“Maybe Joe didn’t tell him,” Sachs said.

“No, he told. He did everything he could to hold out but in the end he told.” Rhyme didn’t even want to picture what the captain had been through as he’d tried to keep silent. “It wasn’t his fault… But we’re all at risk now.”

“I’ve gotta go talk to the brass,” Sellitto said. “They want to know what went wrong. They weren’t happy about the plan in the first place.”

“I’m sure they weren’t. Where did it happen?”

“A warehouse. Chelsea.”

“Warehouse…perfect for a hoarder. Was he connected to it? Work there? Remember his comfortable shoes? Or did he just find out about it from going through the data? I want to know all of the above.”

“I’ll have it checked out,” Cooper said. “Sellitto gave him the details.”

“And we’ll get the scene searched.” Rhyme glanced at Sachs, who nodded.

After the detective disconnected, Rhyme asked, “Where’s Pulaski?”

“On his way back from the Roland Bell set.”

“Let’s call SSD, find out where all our suspects were at the time Malloy was killed. Some of them must have been in the office. I want to know who wasn’t. And I want to know about this Runnerboy. Think Sterling’ll help?”

“Oh, definitely,” Sachs said, reminding him how cooperative Sterling had been throughout the investigation. She hit the speakerphone button and placed the call.

An assistant answered and Sachs identified herself.

“Hello, Detective Sachs. This is Jeremy. How can I help you?”

“I need to talk to Mr. Sterling.”

“I’m afraid he’s not available.”

“It’s very important. There’s been another killing. A police officer.”

“Yes, I heard that on the news. I’m very sorry. Hold on a moment. Martin just walked in.”

They heard a muffled conversation and then another voice came through the speaker. “Detective Sachs. It’s Martin. I’m sorry to hear, another killing. But Mr. Sterling’s off-site.”

“It’s really important we talk to him.”

The calm assistant said, “I’ll relay the urgency.”

“What about Mark Whitcomb or Tom O’Day?”

“Hold for a moment, please.”

After a lengthy pause the young man’s voice said, “I’m afraid Mark is out of the office too. And Tom is in a meeting. I’ve left messages. I have another call, Detective Sachs. I should go. And I am truly sorry about your captain.”

“‘You that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more to my meditations, than you might suppose.’”

Sitting on a bench, overlooking the East River, Pam Willoughby felt a thud in her chest and her palms began to sweat.

She looked behind her at Stuart Everett, lit brilliantly by the sun over New Jersey. A blue shirt, jeans, a sports coat, the leather bag over his shoulder. His boyish face, a flop of brown hair, narrow lips about to break into a grin that often never arrived.

“Hi,” she said, sounding cheerful. She was angry with herself, wanted to sound harsh.

“Hey.” He glanced north, toward the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. “Fulton Street.”

“The poem? I know. It’s ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.’”

From Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman’s masterpiece. After Stuart Everett had mentioned in class that it was his favorite anthology of poems, she’d bought an expensive edition. Thinking that somehow it made them more connected.

“I didn’t assign that for class. You knew it anyway?”

Pam said nothing.

“Can I sit down?”

She nodded.

They sat in silence. She smelled his cologne. Wondered if his wife had bought it for him.

“Your friend talked to you, I’m sure.”

“Yeah.”

“I liked her. When she first called, okay, I thought she was going to arrest me.”

Pam’s frown softened into a smile.

Stuart continued, “She wasn’t happy about the situation. But that was good. She was looking out for you.”

“Amelia’s the best.”

“I couldn’t believe she was a cop.”

And a cop who ran a check on my boyfriend. Being in the dark wasn’t so bad, Pam reflected; having too much information sucked big-time.

He took her hand. Her impulse to pull it away vanished. “Look, let’s get this whole thing out in the open.”

She kept her eyes focused on the distance; looking into his brown eyes, under droopy lids, would be a way bad idea. She watched the river and the harbor beyond. Ferries still ran but most of the traffic was either private boats or cargo ships. She often sat near the river here and watched them. Forced to live underground, deep in the Midwest woods, with her crazy mother and a bunch of right-wing fanatics, Pam had developed a fascination with rivers and oceans. They were open and free and constantly in motion. That thought soothed her.

“I wasn’t honest, I know. But my relationship with my wife isn’t what it seems. I don’t sleep with her anymore. Haven’t for a long time.”

Was that the first thing a man said at a time like this? Pam wondered. She hadn’t even considered the sex, just the married.

He continued, “I didn’t want to fall in love with you. I thought we’d be friends. But you turned out to be different from everybody else. You lit up something in me. You’re beautiful, obviously. But you’re, well, you’re like Whitman. Unconventional. Lyrical. A poet in your own way.”

“You’ve got kids,” Pam couldn’t stop herself from saying.

A hesitation. “I do. But you’d like them. John’s eight. Chiara’s in middle school. She’s eleven. They’re wonderful kids. That’s why Mary and I are together, the only reason.”

Her name’s Mary. Was wondering.

He squeezed her hand. “Pam, I can’t let you go.”

She was leaning into him, feeling the comfort of his arm against hers, smelling the dry, pleasing scent, not caring who’d bought the aftershave. She thought: He was probably going to tell me sooner or later.

“I was going to tell you in a week or so. I swear. I was working up my courage.” She felt his hand trembling. “I see my children’s faces. I think, I can’t break up the family. And then you come along. The most incredible person I’ve ever met… I’ve been lonely for a long, long time.”

“But what about holidays?” she asked. “I wanted to do something on Thanksgiving or Christmas with you.”

“I can probably get away for one of them. At least part of the day. We just need to plan ahead of time.” Stuart lowered his head. “Here’s the thing. I can’t live without you. If you can be patient, we’ll make it work.”

She thought back to the one night they’d spent together. A secret night that nobody knew about. At Amelia Sachs’s town house, when she was staying at Lincoln Rhyme’s and Pam, and Stuart, had the place to themselves. It was magical. She wished every night of her life could be like that one.

She gripped his hand harder yet.

He whispered, “I can’t lose you.”

He inched closer on the bench. She found comfort in every square inch of contact. She actually had written a poem about him, describing their attraction as gravitational: one of the fundamental forces in the universe.

Pam rested her head against his shoulder.

“I promise I’ll never hide anything from you again. But please…I have to keep seeing you.”

She thought of the wonderful times they’d had, times that would seem insignificant to anyone else, silly.

Nothing like it.

The comfort was like warm water on a wound, washing away the pain.

When they’d been on the run, Pam and her mother had lived with and around petty men who would strike them “for their own good,” who didn’t share a word with their wives or children except when correcting or silencing them.

Stuart wasn’t even in the same universe with those monsters.

He whispered, “Just give me a little while. It’ll work out. I promise. We’ll see each other like we have been… Hey, here’s an idea. I know you want to travel. There’s a poetry conference in Montreal next month. I could fly you there, get you a room. You could attend the sessions. And we’d have the evenings free.”