And then the bearded guy is out of his car, walking right at him.

“You think this is funny, asshole?”

The Chemist is shocked. He’s heard about this happening, people being killed over parking spaces, but he can’t believe it’s happening to him.

He manages to say, “I’m not laughing at-”

And then the guy shoves him, hard. The Chemist almost loses his footing.

“Think you’re better than me, in that fancy suit and that faggy tie.”

The man goes to shove him again, and on reflex the Chemist brings up the jet injector. When the guy grabs his shirt, he pushes the orifice into his chubby neck and squeezes the trigger.

The lunatic raises up a fist to hit him, then his eyes bug out and he clutches his throat.

He falls, dead before he hits the street.

“Arnie!”

The Chemist looks at the woman, who is now out of the car and rushing at him.

“What have you done to Arnie! You killed him!”

Like a picture snapping into focus, the Chemist is instantly aware of his surroundings. People are watching him. On the sidewalks. From their cars. This has become a scene.

“That son of a bitch shot my husband!” she howls. “Someone help me!”

The only person close enough to ID him later is Arnie’s wife. He’s on her in four steps, jamming the injector into her throat, killing her in mid-scream.

Then he hurries back to his car. People are pointing now, and shouting. A few of them are running over.

Hands shaking, the Chemist fishes the car keys out of his front pocket. He starts the car and realizes, to his horror, that Arnie’s car is blocking him in.

There’s no time to do anything else. He slams the car into gear, steps on the accelerator, and crashes into the car parked ahead of him. Then he puts it into reverse and hits the gas again, causing another collision.

He now has an extra few feet of room around his vehicle, and he squeezes onto the street between Arnie’s Chevy and the car he’d just rear-ended. There isn’t quite enough space, and there’s a grind of metal on metal as he scrapes both sides of the Honda as he pulls away, hyperventilating, a crowd of people staring at him.

This is bad. Very bad. But he can fix it, if he moves fast. All they’ll remember is the suit and the eye patch-thank God he kept it on.

They’ll remember the car too. There’s a good chance someone even took down the license plate number.

But that’s okay. The car isn’t his. He can tie up this loose end, if he hurries.

The Plan doesn’t have to change. But now he feels an urgency he hasn’t felt before, and that excites him.

He expected this to be emotionally satisfying. But in his sweetest dreams, he had never expected this to actually be fun.

I SAT OUTSIDE THE CAFÉ, at one of their patio tables along the sidewalk. Rick hadn’t been at the press conference, and it was twenty minutes past the time we said we’d meet.

We’d exchanged numbers, but I didn’t call him. Instead I called Latham’s hospital room, again, and was informed that there had been no change in his condition.

Another five minutes passed. An ambulance streaked by, sirens blaring. I dialed Dispatch, hung up, dialed them again, and asked the desk sergeant to give me a record and location of Wilbur Martin Streng, DOB October 16, 1935.

Traffic and people and time passed. A bee took an interest in the bud vase of cut carnations on my table, and I stiffened.

Don’t bother it, and it won’t bother you, I told myself. But I moved my hands away just the same. I was the lucky one person out of two hundred and fifty who was allergic to stings. When I was a teenager, a particularly nasty wasp had stung my hand, which quickly led to anaphylactic shock. My throat had swelled up to the point that I couldn’t breathe, and only an emergency room injection of epinephrine had saved my life. It wasn’t an experience I cared to repeat.

Luckily, the bee had interests other than me, and it buzzed off to molest some flowers at an adjacent table.

I sipped my iced tea. I closed my eyes. The sun felt good. I decided to order a club sandwich, not caring if Rick showed up or not.

“Sorry I’m late…”

Rick was slightly out of breath. I had the impression that he’d been running, and was more flattered by his hurrying to meet me than I was irritated at his lateness.

Rick sat down, then picked up the water glass at his place setting. He drained half of it in one gulp.

“Did you catch any of the press conference?” I asked.

“No. Conference call with Washington. How’d it go?”

“Fine. Roxy actually did okay. Remained calm and poised, answered everything correctly. And she looked better in my jacket than I did.”

Rick leaned in, his eyes twinkling. “No. She didn’t.”

I was being honest, not fishing, but it felt nice to hear just the same.

My sandwich came, and I apologized for having ordered without waiting for him.

“Can we split this club, and then I’ll order another one?”

“Sure. That’s fine. But…”

“But what?”

I was hungry, but looking down at the food made my stomach twitch. What if this restaurant had been on the Chemist’s list? What if I took a bite and would be dead in thirty seconds?

Rick apparently sensed my hesitation.

“Life is about risk, Jack. You can run away, or you can face it head-on.”

He leaned in closer, his knee touching mine under the table. Then he picked up half of the sandwich and took a big bite, some mayo dribbling down his chin.

I felt my heart rate increase. Maybe I was overtired. Or hormonal. Whatever problem I was having, I promised myself no more one-on-one time with Rick.

Another ambulance streaked by, followed by two news vans. I didn’t like the implications of that at all.

I pulled my radio out of my purse and tuned in to the police band. A few seconds later Rick threw down some money and we jogged up the street.

I worked out three times a week, weights and aerobics, and twice a month I attended a four-hour tae kwon do class, so I was able to keep pace with Rick the three blocks to the station house without collapsing or throwing up. But I did feel sick when I saw the ambulances at the corner of my precinct building.

A dozen uniforms were cordoning off a section of street, directing traffic, and questioning onlookers. Several paramedics were milling around two bodies. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry. I managed to locate Herb in the crowd. Even though he was no longer my partner, he still managed to beat me to the crime scene.

“What happened?”

“I just got here. Some kind of traffic dispute.”

“The radio mentioned the Chemist.”

“Could be. Two dead, no marks on their bodies.”

“Don’t touch him!” Rick yelled at one of the medics who was crouching down next to a victim. “Risk of contamination!”

If the witnesses weren’t spooked before, that started a mass exodus to the police lines. Herb went north and I went south, explaining to the crowd that they were perfectly safe, and if anyone saw anything we’d like to talk to them. I managed to snag a retreating party of businesspeople, and Herb caught a kid on Rollerblades. While we did that, Rick produced a gas mask and some rubber gloves, and examined one of the bodies.

The trio gave me a rundown of what they saw, beginning with the honking and ending with the perp stabbing each victim in the neck with something. He wore a suit, had an eye patch, and drove a white Honda Accord with scratches on both sides. None of them got the license plate.

Herb’s witness gave a similar version of the story, but said the victims were shot in the neck with some kind of gun, rather than stabbed.

As we conferred, a uniform named Justin Buchbinder came to us with a jackpot: a witness with a camera phone.