“He spotted us, took off.”

“You’re sure it was him?”

“Pretty sure. Surveillance saw somebody a few blocks away. Looks like he spotted some of the detectives’ cars and changed his route. We saw him watching us, and he ran. We’ve got teams after him.”

She was in DeLeon Williams’s front yard with Pulaski, Bo Haumann and a half dozen other ESU officers. Some Crime Scene Unit techs and uniformed patrolmen were searching the escape route for evidence and canvassing for witnesses.

“Any sign he has a car?”

“Don’t know. He was on foot when we saw him.”

“Christ. Well, let me know when you find something.”

“I’ll-”

Click.

She grimaced at Pulaski, who was holding his Handi Talkie up to his ear, listening to the pursuit. Haumann was monitoring it too. The progress, from what she could hear, didn’t seem fruitful. Nobody on the highway had seen him or was willing to admit it, if they had. Sachs turned to the house and saw a very concerned, and very confused, DeLeon Williams looking out through a curtained window.

Saving the man from being yet another fall guy of 522 had involved both happenstance and good police work.

And they had Ron Pulaski to thank for it. The young officer in the brash Hawaiian shirt had done what Rhyme had requested: immediately gone to One Police Plaza and started looking for other cases that matched 522’s modus operandi. He found none but as he was talking to a Homicide detective the unit got a report from Central about an anonymous phone call. A man had heard screams from a loft near SoHo and seen a black man fleeing in an old beige Dodge. A patrolman had responded and found that a young woman, Myra Weinburg, had been raped and murdered.

Pulaski was struck by the anonymous call, echoing the earlier cases, and immediately called Rhyme. The criminalist figured that if 522 was in fact behind the crime he was probably sticking to his plan: he would plant evidence blaming a fall guy and they needed to find which of the more than 1,300 older beige Dodges was the one 522 might pick. Sure, maybe the man wasn’t 522 but even if not, they had the chance to collar a rapist and killer.

At Rhyme’s instruction, Mel Cooper cross-matched Department of Motor Vehicle records with criminal records and came up with seven African-American men who had convictions for crimes more serious than traffic violations. One, though, was the most likely: an assault charge against a woman. DeLeon Williams was a perfect choice as a fall guy.

Happenstance and police work.

To authorize a tactical takedown, a lieutenant or higher was required. Captain Joe Malloy still had no clue about the clandestine 522 operation, so Rhyme called Sellitto, who grumbled but agreed to call Bo Haumann and authorize an ESU op.

Amelia Sachs had joined Pulaski and the team at Williams’s house, where they’d learned from Search and Surveillance that only Williams was inside, not 522. There, they deployed to take the killer when he arrived to plant the evidence. The plan was tricky, improvised on the fly-and obviously hadn’t worked, though they’d saved an innocent man from being arrested for rape and murder and perhaps had discovered some good evidence to lead to the perp.

“Anything?” she asked Haumann, who’d been conferring with some of his officers.

“Nope.”

Then his radio clattered again and Sachs heard the loud transmission. “Unit One, we’re on the other side of the highway. Looks like he’s rabbited clean. He must’ve made it to the subway.”

“Shit,” she muttered.

Haumann grimaced but said nothing.

The officer continued, “But we’ve followed the route he probably took. It’s possible he ditched some evidence in a trash can on the way.”

“That’s something,” she said. “Where?” She jotted the address the officer recited. “Tell them to secure the area. I’ll be there in ten.” Sachs then walked up the steps and knocked on the door. DeLeon Williams answered, and she said, “Sorry I haven’t had a chance to explain. A man we were trying to catch was headed to your house.”

“Mine?”

“We think so. But he got away.” She explained about Myra Weinburg.

“Oh, no-she’s dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I’m sorry, real sorry.”

“Did you know her?”

“No, never heard of her.”

“We think the perp might’ve been trying to blame you for the crime.”

“Me? Why?”

“We have no idea. After we investigate a little more we may want to interview you.”

“Sure thing.” He gave her his home and mobile numbers. Then frowned. “Can I ask? You seem pretty certain I didn’t do it. How’d you know I was innocent?”

“Your car and garage. Officers searched them and didn’t find any evidence from the murder scene. The killer, we’re pretty sure, was going to plant some things there to implicate you. Of course, if we’d gotten here after he’d done that, you’d’ve had a problem.”

Sachs added, “Oh, one more thing, Mr. Williams?”

“What’s that, Detective?”

“Just some trivia you might be interested in. Do you know owning an unregistered handgun in New York City is a very serious crime?”

“I think I heard that somewhere.”

“And some more trivia is that there’s an amnesty program at your local precinct. No questions asked if you turn in a weapon…Okay, you take care. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

“I’ll try.”

I’m watching the policewoman as she searches the trash can where I dumped the evidence. I was dismayed at first but then I realized I shouldn’t have been. If They were smart enough to figure out about me, They’re smart enough to find the trash.

I doubt They got a good look at me but I’m being very careful. Of course, I’m not at the scene itself; I’m in a restaurant across the street, forcing down a hamburger and sipping water. The police have this outfit called the “Anti-crime” detail, which has always struck me as absurd. As if other details are pro-crime. Anti-crime officers wear street clothes and they circulate at crime scenes to find witnesses and, occasionally, even the perps, who have returned. Most criminals do so because they’re stupid or behave irrationally. But I’m here for two specific reasons. First, because I’ve realized I have a problem. I can’t live with it so I need a solution. And you can’t solve a problem without knowledge. I’ve already learned a few things.

For instance, I know some of the people who are after me. Like this redheaded policewoman in a white plastic jumpsuit concentrating on the crime scene the way I concentrate on my data.

I see her step out of the area, surrounded by yellow tape, with several bags. She sets these in gray plastic boxes and strips off the white suit. Despite the lingering horror from the disaster of this afternoon, I feel that twinge inside as I see her tight jeans, the satisfaction from my transaction with Myra 9834 earlier today wearing off.

As the police head back to their cars she makes a phone call.

I pay the bill and walk nonchalantly out the door, acting like any other patron on this fine late-afternoon Sunday.

Off. The. Grid.

Oh, the second reason I’m here?

Very simple. To protect my treasures, to protect my life, which means doing whatever’s necessary to make Them go away.

“What’d Five Twenty-Two leave in that trash can?” Rhyme was speaking into the hands-free phone.

“There’s not much. We’re sure it’s his stuff, though. Bloody paper towel and some wet blood in plastic bags-so he could leave some in Williams’ car or garage. I’ve already sent a sample to the lab for a preliminary DNA match. Computer printout of the vic’s picture. Roll of duct tape-Home Depot house brand. And a running shoe. It looked new.”

“Just one?”

“Yep. The right.”

“Maybe he stole it from Williams’ place to leave a print at the scene. Anybody get a look at him?”