“Rifles?”

“Yes. Large caliber.”

“Any identity?”

“No, though they thought Logan was U.S. military. Apparently he promised he could get them some discount ammunition in bulk in the future. He seemed to have official army documents about inventories and specifications.”

“So, the shooting zone in London’s in play.”

“It would seem. Now, about the safe house: We have contacts in the Hindi community in Oldham. They’re quite impeccable. They heard about an American who’s rented an old house on the outskirts of town. We managed to track it down. We haven’t searched yet. Our team could have done it but we thought it best to talk to you first.”

Longhurst continued, “Now, Detective, my sense is that he doesn’t know we found out about the safe house. And I suspect there may be some rather helpful evidence inside it. I’ve rung up some fellows at MI5 and borrowed a bit of an expensive toy from them. It’s a high-definition video camera. We’d like to have one of our officers wear it and have you guide him through the scene, tell us what you think. We should have the equipment on site in forty minutes or so.”

To do a proper search of the safe house, including the exits and entrances, the drawers, the toilets, closets, mattresses…it would consume the better part of the night.

Why was this happening now? He was convinced that 522 was a real threat. In fact, given the time line-with the earlier cases, his cousin’s and the murder today-the crimes seemed to be accelerating. And he was particularly troubled by the latest event: 522’s turning on them, and nearly getting Sachs shot.

Yes, no?

After a moment of agonizing debate, he said, “Inspector, I’m sorry to say, something’s come up here. We’ve had a series of homicides. I need to focus on them.”

“I see.” Unflappable British reserve.

“I’ll have to hand over the case to your command.”

“Of course, Detective. I understand.”

“You’re free to make any and all decisions.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence. We’ll get it sorted out and I’ll keep you informed. I better ring off now.”

“Good luck.”

“And to you.”

This was hard for Lincoln Rhyme, stepping away from a hunt, especially when the quarry was this particular perp.

But the decision had been made. Five Twenty-Two was now his only prey.

“Mel, get on the phone and find out where the hell that evidence from Brooklyn is.”

Okay, this is a surprise.

The Upper East Side address and the fact that Robert Jorgensen was an orthopedic surgeon had led Amelia Sachs to expect that the Henderson House Residence, the address on the Post-it note, would be a lot nicer than this.

But it was a disgusting dive, a transients’ hotel inhabited by druggies and drunks. The flyblown lobby, filled with mismatched and moldy furniture, stank of garlic, cheap disinfectant, useless air freshener and sour human odor. Most homeless shelters were more pleasant.

Standing in the grimy doorway, she paused and turned. Still uneasy about 522’s surveillance and the ease with which he’d set up the federal officers in Brooklyn, she looked carefully around the street. Nobody seemed to be paying much attention to her, but then the killer would have been nearby at DeLeon Williams’s house too and she’d missed him completely. She studied an abandoned building across the street. Was somebody gazing at her from one of the grime-covered windows?

Or there! On the second floor was a large broken window and she was sure she saw motion in the darkness. Was it a face? Or light from a hole in the roof?

Sachs stepped closer and examined the building carefully. But she found no one and decided her eyes had played tricks on her. She turned back to the hotel and, breathing shallowly, stepped inside. At the front desk she flashed her badge to the hopelessly overweight clerk. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised, or troubled, that a cop was here. She was directed toward the elevator. It opened to a foul stench. Okay, the stairs.

Wincing from the strain on her arthritic joints, she pushed through the door on the sixth floor and found room 672. She knocked, then stepped aside. “Police. Mr. Jorgensen? Please open the door.” She didn’t know what connection this man might have to the killer so her hand hovered near the grip of her Glock, a fine weapon, as dependable as the sun.

No answer but she believed she heard the sound of the metal cover of the peephole.

“Police,” she repeated.

“Put your ID under the door.”

She did.

A pause, then several chains were undone. And a deadbolt. The door opened a short way but was stopped by a security bar. The gap was bigger than that left by a chain but not large enough for someone to get through.

The head of a middle-aged man appeared. His hair was long and unwashed, his face marred with an unruly beard. The eyes were twitchy.

“You’re Robert Jorgensen?”

He peered at her face, then at her ID again, turning the card over and holding it up to the light, though the laminated rectangle was opaque. He handed it back and unhooked the security bar. The door swung open. He examined the hall behind her, then gestured her in. Sachs entered cautiously, hand still near her weapon. She checked the room and closets. The place was otherwise unoccupied and he was unarmed. “You’re Robert Jorgensen?” she repeated.

He nodded.

She then looked over the sad room more carefully. It contained a bed, desk and chair, armchair and ratty couch. The dark gray carpet was stained. A single pole lamp cast dim yellow light, and the shades were drawn. He was living, it seemed, out of four large suitcases and a gym bag. He had no kitchen but a portion of the living room contained a miniature fridge and two microwaves. A coffeepot too. His diet was largely soup and ramen noodles. A hundred manila file folders were carefully lined up against the wall.

His clothes were from a different time in his life, a better time. They seemed expensive but were threadbare and stained. The heels of the rich-looking shoes were worn down. Guessing: He lost his medical practice due to a drug or drinking problem.

At the moment he was occupied by an odd task: dissecting a large hardcover textbook. A chipped magnifying glass on a gooseneck stand was clamped to the desk and he’d been slicing out pages and cutting them into strips.

Maybe mental illness had led to his downfall.

“You’re here about the letters. It’s about time.”

“Letters?”

He studied her suspiciously. “You’re not?”

“I don’t know about any letters.”

“I sent them to Washington. But you do talk, don’t you? All you law enforcers. You public-safety people. Sure you do. You have to, everybody talks. Criminal databases and all that…”

“I really don’t know what you mean.”

He seemed to believe her. “Well, then-” His eyes went wide, looking down at her hip. “Wait, is your cell phone on?”

“Well, yes.”

“Jesus Christ in heaven! What’s wrong with you?”

“I-”

“Why don’t you run down the street naked and tell every stranger you see your address? Take the battery out. Not just shut it off. The battery!”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Take it out. Or you can get the hell out right now. The PDA too. And pager.”

This seemed to be a deal breaker. But she said firmly, “I’m not dumping my memory. I’ll do the phone and the pager.”

“Okay,” he grumbled and leaned forward as she slipped the batteries out of the two devices and shut off the PDA.

Then she asked for his ID. He debated and dug out a driver’s license. The address was Greenwich, Connecticut, one of the ritziest towns in the metro area. “I’m not here about any letters, Mr. Jorgensen. I just have some questions. I won’t take much of your time.”

He gestured her toward the gamy couch and sat down on a wobbly chair at the desk. As if he couldn’t help himself he turned to the book and with a razor knife cut a piece off the spine. He handled the knife expertly, fast and sure. Sachs was glad the desk was between them and her gun unobstructed.