A Textbook Case
Author: Jeffery Deaver
Date: 2013-04-02 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Crime; Mystery; Thriller
Description: When a young woman is found brutally murdered in a parking garage, with a veritable mountain of potential evidence to sift through, it may be the most challenging case former NYPD detective Lincoln Rhyme has ever taken on.
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Table of Contents

Also by Jeffery Deaver

About the Author

Title Page

Epigraph

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

An Excerpt from The Kill Room

Also by Jeffery Deaver

Mistress of Justice

The Lesson of Her Death

Praying for Sleep

Speaking in Tongues

A Maiden’s Grave

The Devil’s Teardrop

The Blue Nowhere

Garden of Beasts

The Bodies Left Behind

Edge

The Rune Series

Manhattan is My Beat

Death of a Blue Movie Star

Hard News

The Location Scout Series

Shallow Graves

Bloody River Blues

Hell’s Kitchen

The Lincoln Rhyme Thrillers

The Bone Collector

The Coffin Dancer

The Empty Chair

The Stone Monkey

The Vanished Man

The Twelfth Card

The Cold Moon

The Broken Window

The Burning Wire

The Kill Room

The Kathryn Dance Thrillers

The Sleeping Doll

Roadside Crosses

XO

A James Bond Novel

Carte Blanche

Short Stories

Twisted

More Twisted

Triple Threat

About the Author

Jeffery Deaver is the international number one bestselling author of three collections of short stories and 30 suspense novels. He is best known for his Lincoln Rhyme thrillers, most notably The Bone Collector, which was made into a feature film starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. His many awards include the Novel of the Year at the International Thriller Writers’ Awards in 2009 for his standalone novel The Bodies Left Behind, and the Crime Writers’ Association Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award for Garden of Beasts, which years later lead to his writing the bestselling James Bond novel Carte Blanche.

Jeffery Deaver lives in North Carolina. For further information, visit www.jefferydeaver.com or find him on Facebook and Twitter at www.facebook.com/JefferyDeaver and www.twitter.com/JefferyDeaver.

A TEXTBOOK CASE

Jeffery Deaver

www.hodder.co.uk

Physical evidence cannot be wrong, it cannot perjure itself, it cannot be wholly absent. Only human failure to find it, study and understand it, can diminish its value.

—Paul L. Kirk, Crime Investigation: Physical Evidence and the Police Laboratory

Copyright

First published in the United States of America in 2013 by Grand Central Publishing
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company

Copyright © Gunner Publications, LLC 2013

The right of Jeffery Deaver to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 444 77896 0

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk

1

‘The worst I’ve ever seen,’ he whispered.

She listened to the young man’s words and decided that was a bit ironic, since he couldn’t have been more than mid-twenties. How many crime scenes could he have run?

But she noted, too, that his round, handsome face, crested by a crew-cut scalp, was genuinely troubled. He had a military air about him and didn’t seem the sort to get flustered.

Something particularly troubling was down there – in the pit of the underground garage they stood in front of, delineated by yellow fluttering tape, the pit where the woman had been murdered early that morning.

Amelia Sachs was gearing up at the staging area outside the bland apartment building in this equally style-challenged neighborhood of Manhattan, East Twenty-sixth Street. Here were residential low rises from the 1950s and ‘60s, some brownstones, restaurants that had been born Italian twenty years ago and had converted to Middle Eastern. For greenery, short, anemic trees, striving grass, tiny shrubs in huge concrete planters.

Sachs ripped open the plastic bag containing the disposable scene suit: white Tyvek coveralls, booties, head cap, cuffed nitrile gloves.

‘You’ll want the Ninety-five, too,’ the young officer told her. His name was Marko, maybe first, probably last. Sachs hadn’t bothered to find out.

‘Chemical problem? Bio?’ Nodding toward the pit.

The N95 was a particulate respirator that filtered out a lot of the bad crap you found at some crime scenes. The dangerous ones.

‘Just, you’ll want it.’

She didn’t like the respirators and usually wore a simple surgical mask. But if Marko told her there was a problem inside, she’d go with it.

Worst I’ve ever seen . . .

Sachs continued to pull on the protective gear. She was claustrophobic and didn’t like the layers of swaddling that crime scene searchers had to put up with, but were necessary to protect them from dangerous substances at the scene but more important protect the scene from contaminants police might throw off – their hairs, fibers, flecks of skin and other assorted trace they might cart about with them. (One man had nearly been arrested because a tomato seed had linked him to a murder – until it was discovered that the seed came from the shoe of a crime scene officer, who’d neglected to wear booties . . . and who was soon, thanks to Lincoln Rhyme, a former crime scene officer.)

Several other cars arrived, including that of the Major Cases detective lieutenant, Lon Sellitto, an unmarked Crown Victoria. The car was spotless and still dripping from the car wash. Sellitto, on the other hand, was typically disheveled. He wore an unpressed white shirt, skewed tie and a rumpled suit, though fortunately in wrinkle-concealing navy blue (Sachs recalled that he’d worn seersucker once and never again; even he had thought he looked like tousled bed sheets). Sachs had given up trying to guess Sellitto’s age. He was in that timeless mid-fifties that all detectives first class on the NYPD seem to fall into.

He was also an institution and he caught a few awed looks from the uniforms now as he pushed his way through the crowd of gawkers and with some difficulty, considering his weight, ducked under the yellow tape.

He joined Sachs and Marko, who wasn’t particularly awed but clearly respectful.

‘Detective.’

Sellitto didn’t have any idea who he was but nodded back. He said to Sachs, ‘How is he?’

Which would mean only one ‘he.’

‘Fine. Been back for two days. Actually wanted to come to the scene.’

Lincoln Rhyme, the former head of the NYPD crime scene operation and now a forensic consultant, had been undergoing a series of medical procedures to improve his condition – he was a quadriplegic, largely paralyzed from the neck down because of an accident while searching a scene years ago.

Sellitto said a sincere ‘No shit. Wanted to come. God bless him.’

Sachs gave the man a wry look. She was considerably younger and a more junior detective. But she didn’t let a lot pass – from anyone. Sellitto caught the glance. ‘Did that sound condescending?’

She lifted an eyebrow, meaning, ‘Yep. And if Rhyme heard you say it, the reply would not be pretty.’

‘Well, fuck. Good for him anyway.’ He focused on the off-white apartment, the water stains on the walls, the mismatched windows, the dented air conditioners underneath them, the sad grass, sick or dying from city dogs more than from the cool air. Still, even an air-shaft studio would cost two thousand and change. When Sachs was not staying with Rhyme she was at her place in Brooklyn. Big. And it had a garden. The month was September and she’d just harvested the last crop of veggies, beating the frost by twenty-four hours.

Sachs tucked her abundant red hair up under the Tyvek cap and Velcroed closed the coveralls over her jeans and tight wool sweater. The suit fit snugly. Marko watched, somewhat discreetly. Sachs had been a fashion model before joining the NYPD. She got followed by a lot of eyes.

‘Chance of the scene being hot?’ she asked Marko.

It was rare for perps to stick around a murder scene and target investigators, but not unheard of.

‘Doubt it,’ the young officer responded. ‘But . . . ’

Made sense for him to hedge when it came to a scene that was apparently so horrific.

Before suiting up, Sachs had drawn and set her Glock pistol aside. She now wiped it down with an alcohol swab to remove trace and slipped it into the pocket of the coveralls. If she needed the weapon, she could get to it quickly, even fire through the cloth, if need be. That was good about Glocks. No external safeties, double action. You pointed and pulled.

Any chance of it being hot? . . .

And what the hell was so bad about the scene? How had the poor woman died? And what had happened to her before . . . or after?

She guessed it was a sado-sexual killing.

Sellitto said to Marko, ‘What’s the story, Officer?’

He looked back and forth from the older detective to Sachs as he gave the story. ‘I’m assigned to crime scene in Queens, HQ, sir. I had some advanced training at the academy this morning so I was heading there, when I heard the call.’

The NYPD academy on Twentieth Street at Second Avenue.

‘Dispatch said any available. I was two blocks away so I responded. I had gear with me and I suited up before I went in.’ Marko, too, was dressed in a Tyvek crime scene outfit, minus the head covering.

‘Good thinking.’

‘I wouldn’t have waited but the dispatch said the report was a body, not an injured victim.’

Crime scenes were always a compromise. Contamination with outside trace and obliterating important evidence could hamper or even ruin an investigation but first responders’ priority is saving lives or collaring perps who were still present. Marko had acted right.

‘I looked at the scene fast then called in.’

Two other crime scene people from the Queens headquarters had just arrived in the RRV – rapid response vehicle – containing evidence collection gear. The man and woman climbed out, she Asian, he Latino. He opened the back and they, too, got their gear. ‘Hey, Marko,’ he called, ‘how’d you beat us? Take a chopper over here?’

The young officer gave a faint smile. But it was clear he was still troubled, presumably by what he’d seen inside.

Sellitto asked Marko, ‘You know any of the players yet?’

‘Just, her boyfriend called it in. That’s all I know.’

The older detective said, ‘I’ll talk to him and get a canvass team going. You handle the scene, Amelia. We’ll rendezvous back at Lincoln’s.’

‘Sure.’

‘Detective Rhyme’s going to be on the case?’ Marko asked.

Rhyme was decommissioned – he’d been a detective captain – but in policing, like the military, titles tended to stick.

‘Yeah,’ Sellitto muttered. ‘We’re running it out of there.’ Rhyme’s townhouse was often the informal command post for cases that Sellitto drew or picked.

Marko said, ‘I missed my class already. At the academy. Any chance I could stay and help out?’

Apparently the horror of the scene wasn’t going to deter him.

Sellitto said, ‘Detective Sachs’s lead crime scene. Up to her.’

One of the biggest problems in law enforcement was getting enough people to help in an investigation. And you could never have enough crime scene searchers. She said, ‘Sure, appreciate it.’ She nodded toward the entrance to the parking garage beneath the building. ‘I’ll take the ramp and the scene itself. You and those other teams handle the—’

Marko interrupted. ‘Secondary and tertiary scenes. Entrance and egress points. I took Detective Rhyme’s course.’

He said this proudly.

‘Good. Now tell me exactly where the vic is.’

‘Go down the ramp two levels. She’s on the bottom one at the back. The only car there.’ He paused. ‘Can’t miss it.’

Worst . . .

‘Okay. Now, get to those scenes.’

‘Yes’m, Detective. We’ll get on the grid.’

Sachs nearly smiled. He’d slung the last word out like a greeting among initiates in a secret club. Walking the grid . . . . It was Rhyme’s coined phrase for searching a scene in the most comprehensive way possible, covering every square inch – twice.

Marko joined his colleagues.

‘Hey, you’re a ma’am now, Amelia.’

‘It was just an ‘m. Don’t make me older than I feel.’

‘You could be his . . . older sister.’

‘Funny.’ Then Sachs said, ‘Get a bio on the vic, too, Lon. As much as you can.’

For some years now she had worked with Lincoln Rhyme and under his tutelage she’d become a fine crime scene searcher and a solid forensic analyst. But her first skill and love in policing was people – a legacy from her father, who was an NYPD patrol officer all his life. She loved the psychology of crime, which Lincoln Rhyme tended to disparage as the ‘soft’ side of policing. But Sachs believed that sometimes the physical evidence didn’t lead you to the perp’s doorstep. Sometimes you needed to look closely at the people involved, at their passions, their fears, their motives. All the details of their lives.

Sellitto hulked off, gesturing Patrol Division officers to join him and they huddled to arrange for canvass teams.

Sachs opened a vinyl bag and withdrew a high-def video camera rig. As she’d done with her weapon, she wiped this down, too, with the alcohol swabs. She slipped the lightweight unit over the plastic cap encasing her head. The small camera sat just above her ear and a nearly invisible stalk mike arced toward her mouth. Sachs clicked the video and audio switches and winced when loud static slugged her eardrum. She adjusted it.

‘Rhyme, you there?’

A moment of clatter. ‘Yes, yes, you there, you at the scene? Are you on the grid, Sachs? Time’s wasting.’

‘Just got here. I’m ready to go. How are you feeling?’

‘Fine, why wouldn’t I be?’

A three-hour microsurgery operation a couple of days ago?

She didn’t answer.

‘What’s that light? Jesus, it’s bright.’

She’d glanced at the sky and a slash of morning sun would have blasted into the video camera and onto the high-def monitor Rhyme would be looking at. ‘Sorry.’

In a gloved hand Sachs picked up the evidence collection bag – a small suitcase – and a flashlight and began walking down the ramp into the garage.

She was glancing at her feet. Odd.

Rhyme caught it, too. ‘What’m I looking at, Sachs?’

‘Trash.’ The ramp was filthy. A nearby Dumpster was on its side and the dozen garbage bags inside had been pulled out and ripped open. The contents covered the ground.

It was a mess.

‘Hard to hear you, Sachs.’

‘I’m wearing an N-Ninety-five.’

‘Chemical, gas?’

‘That first responding told me it was a good idea.’

‘It’s really dark,’ the criminalist then muttered.

The video camera automatically went to low-light mode – that greenish tint from spy movies and reality TV – but there were limits to how much bits and bytes could convey.

Eyes, too, for that matter. It was dark. She noted the bulbs were missing. She paused.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘The bulbs aren’t just missing, Rhyme. Somebody took them out and broke them. They’re shattered.’

‘If our doer’s behind it, that means he probably isn’t from the building. He doesn’t know where the switch is and didn’t want to take the time to find it.’

Count on Rhyme to come to conclusions like that . . . from a mere wisp of an observation.

‘But why broken?’

‘Maybe just being cautious. Tough to get prints or lift other trace from a shattered bulb. Hm, he could be a smart one.’

Rhyme, Sachs was pleased to note, was in a good mood. The medical treatments – complicated, expensive and more than a little risky – were going well. He’d regained significant movement in both arms and hands. Not sensation; nothing would bring that back, at least not as medical science stood nowadays, but he was far less dependent than he had once been and that meant the world to a man like Lincoln Rhyme.

She finally had to resort to her flashlight. She clicked on the long Maglite and continued past a dozen parked cars, some of whose owners were undoubtedly furious that they had not been allowed to use their vehicles, because of the minor inconvenience of a murder near where they’d parked. But, on the other hand, there’d also be plenty who’d do whatever they could to help nail the suspect.

Nothing teaches you human nature like being a cop.

Sachs felt a ping of the arthritis pain that plagued her in her knees and slowed. She then stopped altogether, not because of joint discomfort, but because of noises. Creaks and taps. A door closed – an interior door, not a car. It seemed a long ways off, but she couldn’t tell. The walls muffled and confused sounds.

Footsteps?

She turned suddenly, nearly swapping flashlight for Glock.

No, just dripping water, from a pipe. Water dribbled down the incline, mixing with the papers and other trash on the floor; there was even more garbage here.

‘Okay, Rhyme,’ she said. ‘I’m almost at the bottom level. She and her car’re around that corner.’

‘Go on, Sachs.’

She realized she’d stopped. She was uneasy. ‘I just can’t figure out all this garbage.’

Sachs began walking again, slowly making her way to the corner, paused, set down the suitcase and drew her gun. In the flashlight beam was a faint haze. She lifted the mask off, inhaled and coughed. There was pungency to the air. Paint maybe, or chemicals. And smoke. She found the source. Yes, some newspapers were smoldering in the corner.

That’s what Marko had been referring to.

‘Okay, I’m going into the scene, Rhyme.’

Thinking of Marko’s words.

The worst . . .

Weapon up, she turned the corner and aimed the powerful wide-angle beam of the flashlight at the victim and her vehicle.

Sachs gasped. ‘Oh, Jesus, Rhyme. Oh, no . . . ’

2

At 4:00 p.m. Amelia Sachs walked into Lincoln Rhyme’s townhouse on Central Park West.

Rhyme found himself glaring toward her – partly because of the powerful autumn light streaming in from the open door behind her, partly because of his impatience.

The crime scene search had taken forever, six and a half hours to be precise, the longest for a single scene he could remember.

Sachs had told him that the young officer who’d been first response reported it was the worst scene he’d ever come across. Partly, he meant that the victim had died a horrific, sadistic death. But equally he was referring to the complete contamination of the scene.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Sachs had told Rhyme through the microphone. And gazing at the high-def screen, he had to admit that he hadn’t either. Every square inch of the area – from the ramp to the garage floor to the victim’s car and surrounding area – was obliterated, covered with trash. And painted, powdered, coated with liquids, dusted with dirt and powders.

It was actually hard to locate the victim herself for all the mess.

Rhyme now piloted his red Storm Arrow wheelchair to the front door, through which Sachs was carrying a large carton filled with evidence collection bags. She explained that the first responder, a crime scene officer named Marko, and she had sped here in their private vehicles – his an SUV. Rhyme noted that the vehicle was loaded to the gunwales with cartons of evidence. Young man, picking up a massive carton, had a military air about him. He did a double-take when he saw Rhyme. He nodded.

Rhyme ignored him, focusing on the astonishing quantity of evidence. Sachs’s ancient Ford was filled, too. He didn’t see how she’d been able to drive it.

‘Christ,’ he muttered.

Lincoln Rhyme had a handsome face, hair a bit long for NYPD regulation but that mattered not at all since he was no longer NYPD. His nose was prominent, his lips full, though they grew thin quickly, like irises dilating in light, when he was displeased, which occurred with some frequency, given his impatience and pole-vault high standards for crime scene work. A pink scar was visible at the base of his throat; it resembled a bullet wound but in fact it was from the ventilator tube, which had kept him alive after the accident.

A breath of autumn wind blew through the open door and a comma of black hair tickled his forehead. He clumsily lifted his right hand to brush it away, a gesture that would have been impossible several years ago, when he’d been completely paralyzed below the neck. Those little things – the inability to scratch an itch, the impossibility of feeding oneself, the incessant nag of the condition – were what wore you down, more than the broader consequences of cataclysmic injury. At the moment, his left arm was bandaged to his body; he’d had additional surgery to give that limb the same awkward, but miraculous, skill of the right.

His brown eyes squinting at the curbside, Rhyme lost count of the boxes Marko was unloading. He spun around in his chair and steamed back toward the townhouse’s parlor. ‘Thom! Thom!’

The man he was shouting for was practically in sotto voce distance, ten feet away, though not quite in sight. ‘I’m right here, you don’t need to—’

‘We have to do something with this,’ Rhyme said, as his caregiver appeared. The young man was today wearing what he usually did on the job – dress slacks, tan today, and dark blue shirt and a floral tie.

‘Hi, Amelia.’

Sachs was coming through the front door.

‘Thom.’ He took the box from her and she headed out for another shipment.

Rhyme glanced from the carton to Thom Reston’s face. ‘Look at that! And look outside. We need to find places to organize it. Everything in the den . . . it has to go!’

‘I’ll clear some space.’

‘We can’t clear it. We have to empty it. I want everything gone.’

‘All right.’ The aide took off the yellow kitchen gloves he was wearing and began sliding furniture out of the room.

The den was what served as the living room for the townhouse; the other room that had been intended for social liaisons in the Victorian era, the parlor, Rhyme had converted to a forensics lab, as extensive as those in many medium-sized towns. Rhyme was by no means wealthy, but he’d received a good settlement when he’d been injured and he charged a lot for his forensic consulting activities. Much of the income went right back into his company and he had bought as many forensic ‘toys’ as he could afford (that’s how Amelia Sachs had referred to them, after seeing his eyes light up when there’d been a new acquisition; to Rhyme they were simply tools).

‘Mel!’ Rhyme was shouting again.

This time he was speaking to his associate, who was at an evidence examination station in the parlor. NYPD Detective Mel Cooper, blond though balding and nerdish, was Rhyme’s number-one lab man.

Cooper had arrived three hours ago from Queens, where he both worked, at the police department’s crime scene headquarters, and lived. He would handle much of the lab work in what was being called the Unsub 26 homicide case, so named because the killer, an unknown subject, had killed the victim on East Twenty-sixth Street. Cooper had ready sheets of sterile examination paper covering work surfaces, friction ridge equipment to find latent prints, microscopes, scales, the density gradient unit and the dozens of other tools of the trade needed for forensic analysis.

He, too, was staring at the increasing piles of collection bags, boxes and jars that Sachs, Marko and now Thom were carting in and trying to find a place for.

‘This is from one scene?’

‘Apparently,’ Rhyme said.

‘And it wasn’t a mass disaster?’ This was the quantity of evidence that resulted from plane crashes and bomb blasts.

‘One unsub, one vic.’

Cooper glanced around the parlor and into hallway in dismay. ‘You remember that line in Jaws, Lincoln? They’re after the shark.’

‘Shark,’ Rhyme said absently.

‘The big shark. They get their first glimpse of it – it’s really big – and one of them says, ‘I think we’re going to need a bigger boat.’ That’s us.’

‘Boat?’

‘Jaws. The movie.’

‘I never saw it,’ Rhyme muttered.

* * *

The murder weapon was about the only easy part of the analysis: It was the victim’s car.

The killer had snuck up behind and hit her, probably with a piece of rock or cinderblock, hard enough to stun, but not kill, her. He’d then taped her eyes, mouth, feet and arms and dragged her behind the car. Then Unsub 26 had started the Prius and backed it onto her abdomen, leaving it there. The Toyota is front heavy, with the rear weight about 530 kilos, Rhyme had learned. Only one wheel was resting on the victim, which would have cut down some of the pressure, but the medical examiner said the internal damage was devastating. Still, it took her close to an hour to die – mostly from shock and bleeding.

But apart from the COD determination Rhyme and his team had made no other evidentiary discoveries. In fact, all they’d been able to do was catalog the evidence, everyone chipping in: Sachs, Cooper and Marko. Even Thom was helping.

Lon Sellitto arrived.

Oh, Lord no . . .

Rhyme had to laugh, though bitterly, seeing that the big detective was carrying yet another massive box of evidence collection bags.

‘Not more?’ asked a dismayed Mel Cooper; usually he was the epitome of detached calm.

‘They found another exit route.’ The big detective handed off the box to Marko. ‘But this should be the end of it.’ Then he frowned as he looked around at the hundreds of collection and sample bags lining the walls throughout the first floor of the townhouse. ‘I don’t have any idea what the fuck’s going on here.’

But Lincoln Rhyme did.

‘Oh, what’s going on, Lon, is our unsub’s smart. He’s brilliant.’ Rhyme looked around. ‘I say ‘he,’ but remember, we keep open minds. It could be a she, too. Never make assumptions.’

‘He, she or it,’ Sellitto muttered. ‘I still don’t get it.’

The criminalist continued, ‘You know Locard’s Principle?’

‘Sorta.’

‘How about you, Marko?’

The young officer blinked and answered, as if reciting. A hundred years ago, he said, the famed French criminalist Edmond Locard developed a theory: In every crime there is an exchange of evidence between the perpetrator and the victim or the scene. The trace elements swapped may be extremely minuscule but they always exist and in most cases can lead to the perp if the investigator has the intelligence and resources to discover them.

‘Close enough. Well, at the scene—’ Rhyme’s hand rose unsteadily and he pointed at the pictures Sachs had shot of the victim’s body and that Cooper had printed out ‘—we know the unsub left something of himself. He had to. Locard’s Principle is never wrong. But, you see, he knew he’d leave something.’

Sachs said, ‘And rather than trying to clean up all traces of himself afterward, he did the opposite. He covered up many clues as to who he is, why he’s doing this, what he has planned next.’

Brilliant . . .

Too much evidence instead of too little.

Rhyme had to admit he felt a grudging admiration for the unsub. Last year, he had appeared in a documentary on the A&E network, about a woman’s conviction for homicide in Florida. She had been sentenced to life on the basis of evidence that turned out to have been tainted – the crime scene officer had first searched the site of the homicide and then the suspect’s house, accidentally depositing a tiny paint chip from the murder site on the woman’s clothes as he gathered them in her house. This chip placed her at the scene and the jury convicted. A review of forensic evidence collection procedures revealed that officer had been told to use the same gloves in searching both scenes, as a money-saving measure. In a second trial, the woman was found not guilty.

Rhyme had been on the show to discuss the benefits and the risks of evidence in investigations. He’d commented that all it took was one or two minuscule bits of trace or foreign objects to throw a case off entirely.

In this situation, Unsub 26 had managed to taint the scene with thousands of smokescreens.

Rhyme glanced at Cooper. ‘How long before we can get started?’

‘Still be an hour or two just to categorize everything.’

‘Ah.’ He wasn’t pleased.

Sachs asked Sellitto, ‘What’d you and the canvassing teams find out about the vic?’

‘Okay,’ the detective said, pulling out his notebook, ‘her name was Jane Levine, thirty-one. Assistant marketing manager for a brokerage firm downtown. No criminal history. She’d been going out with her boyfriend for seven, eight months. He was the guy who reported her missing then found the body. I talked to him for a while but then he lost it. I mean, totally.’

Rhyme noticed Sachs’s abundant lips tighten at this news and he guessed her reaction was how not only the loss but witnessing the horror would affect the man for the rest of his life: that last searing image of his lover dying under such unthinkable circumstances. Rhyme knew that Sachs struggled with the human side of crime – not, as one would think, pushing it away. Rather, she embraced the horror and wanted to keep it raw. She believed it made her a more empathetic and therefore, a better cop.

Though he took the opposite approach – remaining aloof – this was one of the things he loved her for.

He turned his attention back to Sellitto, who was continuing his discussion. ‘Now, I checked. He’s alibi’d out, the boyfriend.’ Family and acquaintances are the number-one suspects – and the number-one guilty perps – in homicides. Sellitto continued, ‘He was in Connecticut with his parents last night. He got back in the city about eight this morning and went to her apartment. We data mined him. Wits, tickets and security cams confirm he was there when she died. GPS, too. He’s clean.’

That young crime scene guy asked, ‘Rape, Detective?’

‘Nothing sexual, no. No robbery. She still had her keys, wallet, purse, jewelry.’

Sachs asked, ‘Any former boyfriends, stalkers?’

‘According to the boyfriend and her sister, over the last couple years she went out with one guy from work, one guy from her health club, one guy from church. Real casual. The sister said they all ended okay and there were no hard feelings. Anyway the last one she broke up with was about six months ago just before she met the current guy.’

The detective continued, ‘No organized crime connection, not surprising, and she wasn’t a whistleblower or witness. I can’t find a motive at all.’

Rhyme didn’t much care for motive. His theory was that why people killed was largely irrelevant. A paranoid schizophrenic could kill someone because he believed that person was part of the advance guard from a planet in Alpha Centauri bent on capturing the world. What got him convicted was his prints on the knife, not his mad thinking.

‘Well, that tells us something, right?’ Rhyme asked, grimacing. ‘If there’s no boyfriend-done-it, rapist-done-it, mugger-done-it scenario, I’m thinking it’s a psycho.’ He happened to be looking at the young crime scene officer. ‘Oh, I know they don’t use that word anymore. But it’s a lot more felicitous than “individual displaying antisocial personality disorder traits.”’

Marko nodded, obviously having no idea what to think about that pronouncement.

It was Sellitto who explained, ‘What Linc’s saying is that he could be a serial doer. Meaning he’s going to strike again.’

‘You think so, sir?’ the young man asked.

‘If that’s the case it also means he’s picking victims at random. And somewhere in that morass—’ a nod toward the mountains of evidence ‘—is the answer to who the next one’s going to be.’

3

Mel Cooper was wrong.

It took nearly seven more hours to finish just categorizing the evidence. At 3:15 in the morning they decided to knock off for the night.

Sachs stayed with Rhyme, as she did three or four nights a week, and Cooper slept in the guest room. Sellitto returned to his house, where his partner, Rachel, whom he described as his ‘Better Other,’ was waiting for him. Marko headed back to his home, wherever that might be.

By nine the next morning the team, minus the young CS officer, was back.

As in every case they worked, Rhyme asked for a whiteboard chart listing the evidence. Sachs did the honors. She moved stiffly to the board. Rhyme noted the hitch in her leg; she suffered from arthritis and the extended search in a damp, subterranean garage had taken its toll. Once or twice, reaching to the top to start a new entry, she winced.

Finally she finished – all three boards in Rhyme’s parlor were required. And that was just to list what the teams had found. There was no analysis at all, much less insightful deductions that could be made about sources or inferences as to prospective victims.

Everyone in the room fell silent and stared.

UNSUB TWENTY-SIX HOMICIDE

Location: 832 E. 26th Street

Victim: Jane Levine, thirty-one

COD: Internal injuries from weight of vehicle

TOD: Approximately 4:00 a.m.

General notes:

•  Robbery not motive

•  No sexual assault

•  Victim was not a known witness, no one appeared to be delivering ‘messages’

•  No drug or other illegal or organized crime connection

•  No known enemies

•  Present boyfriend has alibi

•  Dated casually men met through work, health club, church – no bad breakups or stalkers

•  Appears to be a random crime, likely a serial perpetrator

Evidence:

•  Approximately 82 pounds of household trash, covering auto ramp to garage and floor of garage, probably from Dumpster in apartment building

•  Duct tape
used to subdue victim
four nearly empty rolls located, probably taken from trash
to be determined if one was the source of the tape used on victim

•  Hair, some naturally detached from follicles, some cut
approximately 930 separate samples
human, animal? To be determined

•  Shattered cinderblock
one piece used to strike victim from behind
all the pieces were spray painted, obscuring evidence (see paint below)

•  Newspapers, magazines, direct mail pieces, apparently from trash and recycling bins; used, many items handled; therefore containing friction ridge prints

•  Plastic spoons, forks, knives, food containers, beverage cups, coffee cartons, all used

185 samples

DNA, to be determined

•  Swabs of human and/or animal organic materials, revealed by alternative light source
saliva, semen, plasma, sweat, vaginal fluids?

possibly delivered to the scene via strewing trash and medical waste

742 swabs taken from different locations

DNA, to be determined

•  Fibers, cloth

439 samples

•  Fibers, nylon

230 samples

•  Fibers, metal

25 samples

•  Paint
used throughout the site, presumably to obscure actual evidence
oil-based spray

Cans located, nearly empty, suggesting they were found in trash, rather than purchased
eight to ten friction ridge prints on each can

•  Latex gloves, used

48 separate L/R hand gloves

DNA, to be determined

Friction ridge prints, to be determined

•  Dirt, dust
approximately two pounds in total
indeterminate number of sources
at least 12 main variations in composition

•  Food crumbs

34 samples

•  Leaves

249 collected
from approximately 27 known trees/bushes

73 unidentified

•  Grass, lawn

376 samples

•  Grass, decorative

64 samples

•  Excrement
human/animal, to be determined

DNA, to be determined

•  Light bulbs
from parking garage
removed, then shattered

•  Powdered substances

214 samples
non-narcotic
possibly over-the-counter medicine, pulverized
laundry detergent
eight different brands

•  Liquid substances still liquid or dried residue
bleach
ammonia
dish soap
alcohol
water
soft drinks
coffee
gasoline
milk

•  Organic tissue

346 samples
human/animal, to be determined

DNA, to be determined
could be food

•  Fingernail clippings

•  Bones

42 samples
human/animal, to be determined (apparently animal)

DNA, to be determined
could be food
some definitely fish bones, chicken or other fowl

•  Footprints

23, male and female, 18 different sizes, five associated with the victim’s shoes
prints of feet in crime scene, surgical booties

•  vapors in crime scene
small fire set in corner, newspapers, possibly to obscure smell of the unsub’s aftershave or other odor
spray paint fumes.

•  Disposable cigarette lighters

18 separate lighters found
probably taken from trash--most empty of butane

64 friction ridge prints

Rhyme barked, ‘The chart reads like the table of contents in my goddamn book.’

Several years ago Rhyme had written a textbook, A Comprehensive Guide to Evidence Collection and Analysis, which was a best seller, at least in the law enforcement community if not in the Times.

Sachs: ‘I don’t know where to start, Rhyme.’

Well, guess what? Rhyme thought, I don’t either. He was recalling another passage in the book.

While every scene will contain at least some transferred evidence from the perpetrator, it may never be discovered, as a practical matter, because of budget and time constraints. Similarly, there may be too much evidence obscuring the relevant clues, which will similarly render effective analysis impossible.

‘It’s even more brilliant than I thought,’ the criminalist mused. ‘Getting most of what he used in the crime from the trash – covered with other people’s prints. And contaminating the scene with, literally, pounds of trace and other garbage. For things he couldn’t obscure – he could hardly bring a dozen shoes with him or somebody else’s fingers – he wore booties and gloves.’

Sachs said, ‘But those can’t be his gloves, all the latex ones. He wouldn’t leave them behind.’

‘Probably not. But we can’t afford not to analyze them, can we? And he knows it.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Mel Cooper, as discouraged as the rest of them. Rhyme believed the tech had had a ballroom dancing date with his girlfriend of many years last night. They were competitors and apparently quite accomplished. Lincoln Rhyme did not follow dancing.

‘And he . . . ’ Rhyme’s voice faded as several thoughts came to him.

‘Linc—’

Rhyme lifted his right arm and waved Sellitto silent as he continued to stare.

Finally the criminalist said excitedly, ‘Think about this. This person knows evidence. And that means he knows there’s a good chance he’s got some trace or other clue on him that could lead us to his identity or to the next victim he’s got in mind.’

‘Right,’ Lon Sellitto said. ‘And?’

Rhyme was peering at the charts. ‘So what did he use the most of to contaminate the scene?’

Sachs said, ‘Trash—’

‘No, that was a general smokescreen. It just happened to be there. Something specific, I’m looking for.’

Cooper shoved his Harry Potter glasses higher on his nose as he read the charts. He offered, ‘Fibers, hair, general trace—’

‘Yes, but those are givens at every crime scene. I want to know what’s special?’

‘What’s the most unique, you mean?’ Sellitto offered.

‘No, I don’t mean that, Lon,’ Rhyme said sourly. ‘Because something is either unique or not. You don’t have varying degrees of one-ness.’

‘Haven’t had a grammar lesson from you lately, Lincoln. I was wondering if you’d quit the schoolmarm union.’

Drawing a smile from Thom, who was delivering coffee and pastries.

Sachs was studying the chart. She said, ‘Dirt and . . . vegetation.’

Rhyme squinted. ‘Yes, good. That could be it. He knew he picked up some trace either where the perp lives or works, or where he’s been scoping out another victim, and he had to cover that up.’

‘Which means,’ Sachs said, ‘a garden, park or yard?’

‘I’d say, yes. Soil and the greenery. That could hold the clue. It cuts the search down a bit. . . . We should start there. Then anything else?’ Rhyme reviewed the chart again. ‘The detergent and cleansers--why’d he sprinkle or pour so many of those in the scene? We need to start working our way through those, too.’ Rhyme looked around. ‘That kid, Marko? Why isn’t he here?’

Sachs said, ‘He called. He had something he had to do back in Queens, HQ. But he’d still like to help us out if we need him. You want me to call him?’

‘I do, Sachs. Fast!’

* * *

An exhausting time.

A business trip with her boss to California and back in under twenty-four hours.

Productive, necessary, but stressful.

They were now cabbing it into the city from JFK, where their flight had landed at 6:00 p.m. She was exhausted, a bit tipsy from the two glasses of wine and mildly resenting the three hours that you lost flying east.

Her boss, late forties, tanned and trim, now slipped his iPhone away – he’d been making a date for tomorrow – and then turned to her with a laugh. ‘Did you hear them? They really used the word “unpack.”’

As in ‘unpack it for us,’ meaning presumably explain to the network the story they’d come to pitch.

‘Since when did “explain” fall off the A-list of words?’

Simone smiled. ‘And the net executive? She said the concept was definitely ‘seismic.’ You know, you need a translator app in Hollywood.’

Her boss laughed and Simone eyed him obliquely. A great guy. Funny, smart, in great shape thanks to a health club regimen that bordered on the religious. He was also extremely talented, which meant extremely successful.

Oh, and single, too.

He sure was a big helping of temptation, you bet, but Simone, despite being in her mid-thirties and sans boyfriend at the moment, had successfully corralled the baby and the lonely hormones; she could look at her boss objectively. The man’s obsessive craving for detail and perfection, his intensity would drive her crazy if they were partners. Work was everything. He lived his life as if he were planning out a production. That was it: life as storyboard, preproduction, production and post. This was undoubtedly a reason his marriage hadn’t worked out and why he tended to go out with somebody for only a month or two at the most.

Good luck, James, she thought. I wish you the best.

Not that he’d ever actually asked you out, Simone reflected wryly.

The cab now approached her neighborhood – Greenwich Village. For Simone, there was no other place to live in New York City. It was, truly, a village. A neighborhood.

The cab dropped her at Tenth Street. ‘Hm,’ her boss said, looking out the window at two men, constructed like bodybuilders, kissing passionately as they stood on the steps of the building next to hers.

He said, ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that.’ The famous line from Seinfeld.

Simone smiled, then looked at the main kisser. What a waste.

Then she said good night to her boss and stepped out of the cab, grabbed her suitcase from the trunk. She paused to let a stocky homeless woman wheel her packed grocery cart past – filled with everything but groceries, of course. Simone thought about giving her some change. But then she reflected, why do I think the woman’s homeless? Maybe she’s an eccentric millionaire.

She climbed the stairs to her apartment, smelling that odd aroma of the building, which defied description, as did many of the buildings here. What on earth was it?

Eau de Old New York Apartment.

Insecticide, takeout Chinese, takeout curry, ancient wood, Lysol, damp brick, cooked onions.

Her cat more or less forgave her, though he didn’t have much to complain about. The kibble dish, tended to by her neighbor, was filled with manna from heaven. The water, too, was full and the radio was playing NPR, which was Ruffles’s favorite. He seemed to enjoy the pledge drives as much as This American Life.

Simone checked messages – nothing urgent there, though she noted no caller-ID-blocked numbers. She’d had a lot of those recently. Telemarketers, of course.

She then unpacked and assembled a laundry pile. Simone had never returned from a trip without doing her laundry the night she was back.

Clothes cooties, she called it.

Thanks, Mom.

Simone pulled her sweats on, gathered up the clothes and a cheerful orange bottle of Tide. She took the back stairway, which led to the basement laundry and storage rooms. Simone descended from the second floor to the first and then started down the steps that would take her to the basement. This stairwell was dark, though there was some illumination from downstairs, the laundry room presumably, or maybe the storeroom. She flicked the switch several times. Then squinted and noted that the bulb was missing and not just – it had fallen to the stairs and shattered.

It was at this point that Simone started feeling uneasy.

But she continued, walking carefully to avoid as much of the broken glass as she could in her Crocs. On the basement level, another bulb was broken, too.

Creeping me out.

Okay, that’s it. Hell with OCD issues. I’ll do the laundry tomorrow.

Then squinted and saw, with some relief, that she’d have to wait anyway. There was a sign on the laundry room door. Out of Order. The sign was battered and torn. She’d never seen it before; when the washer or dryer weren’t working, Henry had always just hand-written a sign, informing the tenants when they could expect the machines to be up and running again.

She turned and, eager to get the hell back to Ruffles and her apartment, took one step toward the stairs.

She felt two things in serial. First, a faint chill as the door leading to the storeroom and, eventually, to the alley, opened.

And then a searing explosion of pain as the rock, the bottle, the weight of the world slammed into the back of her head.

4

Amelia Sachs skidded her maroon 1970 Ford Torino Cobra, heir to the Fairlane, to a stop at the curb in this idyllic section of Greenwich Village.

There were six blue-and-whites, mostly from the nearby Sixth Precinct, and about fifteen uniforms canvassing house to house.

In the long-odds search for Unsub 26’s next victim.

She leaped out, wincing slightly at the arthritic pang. ‘Hi, how’re we doing?’ she asked one of the detectives she knew, a tall African-American named Ronald Simpson, just ending a radio transmission.

‘Amelia. We’re deploying. We make it forty-eight locations in the perimeter that you and Detective Rhyme gave us. If we don’t find anything, we’ll expand it.’

‘Sachs!’ Rhyme’s voice burst through her headset. No video camera – just a standard-issue Motorola with an earpiece and stalk mike. It was voice activated. Sachs needed both hands free to drive; she’d hit close to eighty on the way down here from Rhyme’s townhouse. The Torino boasted 405 bhp and with an impressive 447 foot pounds of torque. And Amelia Sachs made use of every bit of those specs.

‘I’m here, Rhyme. With Ron Simpson from the Sixth.’ She relayed the information the man had given her.

‘Forty-eight? Hell.’

They’d hoped the two-block area would include a lot fewer apartment buildings to search than that.

But at least it was something. And it could be a lot worse. In looking for a way to narrow down the hunt for Unsub 26 or his next victim, Rhyme had come up with an interesting strategy.

Theorizing that the soil/vegetation and cleaning materials evidence held valuable leads, the question became how to analyze them quickly, given the sheer number of samples?

Hence, the call to Marko.

Who had connections in the forensic science department at the police academy. Rhyme had asked the young man to get his professors’ okay to enlist the rookies to help, with Marko supervising. Although there were hundreds of samples, because so many students were helping, each one had no more than five or ten. They were to look for the smallest samples, on the assumption that the largest quantities were materials that the unsub had intentionally flooded the scene with.

For hours there’d been no discoveries. But an hour ago Marko had called the townhouse.

‘Detective Rhyme, sir?’

Rhyme didn’t bother to correct him on the appellation. ‘Go on.’

‘We might’ve found something. We did what you said and prioritized everything according to quantity, then concentrated on the smallest trace. The least common was some vegetation that contained traces of urushiol.’

‘The toxin in poison ivy or sumac,’ Rhyme had blurted.

Sachs had wondered, as she often did, How does he know that?

‘Yessir. And it’s in poison oak, too.’

‘No, forget that. You don’t see it much in Manhattan. We’ll stick with ivy and sumac.’

Marko had added that that vegetation was attached to bits of flower petals. They’d absorbed small amounts of glyphosate—’

‘An herbicide used to kill poison ivy and sumac.’

‘Yessir,’ Marko said again. ‘So the perp might’ve spent time in a flower garden that was recently treated for the toxic plants.’

He added another discovery: ‘They also found trace fragments of bovine bone dust in the soil attached to the vegetation.’

‘West Village,’ Rhyme had pronounced. ‘Runoff, rains, rats . . . they carry all sorts of goodies from the meat-packing district, including beef bone dust.’

He’d had Sellitto start a hunt in city parks in the western part of Greenwich Village, any that had flower gardens. ‘But only the ones that’d been recently treated for poisonous plants.’

And the results of that search led here, to where Sachs was now standing, on West Tenth Street. The small park, about three blocks from the meat-packing district, was surrounded by three-, four- and five-story townhouses and brownstones, nearly all of them apartments.

Rhyme had explained their find to Sellitto, who’d ordered the sweep in the area, telling the patrol officers to pay attention to laundry rooms, kitchens and storerooms, since the other category of evidence in play was domestic cleaning supplies.

‘Long shot,’ the detective had muttered.

‘It’s the only shot we’ve got.’

It was now 10:30 p.m. and the officers had been canvassing for half an hour.

Many citizens were reluctant to open their doors, even for police, or someone claiming to be police. Language was always a barrier and, even once they were admitted, the officers often had to try to survey individual units, since some buildings did not have communal laundry rooms.

Sachs watched a team storm into a brownstone. She stared; was this the site?

They came out a few minutes later, shaking their heads.

‘Anything?’ Rhyme asked her urgently.

‘No.’

Sachs’s fingers disappeared into her mass of hair and dug obsessively into her scalp. Stop it, she told herself.

Deal with the tension.

She dug some more.

The lead would only be helpful if it led to another crime in progress. If the trace led to Unsub 26’s apartment and the police knocked on the door, he might open it, smile and say, ‘No sir, I never heard of a Jane Levine. You have a nice night now.’

Sachs looked past the flashing lights and saw Marko, in jeans and a dress shirt, running shows. He caught her eye, gave a brief nod of recognition and then turned back to the scene, as if studying it intently for future reference. He was holding a scene suit bag. Let’s hope he gets a chance to use it, she thought.

Then her radio crackled, a woman’s voice. ‘Portable seven-six-six-three. I’ve got something.’

‘Go ahead,’ Sachs said, identifying herself as a detective.

The patrol officer explained she was at an address a block away, on West Tenth. ‘We’ve got an incendiary IED and victim nearby, immobilized. We need the Bomb Squad.’

‘I’m on my way,’ Sachs told her and began to run. Then into her mouthpiece radio: ‘Got a hit, Rhyme,’ she told him and, struggling to ignore the pain in her knees, sprinted faster. Marko was following, as were several other officers.

‘Tell me,’ Rhyme said.

‘I’ll know soon,’ she gasped, her feet thudding on the concrete.

She was at the building in two minutes. Sellitto joined her. They met the patrol officer who’d called it in, a round Latina, on the stairs in front. The woman was visibly shaken.

‘Vic down in the laundry room. There’s gas fumes all over the place. I was going for her, but I was afraid I’d set off the device.’

‘What kind of gas?’ Rhyme asked, having heard her through Sachs’s microphone.

She repeated the question for the patrolwoman.

‘Gasoline. He—’

‘I’m going in,’ Sachs said.

‘Sachs, wait—’

‘It could blow at any minute,’ the patrolwoman said. ‘I’d wait for the Bomb Squad.’

Sellitto said, ‘I’ve called them. They’ll be here in five minutes.’ The squad was based in the Sixth Precinct.

But five minutes was too long. Sachs said, ‘I’m taking off the headset, Rhyme. I don’t know if it could spark or not, but I’m not taking the chance.’

‘Sachs, wait—’

‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

‘Amelia,’ Sellitto began.

She ignored him, too. She was debating the Tyvek suit. At the moment she had to assume the vic was still alive and could be burned to death at any minute. Forget the suit. There was no time to wait. She said to Sellitto, ‘If anything happens.’ She glanced toward Marko, who was running toward the brownstone. ‘Have him run the scene. He’s good.’

‘Amelia,’ Sellitto barked. ‘Let the Bomb Squad handle it.’

‘Can’t, Lon. We’re out of time.’

Sachs looked down at her clothes. A wool jacket. Did that create more static sparks than any other cloth? Or less? She didn’t know but took it off anyway. ‘Where’s the vic?’ she asked the Latina officer.

‘In the back there’s a stairway. The laundry room’s in the basement off the hallway to the right. But—’

Sachs sprinted into the building, calling, ‘Everybody back fifty feet.’

Then she was in the dim recesses of the old building and starting down the stairs, which, unlike those at the other scene, were relatively clean, though the bulbs in the stairwell overheads were broken as well.

Her hand on her Glock, she surveyed the narrow corridor, off which were two doors: one, the laundry room where the victim was, and the other straight ahead, leading to a storeroom or the alley behind the building, Sachs guessed.

Normally she would have cleared the entire basement first, but the smell of gasoline was overwhelming – and the risk of fire imminent. She had to move fast.

Into the laundry room quickly, swinging her weapon back and forth. In the back, ducttaped to a water pipe, was a woman in her thirties, wearing sweats, the shoulders of which were covered with blood, from some wound to her head. Strands of her dark blond hair were clotted crimson. Her face was red from crying and her eyes wide with terror.

Unsub 26 had planned another prolonged killing. In this case, terror first and then pain . . . of dying from being burned to death.

On a high shelf against the wall, over her, was a plastic pail. A hole had been cut in the side and gasoline trickled out, running down the wall and pooling on the floor. The puddle was making its way to the door. And was just about to reach the hot water heater. Sachs noted it was a gas model, which meant that it had a pilot light. Any minute the gas would flow beneath it and the fumes would ignite. The resulting fireball would ignite everything and melt the plastic pail; the five or so gallons of inflamed gasoline would flow throughout the room.

She eased forward slowly. Shuffle or not? Would that create a static spark? She couldn’t worry about it. She hurried to the water heater. Surveying the system, she reached up carefully and slowly. The taped woman shook her head and gave an unearthly scream. But Sachs ignored her and pulled the gas cutoff lever down.

There was a hiss and a quiet plop.

The pilot was out.

Sachs thought about removing the bucket of gas, but it was big and heavy. Moving it would surely spill some of the liquid, which might slosh onto a part of the water heater that was hot enough to ignite it.

The immediate threat was gone.

Still, though, the victim’s head was shaking madly. Her eyes were wide and from her throat came high-pitched sounds, half screams, half words.

With her switchblade Sachs carefully cut the tape binding the woman to the pipe. She turned her around to look at the nasty wound on her head, looking around for something to stop the bleeding.

Another keening sound of desperation from the victim’s throat. Her head waved more frantically yet.

Ah, maybe she was suffocating.

Sachs carefully eased the duct tape off her mouth and set it aside to be collected later for evidence. The victim sucked in air desperately, starting off a jag of coughing. Finally she managed, ‘We have to leave! Fire!’

‘It’s okay, the pilot light—’

‘Not that. There!’ she pointed.

The pendulum of Sachs’s gaze swung to the left.

What was that?

A flicker of unsteady shadow.

She dropped to her knees. Behind the washing machine was a Starbucks Frappuccino bottle with a rag stuffed in the neck. It, too, was filled with gasoline and the improvised wick was burning. The gasoline flowing down the wall was just starting to pool around it.

A Molotov cocktail.

Oh, hell, the pilot light wasn’t the igniter. This bottle was.

Sachs grabbed the woman by the shoulders. They rushed the door.

And then, the explosion.

5

‘Sachs!’ Lincoln Rhyme was calling into his headset microphone. He was in his parlor lab, surrounded by the thousands of evidence containers. He hadn’t moved much; it was difficult to maneuver.

He glanced at Thom, who was also on the phone, trying to reach someone at the command post for an update. Neither Sellitto nor Detective Ron Simpson was answering.

The report from the scene was that there’d been a huge explosion in the basement of the townhouse that Sachs had been searching. The tenants and their pets had been saved – as had the bulk of the building; the fire was mostly out. But Sachs and the intended victim, both of whom were in the laundry room, where the device was set, were unaccounted for.

Rhyme was furious with her for not waiting for the Bomb Squad.

‘It’s their fucking job,’ he muttered, drawing a quizzical glance from his aide, who would, of course, have no idea whom he was fighting with.

He made a mobile call. But Lon Sellitto didn’t pick up.

‘Goddamn it!’

Police and fire reports tumbled their way.

Oh, Jesus Christ . . .

And then, at last, ‘Rhyme . . . ’

‘Sachs! Where are you? What happened?’

‘Wait one—’

‘I don’t want to wait one anything. What the hell happened?’ He nodded at Thom, who hung up his own on-hold call.

‘We’re fine. The vic and I got out the back. We just made it to the corridor before it blew.’

She went on to describe what he’d rigged.

‘I wanted to collect some of the evidence, Rhyme. Anything. This time there wasn’t any contamination. But I didn’t have the chance.’

‘You’re all right?’

‘Yeah, dizzy from the fumes, smoke.’

‘The vic?’

‘Same, dizzy, she’s on oxygen. She breathed ‘em for longer than I did.’

‘She see anything?’

Sachs explained that, as in the homicide on Twenty-sixth Street, the perp had hit her from behind and duct-taped her, then rigged the bomb.

‘Same thing, Rhyme. It was slow. Like he wanted her to think about the death she was facing. Lon’s interviewing her.’

‘Come on back here right away, Sachs. We just handed our unsub his first defeat and he’s probably not very happy about it. And that young guy, Marko? Is he there?’

‘He came over from the academy. He and I’re going to walk the grid. Not that there’s much to collect.’

‘Well, tell him he did a competent job,’ Rhyme said and disconnected.

Though it sounded like damning with faint praise, in fact, coming from Lincoln Rhyme, it was a stellar compliment.

* * *

At midnight, Sachs, Sellitto and Cooper were in the parlor.

The opposite of the earlier scene, the site of the attempt on Tenth Street had yielded Evidence Lite; Sachs could carry all of it herself in one milk carton.

Sellitto had interviewed the victim, Simone Randall, at length. Like Jane Levine at the first crime scene, she had no enemies, certainly none who’d do something like this. She worked as an assistant in the entertainment field. She and her boss had just gotten back from a meeting on the West Coast. Simone had no clue why someone would do this to her and hadn’t seen any threats when she’d arrived. She told Sachs about the other people on the street as she’d gotten out of the taxi: two guys making out and a homeless woman. Patrol officers canvassed but didn’t come up with anybody. He also contacted Simone’s boss, who’d dropped her off in front of her apartment, but he hadn’t seen anything either, except the three people that Simone had mentioned.

The victim added that she thought she’d seen somebody watching the building with binoculars off and on for the past month, from the garden in the city park across the street, but he might just have been bird-watching.

‘Where our unsub picked up his vegetative evidence and soil,’ Rhyme noted.

But Simone had not seen the person clearly.

Sellitto said, ‘That’s it. Zip. Zilch.’

‘Hell,’ Rhyme muttered, wheeling back and beaching his chair on a pile of evidence envelopes containing plastic utensils. With the bits of food and drink beginning to decay, the parlor was taking on an unhealthy smell.

He didn’t know when a case had frustrated him so much.

Thom surveyed his boss and said, ‘I’m going to want you to get some sleep.’

‘Fine,’ Rhyme snapped, ‘if you’re ‘going to’ want that, it means you don’t want it yet.’

‘Lincoln.’ Thom was placid but firm, in his caregiver/mother-hen mode. The criminalist didn’t feel like arguing. Besides, Thom was usually right about Rhyme’s physical state, even if the criminalist didn’t want to admit it. The life expectancy for those with his level of quadriplegia can be less than that of the general population, and Rhyme had Thom to thank for the fact he was still on earth . . . and relatively healthy.

And he was exhausted.

‘Twenty minutes, please.’

‘“Please,”’ Thom said with mock shock. ‘That didn’t sound sincere.’

It wasn’t.

Though as things turned out, even twenty minutes was too much.

There virtually was no evidence, nothing to analyze, no conclusions to be drawn.

And yet the unsub had been just as clever as at the earlier scene.

The fire meant there was nothing left to trace back to his home, place of work or future attacks. The fire had turned nearly everything to ash and the water from the fire department had blended clues with extraneous materials and produced a useless black sludge. He was sure, too, that the few recognizable remnants – the Frappuccino bottle, the duct tape, the matches – would have come from the trash.

Even an analysis of the accelerant gasoline revealed it was an unbranded generic – and could have been bought in any of five hundred stations in the area.

Ah, fire, Rhyme reflected cynically.

As he’d written in his textbook:

Arson is one of the best ways to destroy trace evidence, friction ridge prints and shoe and boot prints. Investigators have to rely on evidence from entrance and exit routes and chemical analysis of the accelerant and ignition device for clues.

As for the things that might have helped – footprints along the perp’s entrance and exit routes? And tool marks where he’d picked the locks? Of course, he’d worn booties and gloves – and had figured that any telltale clues would be destroyed by the firemen charging into the building, swinging axes and knocking down doors.

Which, of course, was exactly what happened.

Thom said, ‘Lincoln.’

The grace period was up. It was time for bed.

Maybe something would occur to him in the morning.

6

But the dawn arrived with no brilliant insights regarding Unsub 26.

And none at midmorning . . . nor late afternoon.

They were no longer able to enlist the numbers-crunching forces from the police academy, to review the massive amounts of evidence from the scene on Twenty-sixth Street, though the head of the Crime Scene Unit agreed to dedicate some extra technicians. Marko had taken the bulk of the collected materials from Rhyme’s to the labs in Queens.

But the hours rolled by and all the updates included variations on: ‘There’s just too much evidence.’

Clues had never failed Rhyme so badly as in this case. He’d built his whole professional life on finding the truth because of physical evidence. In fact, he was contemptuous of other forms of investigation. Witnesses lied, motives were fishy, vivid memories were completely wrong.

Locard’s Principle . . .

At 6:00 p.m. Mel Cooper, Sachs and Rhyme were still laboring away, doing what they could with the several hundred samples that remained here in his parlor but not making any headway.

There’s just too much . . .

Rhyme reached for one of the hair sample bags. ‘Let’s keep going with follicles and CODIS.’ The consolidated database that contained DNA samples from tens of thousands of perpetrators.

But he set it down and wheeled back from a work table. His expression must have been particularly troubled. Sachs, too, stopped her analysis of a sheet of paper, walked behind him and massaged his shoulders, which were tense as stone.

It felt nice . . .

But didn’t take away the frustration.

Rhyme gazed at the largely useless evidence, trying desperately to think of a different approach. It was clear that the classic textbook procedure for running a case forensically wasn’t going to work.

What else could he—?

Textbook.

‘Sachs!’

‘What?’ She stopped the massage and walked around in front of him.

‘Textbook. Think about what I’ve been saying for the past couple of days. My textbook.’

The evidence chart reads like the table of contents in my goddamn book . . . .

Sachs was nodding. ‘It’s like everything he knows about evidence and crime scenes, he learned from your book.’

He pointed to the chart. ‘There’s a separate chapter for each of those categories of evidence collection and analysis. And I wrote sections about contamination, having too much evidence, and arson as a means to obliterate it. Somebody who bought or borrowed my text is the perp.’

‘How many copies did you sell?’ Cooper asked. He knew the book well; he was one of the dedicatees.

‘About twenty thousand.’

‘Not very helpful then.’

Rhyme considered this. ‘I’m not so sure. People aren’t going to curl up with it on cold winter nights like they would with Harry Potter or one of those vampire books now, are they? The vast bulk of sales would be to law enforcement. But let’s put them aside for the time being – it’s too obvious, too traceable. Somebody with a forensic specialty’d be the first people we’d look at.’

‘We’ll drop everything and get in touch with publishers and retailers.’

‘How do we factor out law enforcement sales?’ Cooper asked.

‘Anybody with the government got a discount, so let’s get a list of any customer who paid full price.’

Sachs pointed out, ‘But like you just said, it could have been borrowed. It could’ve been bought with cash in a store, could’ve been stolen.’

‘Maybe, but not many retail outlets carried it. Most sales were online. As for borrowing it, just because something is unlikely is no reason not to pursue it. I don’t think we have much choice, anyway.’

‘Time frame for the sales?’ Cooper wondered.

‘I’d go back a year. The sales spiked after that documentary I did on A&E; a lot of people saw it, Googled me and bought the book.’ Rhyme’s head was forward and he felt exhilarated. He was on the hunt and he knew his heart was pounding hard – felt the sensation in his neck and head, of course, not in his numb chest.

‘Besides, I’d think emotionally you don’t buy a book to help you plan a killing and then wait two years. This perp’s moving fast.’

‘You’re sounding quite psychological, Rhyme,’ Sachs said, laughing. ‘That almost sounds like you’re profiling him.’

A pseudoscience, he felt. But he replied with a shrug, ‘Who said forensic scientists can’t be aware of human nature? That’s all. Let’s get to work. Who coughed up a hundred and twenty dollars for my words of wisdom, plus shipping and handling?’

In three hours they had a rough list from the publishers, online retailers and professional bookstores. Sixty-four people in the New York area had bought the textbook in the past year, paying full price.

‘Ouch,’ Cooper muttered. ‘Sixty-four? That’s a brick wall.’

‘Not at all,’ Rhyme whispered, looking over the list. ‘I’d say it’s merely a speed bump.’

* * *

Okay, he was a catch.

Vicki Sellick probably wouldn’t’ve thought of him that way by herself. But Joan and Alaki from work had met them for a drink earlier that night and both gave her subtle raised-eyebrows approval ratings. Joanie had whispered, ‘Go, girl! You hooked a good one.’

Oh, stop . . .

But, yeah, Vicki now thought, she had.

Her date was courteous, handsome, had a great job and on the two times that he’d stayed over their time together had been . . . well, fantastic. They made a solid couple, politically in tune (centrist Democrats), athletic, lovers of the out of doors. They’d both been through tough divorces. True, he worked long hours, but so did she, a Wall Street lawyer. And he was older – in his mid-fifties, but looked much younger. Besides, Vicki, thirty-seven, had stopped using age as a definitive criterion for potential partners some years ago, one of her better decisions in the crazy world of dating.

He now steered his Jaguar to the curb in front of her apartment and, without hesitation, took her in his arms, kissing her firmly.

She had wondered if tonight would be the third time he stayed and it probably would have been, except that he had a 6:00 a.m. flight tomorrow on business. His assistant was out of commission for some reason or another so he had to get ready for the meeting all by himself.

But there was nothing wrong with taking things slowly.

She kissed him back even harder.

‘I’m back in two days,’ he whispered. ‘See you then?’

‘You’re on.’ Another kiss sealed the deal.

‘I’ll walk you up,’ he said, nodding at her townhouse.

But she had to pick up some milk and a few things at the deli up the street, so they kissed a while more.

She whispered, ‘ ‘Night, James. Call me if you can.’

‘Oh, you’ll hear from me,’ he said softly, nuzzling her ear. She climbed out of the sports car and he sped off.

Ten minutes later, plastic bags in hand, she returned to her townhouse, a real find she’d been in for some years. She’d lucked into a duplex on the top floors of the four-story building and scraped together enough money to buy it instantly. The living space was a refuge from the chaos and demands of Wall Street law.

Up the stairs to the second floor, then the third.

Hm, the hallway light was out here. Odd, the maintenance in the building was great. Odd. It seemed the light bulb had fallen out and shattered. As she walked up to the fourth floor, where the entrance to her unit was, she fished in her pocket for her phone, thinking about calling him.

No, she’d wait. Get inside, take a shower, have a final glass of wine. She left the phone where it was and got her keys. Maybe—

Then the world went black and an explosion of pain soared through her head and as she pitched forward she felt the keys being lifted from her fingers.

7

‘I think I’ve got it,’ Rhyme said, looking over the list of book sales.

Lon Sellitto had joined them and had an arrest team ready to go, if Rhyme’s textbook theory panned out.

The criminalist continued, ‘A week after the special aired, somebody named James Ferguson, 734 East Sixty-eighth Street, bought a copy of my book. He’s not law enforcement. He ticked the box that said it was for professional research.’

‘Ferguson,’ Sachs said, ‘sounds familiar.’

Sellitto said, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah! I interviewed him. He’s Simone Randall’s – the second vic’s – boss. He dropped her off in a cab about a half hour before she was attacked.’

‘Data mine him, Mel. I want to know if he belongs to a health club. And, Sachs, find out the club that first victim belonged to.’

Sellitto nodded. ‘Right, good call. The vic’s boyfriend said she dated somebody from the club once, I think.’

In five minutes they had the answer. Both Ferguson and Jane Levine belonged to Lower Manhattan Health and Tennis.

‘So, he’s our boy. Classic serial doer. Let’s find him, pick him up,’ Sellitto said and reached for his phone.

‘Hold on, Lon,’ Rhyme said. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

And Rhyme did something he never thought he’d ever do: started reading the witness statements, ignoring the evidence charts completely.

* * *

I’m dying, Vicki Sellick thought.

Why . . . why?

But she had no idea who was behind this and so she didn’t know why.

All she knew was that the asshole who’d slugged her over the head and tied her up here was trooping through the townhouse. She heard drawers opening, she heard doors closing.

Robbery?

She didn’t have anything here of any real value . . .

She stanched the tears. The duct tape was snug on her mouth and if she cried any harder she’d clog her nose and suffocate.

She was lying in her big, Victorian, claw-foot bathtub, hands bound behind her, feet, also taped, dangling over the end. The lights were out and the blinds closed. It was virtually black.

Vicki screamed through the tape. A pathetic sound nobody could have heard. She was on the top floor of her townhouse. She had it to herself, and the nearest neighbor, even if she was home, was two stories below.

Then silence for a moment. Then a faint sound.

What’s that? Was—?

She gasped as the door swept open and she felt a presence. The intruder, a pure shadow, moved in, paused . . . and turned the water on.

No! Vicki tried to struggle her way out but the angle and immobility from the tape made that impossible. Her attacker left, closing the door.

The icy water continued to rise.

* * *

This time Amelia Sachs was first on the scene.

And she was momentarily alone. Backup would be here soon but Rhyme had decided there was no time to wait; the perp – no longer an unsub at this point – had gone over a borderline and was moving faster. Rhyme said they had to assume another victim was about to die.

She skidded to a stop up the street from Vicki Sellick’s townhouse and sprinted to the front door fast, not even feeling the twinges of arthritis. There was no question of warrants or fair warning. Time was too critical. With the butt of her Glock she shattered the window of the front door, opened it and charged inside.

The weapon before her, she ran to the top-floor apartment and kicked the door in, searching quickly. She found the victim in the bathtub – like the Prius, an innocent object rigged to kill.

She looked down. The water was nearly at Vicki’s face and her frantic thrashing was making it worse; waves splashing up her nose. She was choking and coughing, her face bright red.

Sachs grabbed the woman’s blouse and pulled up hard from the water, then ripped the tape from her mouth.

‘Thank you, thank you!’ she sputtered. ‘But be careful! He might be here.’

Out came the switchblade again and after a few seconds of careful surgery the woman’s feet and hands were free. Sachs wrapped a towel around her shoulders.

‘Where?’

‘I heard him two minutes ago, downstairs! I didn’t get a look. He hit me from behind.’

Then a crash of glass from the hallway, near the rear of the building, a window breaking. ‘What’s back there?’

‘Fire escape to the alley.’

Sachs ran to the window and saw the shadow of a figure, standing uncertainly looking left and right. She told Vicki to lock the bathroom door, the backup would be there any minute – she heard the sirens approaching. Then she sped down the stairs to the second floor. She, too, went through the shattered window, after checking fast for presenting threats.

The shadow was gone.

She clambered fast down the stairs. Then stopped. A brief sigh. Like most of them in the city, the fire escape didn’t go all the way to the ground and she had to drop four or so feet to the cobblestoned alley, wincing in pain as she landed.

But she stayed upright and turned toward the darker part of the alley.

She got ten feet before the shadow reemerged – behind her.

She froze.

The young crime scene officer, Marko, was squinting her way. His weapon was in his hand.

He lifted it toward Sachs, shaking his crew-cut head. On his face was a faint but definite smile – though a cold one. Of victory. Probably the expression on the face of sniper just before he takes his shot to kill an enemy general.

8

Surprisingly silently for such a stocky man, Marko moved closer and pointed to his lips, shaking his head, meaning that she keep still.

Sachs didn’t move a muscle.

Then he pointed behind her. And suddenly he shouted, ‘You! Under the blankets. There’re two police officers here. We’re armed. Let me see your hands.’

Sachs looked to her left. She noted a homeless nest – blankets, piles of clothing, food cartons, grocery cart, empties, books and magazines. At first she didn’t see anyone. But then she spotted a human form huddling in a gamy bedspread. A woman. She glanced at Marko, who nodded, and she, too, trained her weapon on the person, though she didn’t have any idea what was going on.

‘Let me see your hands!’ he shouted.

And slowly the middle-aged figure rose, a look of fury and hatred on her face. Sachs moved forward and cuffed the suspect, who raged, ‘You don’t understand. You don’t have any idea what he did to me. He ruined my life!’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Marko said and glanced at Sachs, who read the woman her rights. Then eased her to a sitting position as she continued her rant, while the two officers searched the nest.

‘How’d you make her?’ Sachs asked. ‘The profile Rhyme had for the perp was middle-class, lived in a nice place on the Upper West Side.’

Marko nodded. ‘Homeless lady clothes, but not homeless lady shoes.’

Sachs looked. True, a torn and dirty dress. But nice Joan and David’s on her feet. Also, her face was clean and she wore makeup.

‘Good catch.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘ ‘Amelia’ is fine.’

‘Sure.’

They collected the woman’s purse – and a few other items. Notably, a pistol, with which she presumably would have shot Sachs in the back if Marko hadn’t gotten to the scene as quickly as he had.

Good catch . . .

They also found a well-thumbed book, sprouting Post-it notes.

A Comprehensive Guide to Evidence Collection and Analysis.

Lincoln Rhyme’s textbook.

* * *

The perp was James Ferguson’s ex-wife.

In this case, Lincoln Rhyme allowed, this one case, motive was a pretty good clue and led them to the suspect: revenge.

Ferguson, along with Sachs, Sellitto and Marko, sat in Rhyme’s townhouse, filling in the details of what Rhyme had deduced an hour ago. He explained that he’d gotten divorced from his wife, Linda, about a year ago. She’d grown increasingly abusive and unstable, paranoid. She’d known his career was important to him before they got married but she’d still resented the long hours and his obsession with his TV production projects. She was also sure he was having affairs with his assistants.

He laughed bitterly. ‘Twelve-hour days don’t leave a lot of time or energy for that sort of thing.’

After the divorce her mental and emotional condition grew worse, he added, though it never occurred to him that she’d grow violent.

But she sure had. Coming up with a bizarre plan to get even with Ferguson by stalking and killing some of the women Ferguson dated or knew. She dressed like a homeless woman, so she wouldn’t be noticed, camping out near her intended victims’ apartments to get details about their lives. Then she’d murdered them using as a template Rhyme’s book, both to cover up any clues to her personally and also to shift the focus to Ferguson, since there was a record he’d bought a copy of the textbook.

The last step, tonight, would be to plant evidence implicating her ex-husband in Vicki Sellick’s apartment. A whole chapter in Rhyme’s book was about intentionally seeding evidence at a scene to establish guilt.

Rhyme glanced at his textbook, sitting in an evidence collection bag. ‘Why did you happen to buy it?’

Ferguson explained that as a documentary TV producer he watched as many competitors’ programs as he could. ‘I saw the episode on A&E about that murder in Florida, where you were talking about evidence. I thought it was brilliant. I thought maybe my company could do something along those lines. So I ordered your book. But I never got around to doing the show. I went on to other things.’

‘And your wife knew about the book?’ Sellitto asked.

‘I guess I mentioned the project to her and that I was reading it. She’s been in my apartment off and on over the past year. She must’ve stolen it sometime when she was over.’ He regarded Rhyme. ‘But why didn’t you think I was the one, like she planned?’

Rhyme said, ‘I did at first. But then I decided it wouldn’t’ve been smart for somebody to use a book that could be traced to them as a template for murder. But it’d be very smart for someone else to use that book. And whoever put this together was brilliant.’

‘He profiled you,’ Sachs said with a smile.

Rhyme grimaced.

Sellitto had then spoken to Ferguson and learned of the nasty divorce, which gave them the idea that his ex might be behind it. They learned, too, that he’d just dropped off Vicki Sellick, the woman he was dating, at her apartment.

They’d tried to call the woman but, when she hadn’t picked up, Sachs and the team had sped there to see if she was in fact under attack.

‘She was nuts,’ Ferguson muttered. ‘Insane.’

‘Ah, madness and brilliance – they’re not mutually exclusive,’ Rhyme replied. ‘I think we can agree on that.’

Then Marko rubbed his close-cropped head and laughed. ‘I’m sort of surprised you didn’t suspect me. I mean, think about it. I was first on the scene at the Twenty-sixth Street homicide, I knew forensics, I’d taken your course and you could assume I’d read your book.’

Rhyme grunted. ‘Well, sorry to say, Kid, but you were a suspect. The first one.’

‘Me?’

‘Sure. For the reasons you just mentioned.’

Sellitto said, ‘But Linc had me check you out. You were in the lab in Queens, working late, when the first vic was killed.’

‘We had to check. No offense,’ Rhyme said.

‘It’s cool, sir . . . Lincoln.’

‘All right,’ Sellitto muttered. ‘I got paperwork to do.’ He left with Ferguson, who would go downtown to dictate his statement. Marko, too, left for the night.

‘That his first name or last?’ Rhyme asked.

‘Don’t know,’ Sachs replied.

An hour later, she’d finished bundling up the last of the evidence collection bags and jars and boxes for transport to the evidence storage facility in Queens.

‘We’ll definitely need to air the place out,’ Rhyme muttered. ‘Smells like an alleyway in here.’

Sachs agreed. She flung open the windows and poured them each a Glenmorangie scotch. She dropped into the rattan chair beside Rhyme’s Storm Arrow. His drink was in a tumbler, sprouting a straw. She placed it in a cup holder near his mouth. He had good movement of his right arm and hand, thanks to the surgery, but he was still learning the subtleties of control and didn’t want to risk spilling valuable single-malt.

‘So,’ she said, regarding him with a gleam in her eye.

‘You’re looking coy, Sachs.’

‘Well, I was just thinking. Are you finally going to admit that there’s more to policing than physical evidence?’

Rhyme thought for a moment. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

She laughed. ‘Rhyme, we closed this one because of deductions from witness statements and observations . . . and a little profiling. Evidence didn’t have anything to do with it.’

‘Ah,’ Rhyme said, ‘but there’s a flaw in your logic, Sachs.’

‘Which is?’

‘Those deductions and observations all came from the fact that somebody bought a textbook of mine, correct?’

‘True.’

‘And what was the book about?’

She shrugged. ‘Evidence.’

‘Ergo, physical evidence was the basis for closing the case.’

‘You’re not going to concede this one, are you, Rhyme?’

‘Do I ever?’ he asked and, placing his hand on hers, enjoyed a long sip of the smoky liquor.

Please read on for a preview of

THE KILL ROOM
the new Lincoln Rhyme novel.

On sale 20 June, 2013.

Chapter 1

The flash of light troubled him.

A glint, white or pale yellow, in the distance.

From the water? From the strip of land across the peaceful turquoise bay?

But here, there could be no danger. Here, he was in a beautiful and isolated resort. Here, he was out of the glare of media and the gaze of enemies.

Roberto Moreno squinted out the window. He was merely in his late thirties but his eyes were not good and he pushed the frames higher on his nose and scanned the vista – the garden outside the suite’s window, the narrow white beach, the pulsing blue-green sea. Beautiful, isolated . . . and protected. No vessels bobbed within sight. And even if an enemy with a rifle could have learned he was here and made his way unseen through the industrial plants on that spit of land a mile away across the water, the distance and the pollution clouding the view would have made a shot impossible.

No more flashes, no more glints.

You’re safe. Of course you are.

But still Moreno remained wary. Like Martin Luther King, like Gandhi, he was always at risk. This was the way of his life. He wasn’t afraid of death. But he was afraid of dying before his work was done. And at this young age he still had much to do. For instance, the event he’d just finished organizing an hour or so ago – a significant one, sure to get a lot of people’s attention – was merely one of a dozen planned for the next year.

And beyond, an abundant future loomed.

Dressed in a modest tan suit, a white shirt and royal blue tie – oh, so Caribbean – the stocky man now filled two cups from the coffeepot that room service had just delivered and returned to the couch. He handed one to the reporter, who was setting up a tape recorder.

‘Señor de la Rua. Some milk? Sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’

They were speaking in Spanish, in which Moreno was fluent. He hated English and only spoke it when he needed to. He’d never quite shucked the New Jersey accent when he was speaking in his native tongue, ‘hehr’ for ‘her,’ ‘mirrah’ for ‘mirror,’ ‘gun’ for ‘gone.’ The tones of his own voice took him right back to his early days in the States – his father working long hours and living life sober, his mother spending long hours not. Bleak landscapes, bullies from a nearby high school. Until salvation: the family’s move to a place far kinder than South Hills, a place where even the language was softer and more elegant.

The reporter said, ‘But call me Eduardo. Please.’

‘And I’m Roberto.’

The name was really ‘Robert’ but that smacked of lawyers on Wall Street and politicians in Washington and generals on the battlefields sowing foreign ground with the bodies of the locals like cheap seeds.

Hence, Roberto.

‘You live in Argentina,’ Moreno said to the journalist, who was a slight man, balding and dressed in a tie-less blue shirt and threadbare black suit. ‘Buenos Aires?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you know about the name of the city?’

De la Rua said no; he wasn’t a native.

‘The meaning is ‘good air,’ of course,’ Moreno said. He read extensively – several books a week, much of it Latin American literature and history. ‘But the air referred to was in Sardinia, Italy, not Argentina. So called after a settlement on top of a hill in Cagliari. The settlement was above the, let us say, pungent smells of the old city and was accordingly named Buen Ayre. The Spanish explorer who discovered what became Buenos Aires named it after that settlement. Of course that was the first settlement of the city. They were wiped out by the natives, who didn’t enjoy the exploitation by Europe.’

De la Rua said, ‘Even your anecdotes have a decidedly anti-colonial flavor.’

Moreno laughed. But the humor vanished and he looked quickly out the window again.

That damn glint of light. Still, though, he could see nothing but trees and plants in the garden and that hazy line of land a mile away. The inn was on the largely deserted southwest coast of New Providence, the island in the Bahamas where Nassau was located. The grounds were fenced and guarded. And the garden was reserved for this suite alone and protected by a high fence to the north and south, with the beach to the west.

No one was there. No one could be there.

A bird, perhaps. A flutter of leaf.

Simon had checked the grounds not long ago. Moreno glanced at him now, a large, quiet Brazilian, dark-complected, wearing a nice suit – Moreno’s guard dressed better than he did, though not flashy. Simon, in his thirties, looked appropriately dangerous, as one would expect, and want, in this profession but he wasn’t a thug. He’d been an officer in the army, before going civilian as a security expert.

He was also very good at his job. Simon’s head swiveled; he’d become aware of his boss’s gaze and immediately stepped to the window, looking out.

‘Just a flash of light,’ Moreno explained.

The bodyguard suggested drawing the shades.

‘I think not.’

Moreno had decided that Eduardo de la Rua, who’d flown here coach class at his own expense from the city of good air, deserved to enjoy the beautiful view. He wouldn’t get to experience much luxury, as a hardworking journalist known for reporting the truth, rather than producing puff pieces for corporate officials and politicians. Moreno also decided to take the man to a very nice meal at the South Cove Inn’s fine restaurant for lunch.

Simon gazed outside once more, returned to his chair and picked up a magazine.

De la Rua clicked on the tape recorder. ‘Now, may I?’

‘Please.’ Moreno turned his full attention to the journalist.

‘Mr. Moreno, your Local Empowerment Movement has just opened an office in Argentina, the first in the country. Could you tell me how you conceived the idea? And what your group does?’

Moreno had given this lecture dozens of times. It varied, based on the particular journalist or audience, but the core was simple: to encourage indigenous people to reject U.S. government and corporate influence by becoming self-sufficient, notably through microlending, microagriculture and microbusiness.

He now told the reporter, ‘We resist American corporate development. And the government’s aid and social programs, whose purpose, after all, is simply to addict us to their values. We are not viewed as human beings; we are viewed as a source of cheap labor and a market for American goods. Do you see the vicious cycle? Our people are exploited in American-owned factories and then seduced into buying products from those same companies.’

The journalist said, ‘I’ve written much about business investment in Argentina and other South American countries. And I know about your movement, which also makes such investments. One could argue you rail against capitalism yet you embrace it.’

Moreno brushed his longish hair, black and prematurely gray. ‘No, I rail against the misuse of capitalism – the American misuse of capitalism in particular. I am using business as a weapon. Only fools rely on ideology exclusively for change. Ideas are the rudder. Money is the propeller.’

The reporter smiled. ‘I will use that as my lead. Now, some people say, I’ve read some people say you are a revolutionary.’

‘Ha, I’m a loudmouth, that’s all I am!’ The smile faded. ‘But mark my words, while the world is focusing on the Middle East, everyone has missed the birth of a far more powerful force: Latin America. That’s what I represent. The new order. We can’t be ignored any longer.’

Roberto Moreno rose and stepped to the window.

Crowning the garden was a poisonwood tree, about forty feet tall. He stayed in this suite often and he liked the tree very much. Indeed, he felt a camaraderie with it. Poisonwoods are formidable, resourceful and starkly beautiful. They are also, as the name suggests, toxic. The pollen or smoke from burning the wood and leaves could slip into the lungs, searing with agony. And yet the tree nourishes the beautiful Bahamian swallowtail butterfly, and white-crowned pigeons live off the fruit.

I am like this tree, Moreno thought. A good image for the article perhaps. I’ll mention this too—

The glint again.

In a tiny splinter of a second: A flicker of movement disturbed the tree’s sparse leaves, and the tall window in front of him exploded. Glass turned to a million crystals of blowing snow, fire blossomed in his chest.

Moreno found himself lying on the couch, which had been five feet behind him.

But . . . but what happened here? What is this? I’m fainting, I’m fainting.

I can’t breathe.

He stared at the tree, now clearer, so much clearer, without the window glass filtering the view. The branches waved in the sweet wind off the water. Leaves swelling, receding. It was breathing for him. Because he couldn’t, not with his chest on fire. Not with the pain.

Shouts, cries for help around him.

Blood, blood everywhere.

Sun setting, sky going darker and darker. But isn’t it morning? Moreno had images of his wife, his teenage son and daughter. His thoughts dissolved until he was aware of only one thing: the tree.

Poison and strength, poison and strength.

The fire within him was easing, vanishing. Tearful relief.

Darkness becoming darker.

The poisonwood tree.

Poisonwood . . .

Poison . . .

For more information about THE KILL ROOM, you can visit Jeffery Deaver’s website:

http://www.jefferydeaver.com/