Sachs was lounging in a chair, feet up, her own toenails bare. A breeze carried into the small room the complicated mix of spring scents from Central Park: mulch, earth, dew-damp foliage, vehicle exhaust. She sipped her hot chocolate. “Ouch. Blow on it first.”

Pam whistled into her cup and tasted it. “It’s good. Yeah, hot.” She returned to her nails. In contrast to her visage earlier in the day, the girl’s face was troubled.

“You know what those are called?” Sachs was pointing.

“Feet? Toes?”

“No, the bottoms?”

“Sure. The bottoms of feet and the bottoms of toes.” They laughed.

“Plantars. And they have prints too, just like fingerprints. Lincoln convicted somebody once because the perp kicked somebody unconscious with his bare foot. But he missed once and whacked the door. Left a print on it.”

“That’s cool. He should write another book.”

“I’m after him to,” Sachs said. “So what’s up?”

“Stuart.”

“Go on.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t’ve come. It’s stupid.”

“Come on. I’m a cop, remember. I’ll sweat it out of you.”

“Just, Emily called and it was weird her calling on Sunday, like, she never does, and I’m thinking, okay, something’s going on. And it’s like she really doesn’t want to say anything but then she does. And she said she saw Stuart today with somebody else. This girl from school. After the soccer game. Only he told me he was going right home.”

“Well, what are the facts? Were they just talking? Nothing wrong with that.”

“She said she wasn’t sure but it, you know, kind of looked like he was hugging her. And then when he saw somebody looking at him, he kind of walked away real fast with her. Like he was trying to hide.” The toenail project came to a stop, halfway done. “I really, really like him. It’d suck if he didn’t want to see me anymore.”

Sachs and Pam had been to a counselor together-and, with Pam’s agreement, Sachs had spoken to the woman alone. Pam would be undergoing a lengthy period of post-traumatic stress, not only from her lengthy captivity with a sociopath parent but from a particular episode in which her stepfather had nearly sacrificed her life while trying to murder police officers. Incidents like this one with Stuart Everett, small to most people, were amplified in the girl’s mind and could have devastating effects. Sachs had been told not to add to her fears but not to downplay them either. To look at each one carefully and try to analyze it.

“Have you guys talked about seeing other people?”

“He said…well, a month ago he said he wasn’t. I’m not either. I told him that.”

“Any other intelligence?” Sachs asked.

“Intelligence?”

“I mean, have any of your other friends said anything?”

“No.”

“Do you know any of his friends?”

“Kind of. But not like I could ask them anything about it. That’d be way uncool.”

Sachs smiled. “So spies aren’t going to work. Well, what you should do is just ask him. Point-blank.”

“You think?”

“I think.”

“What if he says he is seeing her?”

“Then you should be thankful he’s honest with you. That’s a good sign. And then you convince him to dump the bimbo.” They laughed. “What you do is say that you just want to date one person.” The start-up mother in Sachs added quickly, “We’re not talking about getting married, not moving in. Just dating.”

Pam nodded quickly. “Oh, absolutely.”

Relieved, Sachs continued, “And he’s the one you want to see. But you expect the same thing from him. You have something important, you relate to each other, you can talk, you’ve got a connection and you don’t see that very much.”

“Like you and Mr. Rhyme.”

“Yeah, like that. But if he doesn’t want it, then okay.”

“No, it’s not.” Pam frowned.

“No, I’m just telling you what you say. But then tell him you’re going to be dating other people too. He can’t have it both ways.”

“I guess. But what if he says fine?” Her face was dark at the thought.

A laugh. Sachs shook her head. “Yep, it’s a bummer when they call your bluff. But I don’t think he will.”

“All right. I’m going to see him tomorrow after class. I’ll talk to him.”

“Call me. Let me know.” Sachs rose, lifted away the polish and capped it. “Get some sleep. It’s late.”

“But my nails. I’m not finished.”

“Don’t wear open-toed.”

“Amelia?”

She paused at the doorway.

“Are you and Mr. Rhyme going to get married?”

Sachs smiled and closed the door.

They’re pretty big…

Amelia Sachs sat in Strategic Systems Datacorp’s sky-high lobby and reflected that the shoe company president’s description of SSD’s data mining operation was, well, pretty understated.

The Midtown building was thirty stories high, a gray spiky monolith, the sides smooth granite flashing with mica. The windows were narrow slits, which was surprising given the stunning views of the city from this location and elevation. She was familiar with the building, dubbed the Gray Rock, but had never known who owned it.

She and Ron Pulaski-no longer in play clothes but wearing a navy suit and navy uniform, respectively-sat facing a massive wall on which were printed the locations of the SSD offices around the world, among them London, Buenos Aires, Mumbai, Singapore, Beijing, Dubai, Sydney and Tokyo.

Pretty big…

Above the list of satellite offices was the company logo: the window in the watchtower.

Her gut twisted slightly as she recalled the windows in the abandoned building across the street from Robert Jorgensen’s residence hotel. She recalled Lincoln Rhyme’s words about the incident with the federal agent in Brooklyn.

He knew exactly where you were. Which means he was watching. Be careful, Sachs…

Looking around the lobby, she saw a half dozen businesspeople waiting here, many of them uneasy, it seemed, and she recalled the shoe company president and his concern about losing SSD’s services. She then saw, almost en masse, their heads swivel, looking past the receptionist. They were watching a short man, youthful, enter the lobby and walk directly toward Sachs and Pulaski over the black-and-white rugs. His posture was perfect and his stride long. The sandy-haired man nodded and smiled, offering a fast greeting-by name-to nearly everybody here.

A presidential candidate. That was Sachs’s first impression.

But he didn’t stop until he came to the officers. “Good morning. I’m Andrew Sterling.”

“Detective Sachs. This is Officer Pulaski.”

Sterling was shorter than Sachs by several inches but he seemed quite fit and had broad shoulders. His immaculate white shirt featured a starched collar and cuffs. His arms seemed muscular; the jacket was tight-fitting. No jewelry. Crinkles radiated from the corners of his green eyes when that easy smile crossed his face.

“Let’s go to my office.”

The head of such a big company…yet he’d come to them, rather than having an underling escort them to his throne room.

Sterling walked easily down the wide, quiet halls. He greeted every employee, sometimes asking questions about their weekends. They ate up his smiles at reports of an enjoyable weekend and his frowns at word of ill relatives or canceled games. There were dozens of them, and he made a personal comment to each.