back to her mes­sa­ge on vo­ice ma­il. It se­emed so fra­gi­le, that tiny bund­le of di­gi­tal da­ta.

In his mind he co­uld he­ar her vo­ice per­fectly: “I ha­ve a le­ad, a go­od one, Rhyme. Call me.”

He co­uldn’t help won­de­ring if it wo­uld be the­ir last com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on.

Bo Ha­umann’s Emer­gency Ser­vi­ce Unit A Te­am was stan­ding ne­ar a do­or­way of a lar­ge town ho­use on the Up­per East Si­de: fo­ur of­fi­cers in full body ar­mor, hol­ding MP-5s, com­pact, black mac­hi­ne guns. They we­re ca­re­ful­ly sta­ying cle­ar of the win­dows.

Ha­umann had to ad­mit he hadn’t se­en anyt­hing li­ke this in all his ye­ars in the mi­li­tary or the po­li­ce de­part­ment. Lin­coln Rhyme was using so­me kind of com­pu­ter prog­ram that had trac­ked Ame­lia Sachs to this area, only it wasn’t thro­ugh her pho­ne or a wi­re or GPS trac­ker. May­be this was the fu­tu­re of po­li­ce work.

The de­vi­ce hadn’t gi­ven the ac­tu­al lo­ca­ti­on whe­re the te­ams now we­re—a pri­va­te re­si­den­ce. But a wit­ness had se­en a wo­man pa­use at both shops whe­re the com­pu­ter had spot­ted her, then she’d he­aded to this town ho­use ac­ross the stre­et.

Whe­re she was pre­su­mably be­ing held by the perp they we­re cal­ling 522.

Fi­nal­ly, the te­am in the back cal­led in. “B Te­am to One. We’re in po­si­ti­on. Can’t see anyt­hing. Which flo­or is she on, K?”

“No idea. We just go in and swe­ep. Mo­ve fast. She’s be­en in the­re a whi­le. I’ll hit the bell and when he co­mes to the do­or, we mo­ve in.”

“Ro­ger, K.”

“Te­am C. We’ll be on the ro­of in three or fo­ur mi­nu­tes.”

“Mo­ve it!” Ha­umann grumb­led.

“Yes, sir.”

Ha­umann had wor­ked with Ame­lia Sachs for ye­ars. She had mo­re balls than most of the men who ser­ved un­der him. He wasn’t su­re he li­ked her—she was pig­he­aded and ab­rupt and of­ten bluf­fed her way on­to po­int when she sho­uld ha­ve held back—but he su­re as hell res­pec­ted her.

And he wasn’t go­ing to let her go down to a ra­pist li­ke this 522. He nod­ded an ESU de­tec­ti­ve up to the porch—dres­sed in a bu­si­ness su­it so that when he knoc­ked on the do­or, a glan­ce thro­ugh the pe­ep­ho­le wo­uldn’t tip off the kil­ler. On­ce he ope­ned the do­or, of­fi­cers cro­uc­hing aga­inst the front of the town ho­use wo­uld le­ap up and rush him. The of­fi­cer but­to­ned his jac­ket and nod­ded.

“God­dam­nit,” Ha­umann ra­di­o­ed im­pa­ti­ently to the te­am in the back. “You in pla­ce yet or not?”

Chapter Forty-Seven

The do­or ope­ned and she he­ard the kil­ler’s fo­ots­teps en­ter the stin­king, cla­ust­rop­ho­bic ro­om.

Ame­lia Sachs was in a cro­uch, her kne­es in agony, strug­gling to get to the hand­cuff key in her front poc­ket. But sur­ro­un­ded by the to­we­ring stacks of news­pa­pers, she hadn’t be­en ab­le to turn far eno­ugh to re­ach in­to her front poc­ket. She’d to­uc­hed it thro­ugh the cloth, felt its sha­pe, tan­ta­li­zing, but co­uldn’t slip her fin­gers in­to the slit.

She was rac­ked with frust­ra­ti­on.

Mo­re fo­ots­teps.

Whe­re, whe­re?

One mo­re lun­ge for the key…Almost but not qu­ite.

Then his steps mo­ved clo­ser. She ga­ve up.

Okay, it was ti­me to fight. Fi­ne with her. She’d se­en his eyes, the lust, the hun­ger. She knew he’d be co­ming for her at any mo­ment. She didn’t know how she’d hurt him, with her hands cuf­fed be­hind her and the ter­rib­le pa­in in her sho­ul­der and fa­ce from the fight ear­li­er. But the bas­tard’d pay for every to­uch.

Only, whe­re was he?

The fo­ots­teps had stop­ped.

Whe­re? Sachs had no pers­pec­ti­ve on the ro­om. The cor­ri­dor he’d ha­ve to co­me thro­ugh to get to her was a two-fo­ot-wi­de path thro­ugh the to­wers of moldy news­pa­pers. She co­uld see his desk and the pi­les of junk, the stacks of ma­ga­zi­nes.

Co­me on, co­me for me.

I’m re­ady. I’ll act sca­red, shy away. Ra­pists are all abo­ut cont­rol. He’ll be em­po­we­red—and ca­re­less—when he se­es me co­wer. Then when he le­ans clo­se, I’ll go for his thro­at with my te­eth. Hold on and don’t let go, wha­te­ver hap­pens. I’ll—

It was then that the bu­il­ding col­lap­sed, a bomb de­to­na­ted.

A mas­si­ve crus­hing ti­de tumb­led over her, slam­ming her to the flo­or and pin­ning her im­mo­bi­le.

She grun­ted in pa­in.

Only af­ter a mi­nu­te did Sachs re­ali­ze what he’d do­ne—may­be an­ti­ci­pa­ting that she was go­ing to fight, he’d simply pus­hed over stacks of the news­pa­pers.

Legs and hands fro­zen, her chest, sho­ul­ders and he­ad ex­po­sed, she was trap­ped by hund­reds of po­unds of stin­king news­pa­per.

The cla­ust­rop­ho­bia grab­bed her, the pa­nic in­desc­ri­bab­le, and she bar­ked a scre­am with stac­ca­to bre­ath. She strug­gled to cont­rol the fe­ar.

Pe­ter Gor­don ap­pe­ared at the end of the tun­nel. She saw in one of his hands the ste­el bla­de of a ra­zor. In the ot­her was a ta­pe re­cor­der. He stu­di­ed her clo­sely.

“Ple­ase,” she whim­pe­red. The pa­nic was only partly fe­ig­ned.

“You’re lo­vely,” he whis­pe­red.

He be­gan to say so­met­hing el­se but the words we­re lost in the so­und of a do­or­bell, which chi­med in he­re as well as the ma­in part of the town ho­use.

Gor­don pa­used.

Then the bell rang aga­in.

He ro­se and wal­ked to the desk, typed on the key­bo­ard and stu­di­ed the com­pu­ter scre­en—pro­bably a se­cu­rity ca­me­ra sho­wing the ima­ge of the vi­si­tor. He frow­ned.

The kil­ler de­ba­ted. He glan­ced at her and ca­re­ful­ly fol­ded the ra­zor, then slip­ped it in­to his back poc­ket.

He wal­ked to the clo­set do­or and step­ped thro­ugh it. She he­ard the click of the latch be­hind him. On­ce mo­re her hand be­gan to worm clo­ser to her poc­ket and the tiny bit of me­tal in­si­de.

“Lin­coln.”

Bo Ha­umann’s vo­ice was dis­tant.

Rhyme whis­pe­red, “Tell me.”

“It wasn’t her.”

“What?”

“The hits—from that com­pu­ter prog­ram—they we­re right. But it wasn’t Ame­lia.” He exp­la­ined that she ga­ve her fri­end, Pam Wil­lo­ughby, her cre­dit card to buy gro­ce­ri­es in ho­pes they co­uld ha­ve din­ner that night and talk abo­ut so­me “per­so­nal stuff.” “That’s what the system re­ad, I gu­ess. She went to a sto­re, did so­me win­dow-shop­ping and then she stop­ped he­re—it’s a fri­end’s ho­use. They we­re do­ing the­ir ho­me­work.”

Rhyme’s eyes clo­sed. “Okay, thanks, Bo. You can stand down. All we can do is wa­it.”

“I’m sorry, Lin­coln,” Ron Pu­las­ki sa­id.

A nod.

His eyes stra­yed to the man­tel, whe­re sat a pic­tu­re of Sachs we­aring a black crash hel­met, in the ca­ge of a NAS­CAR Ford. Be­si­de it was a pho­to of them to­get­her, Rhyme in his cha­ir, Sachs hug­ging him.

He co­uldn’t lo­ok at it. His eyes stra­yed to the whi­te­bo­ards.

UNSUB 522 PROFILE

- Ma­le

- Pro­bably nons­mo­ker

- Pro­bably no wi­fe/child­ren

- Pro­bably whi­te or light-skin­ned eth­nic

- Me­di­um bu­ild

- Strong—able to strang­le vic­tims

- Ac­cess to vo­ice-dis­gu­ise equ­ip­ment

- Com­pu­ter li­te­ra­te; knows Our­World. Ot­her so­ci­al-net­wor­king si­tes?

- Ta­kes trop­hi­es from vic­tims

- Eats snack fo­od/hot sa­uce

- We­ars si­ze-11 Skec­hers work shoe

- Ho­ar­der. Suf­fers from OCD

- Will ha­ve a “sec­ret” li­fe and a “fa­ça­de” li­fe

- Pub­lic per­so­na­lity will be op­po­si­te of his re­al self

- Re­si­den­ce: won’t rent, will ha­ve two se­pa­ra­te li­ving are­as, one nor­mal and one sec­ret

- Win­dows will be co­ve­red or pa­in­ted

- Will be­co­me vi­olent when col­lec­ting or tro­ve are thre­ate­ned

NONPLANTED EVIDENCE

- Old card­bo­ard

- Ha­ir from doll, BASF B35 nylon 6

- To­bac­co from Ta­rey­ton ci­ga­ret­te

- Old to­bac­co, not Ta­rey­ton, but brand unk­nown

- Evi­den­ce of Stachy­botrys Char­ta­rum mold

- Snack fo­od/ca­yen­ne pep­per

- Dust, from World Tra­de Cen­ter at­tack, pos­sibly in­di­ca­ting re­si­den­ce/job down­town Man­hat­tan

- Ro­pe fi­ber con­ta­ining:

- Cycla­ma­te di­et so­da (old or fo­re­ign)

- Napht­ha­le­ne (moth­bal­ls, old or fo­re­ign)

- Le­opard lily plant le­aves (inte­ri­or plant)

- Tra­ce from two dif­fe­rent le­gal pads, yel­low co­lo­red

- Tre­ad­mark from si­ze-11 Skec­hers work shoe

- Ho­usep­lant le­aves: fi­cus and Ag­la­one­ma—Chi­ne­se everg­re­en

- Cof­fee-ma­te

Whe­re are you, Sachs? Whe­re are you?

He sta­red at the charts, hypno­ti­cal­ly, wil­ling them to spe­ak. But the­se scanty facts of­fe­red no mo­re in­sights to Rhyme than had the in­ner­Circ­le da­ta to the SSD com­pu­ter.

Sorry, no pre­dic­ti­on can be ma­de at this ti­me…

Chapter Forty-Eight

A ne­igh­bor.

My vi­si­tor is a ne­igh­bor who li­ves up the block at num­ber 697 West Ni­nety-first Stre­et. He’d just got­ten ho­me from work. A pac­ka­ge was sup­po­sedly drop­ped off but it wasn’t the­re. The sto­re thinks it might ha­ve be­en de­li­ve­red to 679, my ad­dress. A mis­re­ad of the num­bers.

I frown and exp­la­in that not­hing’s be­en de­li­ve­red. He sho­uld check with the sto­re aga­in. I want to cut his thro­at for in­ter­rup­ting my tryst with Ame­lia 7303 but, of co­ur­se, I smi­le sympat­he­ti­cal­ly.

He’s sorry he’s bot­he­red me. Ha­ve a go­od day you too glad they’ve fi­nis­hed that stre­et work aren’t you…

And now I’m back to thin­king abo­ut my Ame­lia 7303. But, clo­sing the front do­or, I fe­el the jolt of pa­nic. I’ve sud­denly re­ali­zed that I to­ok everyt­hing from her—pho­ne and we­apons and MA­CE and kni­fe—except the hand­cuff key. It must be in her poc­ket.

This ne­igh­bor has dist­rac­ted me. I know whe­re he li­ves and he’ll pay for it. But now I hurry back to­ward my Clo­set, pul­ling the ra­zor from my poc­ket. Hurry! What’s she do­ing in­si­de? Is she ma­king a call to tell Them whe­re to find her?

She’s trying to ta­ke it all away from me! I ha­te her. I ha­te her so much…

The only prog­ress Ame­lia Sachs had ma­de in Gor­don’s ab­sen­ce was to cont­rol the pa­nic.

She’d tri­ed des­pe­ra­tely to re­ach the key but her legs and arms re­ma­ined fro­zen in the vi­se of news­pa­per and she co­uldn’t get her hips in po­si­ti­on to slip her hand in­si­de her poc­ket.

Yes, the cla­ust­rop­ho­bia was at bay, but pa­in was ra­pidly rep­la­cing it. Cramps in her bent legs, a sharp cor­ner of pa­per dig­ging in­to her back.

Her ho­pes that the vi­si­tor was a so­ur­ce of sal­va­ti­on di­ed. The do­or to the kil­ler’s hi­de­away ope­ned on­ce mo­re. And she he­ard Gor­don’s fo­ots­teps. A mo­ment la­ter she lo­oked up from her spot on the flo­or and saw him ga­zing at her. He wal­ked aro­und the mo­un­ta­in of pa­per, to the si­de, and squ­in­ted, no­ting that the cuffs we­re still in­tact.

He smi­led in re­li­ef. “So I’m Num­ber Fi­ve Twenty-Two.”

She nod­ded, won­de­ring how he’d fo­und out the­ir de­sig­na­ti­on for him. Pro­bably from tor­tu­ring Cap­ta­in Mal­loy, which ma­de her all the ang­ri­er.

“I pre­fer a num­ber that has a con­nec­ti­on to so­met­hing. Most di­gits are just ran­dom. The­re’s too much ran­dom­ness in li­fe. That’s the da­te you ca­ught on to me, isn’t it? Fi­ve Twenty-Two. That has sig­ni­fi­can­ce. I li­ke it.”

“If you co­me in we’ll cut a de­al.”

“‘Cut a de­al’?” He ga­ve an eerie, kno­wing la­ugh. “What kind of de­al co­uld an­yo­ne ‘cut’ me? The mur­ders we­re pre­me­di­ta­ted. I’d ne­ver get out of ja­il. Co­me on.” Gor­don di­sap­pe­ared mo­men­ta­rily and re­tur­ned with a plas­tic tarp, which he spre­ad out on the flo­or in front of her.

Sachs sta­red at the brown-blo­ody she­et, he­art thud­ding. Thin­king of what Terry Dobyns had exp­la­ined abo­ut ho­ar­ders, she re­ali­zed he was wor­ri­ed abo­ut get­ting his col­lec­ti­on sta­ined with her blo­od.

Gor­don got his ta­pe re­cor­der and set it on a ne­arby stack of pa­pers, a short one, only three fe­et high. The top one was yes­ter­day’s New York Ti­mes. A num­ber had be­en writ­ten pre­ci­sely in the up­per left-hand cor­ner, 3,529.

Wha­te­ver he tri­ed, he was go­ing to hurt. She’d use her te­eth or kne­es or fe­et. He was go­ing to hurt bad. Get him clo­se. Lo­ok vul­ne­rab­le, lo­ok help­less.

Get him in clo­se.

“Ple­ase! It hurts… I can’t mo­ve my legs. Help me stra­igh­ten them out.”

“No, you say you can’t mo­ve yo­ur legs so I get clo­se and you try to rip my thro­at out.”

Exactly right.

“No…Ple­ase!”

“Ame­lia Se­ven Three Oh Three…Do you think I didn’t lo­ok you up? The day you and Ron Forty-Two Eighty-Fi­ve ca­me to SSD I went in­to the pens and chec­ked you out. Yo­ur re­cord’s pretty re­ve­aling. They li­ke you, by the way, in the de­part­ment. I think you al­so sca­re them. You’re in­de­pen­dent, a lo­ose can­non. You dri­ve fast, you sho­ot well, you’re a cri­me-sce­ne spe­ci­alist and yet so­me­how you’ve ma­de it on­to fi­ve tac­ti­cal te­ams in the past two ye­ars… So it wo­uldn’t ma­ke much sen­se for me to get clo­se wit­ho­ut ta­king pre­ca­uti­ons, wo­uld it?”

She hardly he­ard his ramb­ling. Co­me on, she tho­ught. Get clo­se. Co­me on!

He step­ped asi­de and re­tur­ned with a Ta­ser stun gun.

Oh, no…no.

Of co­ur­se. Be­ing a se­cu­rity gu­ard, he had a full ar­se­nal of we­apons. And he co­uldn’t miss from this dis­tan­ce. He clic­ked the sa­fety off the we­apon and was step­ping for­ward…when he pa­used, coc­king his he­ad.

Sachs too had he­ard so­me no­ise. A trick­le of wa­ter?

No. Bre­aking glass, li­ke a win­dow shat­te­ring so­mew­he­re in the dis­tan­ce.

Gor­don frow­ned. He to­ok a step to­ward the do­or that led to the entry­way clo­set—and sud­denly flew back­ward as it cras­hed open.

A fi­gu­re, hol­ding a short me­tal crow­bar, char­ged in­to the ro­om, blin­king to ori­ent him­self to the dark­ness.

Fal­ling hard, the wind knoc­ked from his lungs, Gor­don drop­ped the Ta­ser. Win­cing, he clim­bed to his kne­es and re­ac­hed for the we­apon but the int­ru­der swung the me­tal bar hard and ca­ught him on the fo­re­arm. The kil­ler scre­amed as bo­ne crac­ked.

“No, no!” Then Gor­don’s eyes, te­aring in pa­in, nar­ro­wed as he ga­zed at his at­tac­ker.

The man cri­ed, “You’re not so god­li­ke now, are you? You mot­her­fuc­ker!” It was Ro­bert Jor­gen­sen, the doc­tor, the iden­tity theft vic­tim from the tran­si­ent ho­tel. He bro­ught the crow­bar down hard on the kil­ler’s neck and sho­ul­der, two-han­ded. Gor­don’s he­ad slam­med in­to the flo­or. His eyes rol­led back and he col­lap­sed, lying comp­le­tely still.

Sachs blin­ked in as­to­nish­ment at the doc­tor.

Who is he? He’s God, and I’m Job…

“Are you all right?” he as­ked, star­ting for­ward.

“Get the­se pa­pers off me. Then ta­ke the cuffs off and put them on him. Hurry! The key’s in my poc­ket.”

Jor­gen­sen drop­ped to his kne­es and be­gan pul­ling the pa­pers off.

“How did you get he­re?” she as­ked.

Jor­gen­sen’s eyes we­re wi­de, just li­ke she re­mem­be­red from the che­ap ho­tel on the Up­per East Si­de. “I’ve be­en fol­lo­wing you ever sin­ce you ca­me to see me. I’ve be­en li­ving on the stre­et. I knew you’d le­ad me to him.” A nod back at Gor­don, still im­mo­bi­le, bre­at­hing shal­lowly.

Jor­gen­sen was gas­ping as he grab­bed hu­ge hand­fuls of pa­per and flung them away.

Sachs sa­id, “You we­re the one fol­lo­wing me. At the ce­me­tery and the lo­ading dock on the West Si­de.”

“That was me, yes. To­day I fol­lo­wed you from the wa­re­ho­use to yo­ur apart­ment and the po­li­ce sta­ti­on and then to that of­fi­ce bu­il­ding in Mid­town, the gray one. Then he­re. I saw you go in­to the al­ley and then when you didn’t co­me out, I won­de­red what had hap­pe­ned. I knoc­ked on the do­or and he ans­we­red. I told him I was a ne­igh­bor lo­oking for a de­li­very. I lo­oked in­si­de. I didn’t see you. I pre­ten­ded to le­ave but then I saw him go thro­ugh the do­or in the li­ving ro­om with a ra­zor.”

“He didn’t re­cog­ni­ze you?”

A so­ur la­ugh as Jor­gen­sen tug­ged his be­ard. “He pro­bably only knew me from my dri­ver’s li­cen­se pho­to. And that was ta­ken when I bot­he­red to sha­ve—and co­uld af­ford ha­ir­cuts… God, the­se are he­avy.”

“Hurry.”

Jor­gen­sen con­ti­nu­ed, “You we­re my best ho­pe of fin­ding him. I know you ha­ve to ar­rest him but I want so­me ti­me with him first. You ha­ve to let me! I’m go­ing to ma­ke him un­do every bit of agony he’s put me thro­ugh.”

The sen­sa­ti­on be­gan to re­turn to her legs. She glan­ced to­ward whe­re Gor­don lay. “My front poc­ket…can you re­ach the key?”

“Not qu­ite. Let me get so­me mo­re off you.”

Mo­re pa­pers flew to the flo­or. One he­ad­li­ne: DA­MA­GE FROM BLAC­KO­UT RI­OTS IN MIL­LI­ONS. Anot­her: NO PROG­RESS IN HOS­TA­GE CRI­SIS. TEH­RAN: NO DE­ALS.

Fi­nal­ly she squ­ir­med out from un­der­ne­ath the pa­pers. She clum­sily ro­se, on ac­hing legs, as far as the cuffs wo­uld al­low. She le­aned uns­te­adily aga­inst anot­her to­wer of pa­per and tur­ned to­ward him. “The cuff key. Fast.”

Re­ac­hing in­to her poc­ket, Jor­gen­sen fo­und the key and re­ac­hed be­hind her. With a fa­int click one of the cuffs un­latc­hed and she was ab­le to stand. She tur­ned to ta­ke the key from him. “Fast,” she sa­id. “Let’s—”

A stun­ning guns­hot so­un­ded and she felt si­mul­ta­ne­o­us taps on her hands and fa­ce as the bul­let—fi­red by Pe­ter Gor­don from her own gun—struck Jor­gen­sen in the back, spat­te­ring her with blo­od and tis­sue.

He cri­ed out and slum­ped in­to her, knoc­king her back­ward and sa­ving her from the se­cond slug, which zip­ped past and crac­ked in­to the wall inc­hes from her sho­ul­der.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Ame­lia Sachs had no cho­ice. She had to at­tack. Im­me­di­ately. Using Jor­gen­sen’s body as a shi­eld, she lun­ged to­ward hunc­hed-over, ble­eding Gor­don, grab­bed the Ta­ser from the flo­or and fi­red it in his di­rec­ti­on.

The pro­bes don’t ha­ve the ve­lo­city of bul­lets and he fell back­ward just in ti­me; the barbs mis­sed. She snatc­hed Jor­gen­sen’s me­tal bar and char­ged to­ward him. Gor­don ro­se to one knee. But when she was just ten fe­et away he ma­na­ged to bring the gun up and fi­re a ro­und di­rectly at her, just as she flung the bar at him. The bul­let slam­med in­to the Ame­ri­can Body Ar­mor vest. The pa­in was stun­ning but the ro­und had struck her well be­low the so­lar ple­xus, whe­re a hit wo­uld ha­ve knoc­ked the bre­ath from her lungs and pa­raly­zed her.

The crow­bar spun in­to his fa­ce, col­li­ding with a ne­arly si­lent thonk, and he cri­ed out in pa­in. He didn’t go down, tho­ugh, and still held the gun firmly. Sachs tur­ned in the only di­rec­ti­on she co­uld flee—to her left—and sprin­ted thro­ugh a can­yon of ar­ti­facts fil­ling the cre­epy pla­ce.

“Ma­ze” was the only way to desc­ri­be it. A nar­row path thro­ugh his col­lec­ti­ons: combs, toys (a lot of dol­ls—one of which had pro­bably slo­ug­hed off the ha­ir re­co­ve­red at an early cri­me sce­ne), old to­oth­pas­te tu­bes, ca­re­ful­ly rol­led up; cos­me­tics, mugs, pa­per bags, clot­hing, sho­es, empty fo­od cans, keys, pens, to­ols, ma­ga­zi­nes, bo­oks…She’d ne­ver se­en so much junk in her li­fe.

Most of the lamps we­re off he­re, tho­ugh a few fa­int bulbs cast a yel­low pall on the pla­ce, and pa­le il­lu­mi­na­ti­on from stre­et­lights fil­te­red in thro­ugh sta­ined sha­des and news­pa­pers ta­ped over the glass. The win­dows we­re all bar­red. Sachs stumb­led se­ve­ral ti­mes and ca­ught her­self just be­fo­re spraw­ling in­to a stack of chi­na or a mas­si­ve bin of clot­hes­pins.

Ca­re­ful, ca­re­ful…

A fall wo­uld be fa­tal.

Clo­se to vo­mi­ting from the blow to her belly, she tur­ned bet­we­en two to­we­ring stacks of Na­ti­onal Ge­og­rap­hics and gas­ped, duc­king just in ti­me as Gor­don tur­ned the cor­ner forty fe­et away, spot­ted her and, win­cing in pa­in from his shat­te­red arm and the blow to the fa­ce, fi­red two shots, left-han­ded. Both went wi­de. He star­ted for­ward. Sachs wed­ged her el­bow be­hind a to­wer of the glossy ma­ga­zi­nes and sent them cas­ca­ding in­to the ais­le, bloc­king it comp­le­tely. She scrab­bled away, he­aring two mo­re shots.

Se­ven fi­red—she al­ways co­un­ted—but it was a Glock, still fat with eight ro­unds. She lo­oked for any exit, even an un­bar­red win­dow she co­uld fling her­self thro­ugh, but this si­de of the town ho­use had no­ne. The walls con­ta­ined shel­ves fil­led with chi­na sta­tu­et­tes and knick­knacks. Sachs co­uld he­ar him fu­ri­o­usly kic­king asi­de the ma­ga­zi­nes, mut­te­ring to him­self.

His fa­ce emer­ged over the pi­les as he tri­ed to climb over the stack but the co­ated co­vers we­re slick as ice and he slip­ped twi­ce, crying out as he used his bro­ken arm to ste­ady him­self. Fi­nal­ly he scrab­bled to the top. But be­fo­re he co­uld ra­ise the gun he fro­ze in hor­ror, gas­ping. He sho­uted, “No! Ple­ase, no!”

Sachs had both hands on a bo­ok­ca­se fil­led with an­ti­que va­ses and chi­na fi­gu­ri­nes.

“No, don’t to­uch it. Ple­ase!”

She had re­cal­led what Terry Dobyns had sa­id abo­ut lo­sing anyt­hing in his col­lec­ti­on. “Throw the gun out he­re. Do it now, Pe­ter!”

She didn’t be­li­eve he wo­uld but, fa­ced with the hor­ror that he was abo­ut to lo­se what was on the shelf, Gor­don was ac­tu­al­ly de­ba­ting.

Know­led­ge is po­wer.

“No, no, ple­ase…” A pat­he­tic whis­per.

Then his eyes chan­ged. In an ins­tant, they tur­ned to dark dots and she knew he was go­ing to go for the shot.

She sho­ved the shelf in­to anot­her and two hund­red po­unds of ce­ra­mics tur­ned to shards on the flo­or, a pa­in­ful ca­cop­hony—which Pe­ter Gor­don’s eerie, pri­mal howl drow­ned out.

Two mo­re shel­ves of ugly fi­gu­ri­nes and cups and sa­ucers jo­ined the dest­ruc­ti­on.

“Throw the gun down or I’ll bre­ak every god­damn thing in he­re!”

But he’d lost cont­rol comp­le­tely. “I’ll kill you I’ll kill you I’ll kill you I’ll—” He fi­red twi­ce mo­re but by then Sachs had di­ved for co­ver. She knew he’d be co­ming af­ter her as so­on as he sur­mo­un­ted the pi­le of Na­ti­onal Ge­og­rap­hics and she as­ses­sed the­ir po­si­ti­ons. She’d circ­led back to­ward the clo­set do­or at the front, whi­le he was still at the back of the town ho­use.

But to ma­ke it to the do­or and sa­fety wo­uld me­an a run past the do­or­way of the ro­om whe­re he was now—to jud­ge from the so­und—scrab­bling over the shel­ves and shat­te­red ce­ra­mics. Did he re­ali­ze her pre­di­ca­ment? Was he wa­iting, gun aimed at the sho­oting gal­lery she’d ha­ve to tra­ver­se in or­der to ma­ke it to the clo­set do­or and sa­fety?

Or had he bypas­sed the ro­adb­lock and snuck aro­und her via a ro­ute she didn’t know abo­ut?

Cre­aks so­un­ded thro­ug­ho­ut the murky pla­ce. We­re they his fo­ots­teps? The wo­od set­tling?

Pa­nic tick­led and she spun aro­und. She co­uldn’t see him. She knew she had to mo­ve, fast. Go! Now! She to­ok a de­ep, si­lent bre­ath, wil­led away the pa­in in her kne­es and, ke­eping low, char­ged for­ward, di­rectly past the bloc­ka­de of ma­ga­zi­nes.

No shots.

He wasn’t the­re. She stop­ped fast, pres­sing her back aga­inst the wall and for­cing her­self to calm her bre­at­hing.

Qu­i­et, qu­i­et…

Hell. Whe­re, whe­re, whe­re? Down this ais­le of shoe bo­xes, down this one of can­ned to­ma­to­es, down this one of ne­atly fol­ded clot­hing?

Mo­re cre­aks. She co­uldn’t tell whe­re they we­re co­ming from.

A fa­int so­und li­ke the wind, li­ke a bre­ath.

Fi­nal­ly Sachs ma­de a de­ci­si­on—just run for it. Now! All out for the front do­or!

And ho­pe he’s not be­hind you or hasn’t snuck to­ward the front via a dif­fe­rent pas­sa­ge­way.

Go!

Sachs pus­hed off, sprin­ting past mo­re cor­ri­dors, can­yons of bo­oks, glas­swa­re, pa­in­tings, wi­res and elect­ro­nic equ­ip­ment, cans. Was she go­ing the right way?

Yes, she was. Ahe­ad of her was Gor­don’s desk, sur­ro­un­ded by the yel­low pads. Ro­bert Jor­gen­sen’s body was on the flo­or. Mo­ve fas­ter. Mo­ve! For­get the pho­ne on the desk, she told her­self af­ter bri­efly con­si­de­ring cal­ling 911.

Get out. Get out now.

Spe­eding to­ward the clo­set do­or.

The clo­ser she got, the mo­re fi­er­ce the pa­nic. Wa­iting for the guns­hot, any mo­ment.

Only twenty fe­et now…

May­be Gor­don be­li­eved she was hi­ding in the back. May­be he was on his kne­es, mo­ur­ning madly the dest­ruc­ti­on of his pre­ci­o­us por­ce­la­in.

Ten fe­et…

Aro­und a cor­ner, pa­using only to grab the crow­bar, slick with his blo­od.

No, out the do­or.

Then she stop­ped, gas­ping.

Di­rectly in front of her, she saw him, in sil­ho­u­et­te, back­lit by the gla­re from the clo­set do­or­way. He ap­pa­rently had ta­ken anot­her ro­ute he­re, she re­ali­zed in des­pa­ir. She lif­ted the he­avy iron rod.

For a mo­ment, he didn’t see her but her ho­pe of go­ing un­de­tec­ted va­nis­hed as he tur­ned her way and drop­ped to the flo­or, lif­ting the gun her way, as an ima­ge of her fat­her, then one of Lin­coln Rhyme, fil­led her tho­ughts.

The­re she is, Ame­lia 7303, cle­ar in my sights.

The wo­man who dest­ro­yed hund­reds of my tre­asu­res, the wo­man who wo­uld ta­ke everyt­hing away from me, dep­ri­ve me of all my fu­tu­re tran­sac­ti­ons, ex­po­se my Clo­set to the world. I ha­ve no ti­me for fun with her. No ti­me for re­cor­ded scre­ams. She has to die. Now.

I ha­te her I ha­te her I ha­te her I ha­te her I ha­te her I ha­te her I ha­te her I ha­te her I ha­te her…

No one is go­ing to ta­ke anyt­hing away from me, ne­ver aga­in.

Aim and squ­e­eze.

Ame­lia Sachs stumb­led back­ward as the gun in front of her fi­red.

Then anot­her shot. Two mo­re.

As she fell to the flo­or, she co­ve­red her he­ad with her arms, numb at first, then awa­re of gro­wing pa­in.

I’m dying…I’m dying…

Only…only the only pa­in­ful sen­sa­ti­on was in her arth­ri­tic kne­es, whe­re she’d lan­ded hard on the flo­or, not from whe­re the bul­lets must ha­ve struck her. Her hand ro­se to her fa­ce, her neck. No wo­und, no blo­od. He co­uldn’t ha­ve mis­sed her from this ran­ge.

But he had.

Then he was run­ning for­ward to­ward her. Her eyes cold, her musc­les ten­se as iron, Sachs gas­ped and grip­ped the crow­bar.

But he con­ti­nu­ed past her, not even glan­cing her way.

What was this? Sachs slowly ro­se, win­cing. Wit­ho­ut the back­light of gla­re from the open clo­set do­or she saw the sil­ho­u­et­te be­co­me dis­tinct. It wasn’t Gor­don at all but a de­tec­ti­ve she knew from the ne­arby 20th Pre­cinct—John Har­vi­son. The de­tec­ti­ve held his Glock ste­ady as he mo­ved ca­uti­o­usly to the body of the man he’d just shot to de­ath.

Pe­ter Gor­don, Sachs now un­ders­to­od, had be­en mo­ving up si­lently be­hind her and be­en abo­ut to sho­ot her in the back. From whe­re he’d be­en stal­king her, he hadn’t se­en Har­vi­son, low in the clo­set do­or­way.

“Ame­lia, you all right?” the de­tec­ti­ve cal­led.

“Ye­ah. Fi­ne.”

“Other sho­oters?”

“Don’t think so.”

Sachs ro­se and jo­ined the de­tec­ti­ve. All the ro­unds from his gun had ap­pa­rently hit the­ir tar­get; one of them had struck Gor­don’s fo­re­he­ad di­rectly. The re­sul­ting wo­und was mas­si­ve. Blo­od and bra­in mat­ter flec­ked Pres­cott’s Ame­ri­can Fa­mily pa­in­ting abo­ve the desk.

Har­vi­son was an in­ten­se man in his for­ti­es who’d be­en de­co­ra­ted se­ve­ral ti­mes for co­ura­ge un­der fi­re and col­la­ring ma­j­or drug de­alers. He was pu­re pro­fes­si­onal now and pa­id no at­ten­ti­on to the bi­zar­re set­ting as he se­cu­red the sce­ne. He lif­ted the Glock out of Gor­don’s blo­ody hand and loc­ked it open, slip­ping the gun and clip in­to his poc­ket. He mo­ved the Ta­ser sa­fely asi­de too, tho­ugh it was un­li­kely the­re’d be any mi­ra­cu­lo­us re­sur­rec­ti­ons.

“John,” Sachs whis­pe­red, sta­ring at the kil­ler’s ru­ined body. “How? How on earth did you find me?”

“Got an any-ava­ilab­le squ­awk abo­ut an as­sa­ult in prog­ress at this ad­dress. I was a block away on a drug thing so I he­aded over.” He glan­ced at her. “It was that guy you work with who cal­led it in.”

“Who?”

“Rhyme. Lin­coln Rhyme.”

“Oh.” The ans­wer didn’t surp­ri­se her, tho­ugh it left mo­re qu­es­ti­ons than it set­tled.

They he­ard a fa­int gasp. They tur­ned. The so­und had co­me from Jor­gen­sen. Sachs bent down. “Get an am­bu­lan­ce he­re. He’s still ali­ve.” She put pres­su­re on the bul­let wo­und.

Har­vi­son pul­led out his ra­dio and cal­led for me­dics.

A mo­ment la­ter two ot­her of­fi­cers, from Emer­gency Ser­vi­ce, burst thro­ugh the do­or­way, guns drawn.

Sachs inst­ruc­ted, “The ma­in perp’s down. Pro­bably no ot­hers. But cle­ar the pla­ce just to ma­ke su­re.”

“Su­re, De­tec­ti­ve.”

One ESU cop jo­ined Har­vi­son and they star­ted thro­ugh the pac­ked cor­ri­dors. The ot­her pa­used and sa­id to Sachs, “This is a god­damn spo­ok ho­use. You ever see anyt­hing li­ke this, De­tec­ti­ve?”

Sachs wasn’t in the mo­od for ban­ter. “Find me so­me ban­da­ges or to­wels. Hell, with everyt­hing he’s got he­re, I’ll bet the­re’s a half do­zen first aid kits. I want so­met­hing to stop the ble­eding. Now!”