“And I’ll bet there weren’t any fluid matches in the rape case.” Most rapists are convicted because they leave behind traces of the Three S’s-semen, saliva or sweat.

“Nope. None.”

“And the anonymous callers-did they leave partial license plate numbers?”

She glanced at her notes. “Yeah, how did you know?”

“Because our perp needed to buy some time. If he left the whole tag number, the cops’d head right to the fall guy’s house and he wouldn’t have time to plant the evidence there.” The killer had thought out everything. “And the suspects denied everything?”

“Yep. Totally. Rolled the dice with the jury and lost.”

“No, no, no, this’s all too coincidental,” Rhyme muttered. “I want to see-”

“I asked somebody to pull the files from the disposed cases archives.”

He laughed. One step ahead of him, as often. He recalled when they’d first met, years ago, Sachs a disillusioned patrol officer ready to give up her career in policing, Rhyme ready to give up more than that. How far they’d both come since then.

Rhyme spoke into his stalk mike. “Command, call Sellitto.” He was excited now. He could feel that unique buzz-the thrill of a budding hunt. Answer the damn phone, he thought angrily, and for once he wasn’t thinking about England.

“Hey, Linc.” Sellitto’s Brooklyn-inflected voice filled the room. “What’s-”

“Listen. There’s a problem.”

“I’m kinda busy here.” Rhyme’s former partner, Lieutenant Detective Lon Sellitto, hadn’t been in the best of moods himself lately. A big task force case he’d worked on had just tanked. Vladimir Dienko, the thug of a Russian mob boss from Brighton Beach, had been indicted last year for racketeering and murder. Rhyme had assisted with some of the forensics. To everyone’s shock the case against Dienko and three of his associates had been dismissed, just last Friday, after witnesses had stonewalled or vanished. Sellitto and agents from the Bureau had been working all weekend, trying to track down new witnesses and informants.

“I’ll make it fast.” He explained what he and Sachs had found about his cousin and the rape and coin-theft cases.

“Two other cases? Friggin’ weird. What’s your cousin say?”

“Haven’t talked to him yet. But he denies everything. I want to have this looked into.”

“‘Looked into.’ The fuck’s that mean?”

“I don’t think Arthur did it.”

“He’s your cousin. Of course you don’t think he did it. But whatta you have concrete?”

“Nothing yet. That’s why I want your help. I need some people.”

“I’m up to my ass in the Dienko situation in Brighton Beach. Which, I gotta say, you’d be helping on except, no, you’re too busy sipping fucking tea with the Brits.”

“This could be big, Lon. Two other cases that stink of planted evidence? I’ll bet there are more. I know how much you love your clichés, Lon. Doesn’t ‘getting away with murder’ move you?”

“You can throw all the clauses you want at me, Linc, I’m busy.”

“That’s a phrase, Lon. A clause has a subject and predicate.”

“What-fucking-ever. I’m trying to salvage the Russian Connection. Nobody at City Hall or the Federal Building’s happy about what happened.”

“And they have my deepest sympathies. Get reassigned.”

“It’s homicide. I’m Major Cases.”

The Major Cases Division of the NYPD didn’t investigate murders, but Sellitto’s excuse brought a cynical laugh to Rhyme’s lips. “You work homicides when you want to work them. When the hell have department protocols meant anything to you?”

“Tell you what I’ll do,” the detective mumbled. “There’s a captain working today. Downtown. Joe Malloy. Know him?”

“No.”

“I do,” said Sachs. “He’s solid.”

“Hey, Amelia. You surviving the cold front today?”

Sachs laughed. Rhyme snarled, “Funny, Lon. Who the hell’s this guy?”

“Smart. No compromises. And no sense of humor. You’ll appreciate that.”

“Lots of comedians round here today,” Rhyme muttered.

“He’s good. And a crusader. His wife was killed in a B and E five, six years ago.”

Sachs winced. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, and he gives the job a hundred fifty percent. Word is he’s headed for a corner office upstairs some day. Or maybe even next door.”

Meaning City Hall.

Sellitto continued, “Give him a call and see if he can get a few people released for you.”

“I want you released.”

“Not gonna happen, Linc. I’m running a fucking stakeout. It’s a nightmare. But keep me posted and-”

“Gotta go, Lon…Command, disconnect phone.”

“You hung up on him,” Sachs pointed out.

Rhyme grunted and placed a call to Malloy. He’d be furious if he got voice mail.

But the man answered on the second ring. Another senior cop working on Sunday. Well, Rhyme had done so pretty often too and had the divorce to show for it.

“Malloy here.”

Rhyme identified himself.

A brief hesitation. Then: “Well, Lincoln…I don’t believe we’ve ever met. But I know about you, of course.”

“I’m here with one of your detectives, Amelia Sachs. We’re on speaker, Joe.”

“Detective Sachs, afternoon,” said the stiff voice. “What can I do for you two?” Rhyme explained about the case and how he believed Arthur was being set up.

“Your cousin? I’m sorry to hear that.” But he didn’t sound particularly sorry. Malloy would be worried that Rhyme wanted him to intervene and get the charges reduced. Uh-oh, appearance of impropriety at the most innocent. Or, at the worst, an internal-affairs investigation and the media. Weighed against that, of course, was the bad form of not helping out a man who provided invaluable service to the NYPD. And one who was a gimp. Political correctness thrives in city government.

But Rhyme’s request, of course, was more complicated. He added, “I think there’s a good chance that this same perp committed other crimes.” He gave the details of the coin theft and the rape.

So not one but three individuals had been wrongly arrested by Malloy’s NYPD. Which meant that three crimes had in fact gone unsolved and the real perp was still at large. This portended a major public-relations nightmare.

“Well, it’s pretty odd. Irregular, you know. I understand your loyalty to your cousin-”

“I have a loyalty to the truth, Joe,” Rhyme said, not caring if he sounded pompous.

“Well…”

“I just need a couple of officers assigned to us. To look over the evidence in these cases again. Maybe do some legwork.”

“Oh, I see… Well, sorry, Lincoln. We just don’t have the resources. Not for something like this. But I’ll bring it up tomorrow with the deputy commissioner.”

“Actually, think we could call him now?”

Another hesitation. “No. He’s got something going on today.”

Brunch. Barbecue. A Sunday-matinee performance of Young Frankenstein or Spamalot.

“I’ll raise the issue tomorrow at the briefing. It’s a curious situation. But you won’t do anything until you hear from me. Or someone.”

“Of course not.”

They disconnected. Rhyme and Sachs were both silent for a few long seconds.

A curious situation…

Rhyme gazed at the whiteboard-on which sat the corpse of an investigation shot dead just as it had lurched to life.

Snapping the quiet, Sachs asked, “Wonder what Ron’s up to.”

“Let’s find out, why don’t we?” He gave her a genuine-and rare-smile.

She pulled out her phone, hit a speed dial number, then SPEAKER.

A youthful voice crackled, “Yes, ma’am, Detective.”

Sachs had been after young patrolman Ron Pulaski to call her Amelia for years but usually he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“You’re on speaker, Pulaski,” Rhyme warned.

“Yes, sir.”

And the “sir” bothered Rhyme, but he had no inclination to correct the young man now.

“How are you?” Pulaski asked.

“Does it matter?” Rhyme responded. “What’re you doing? Right now. And is it important?”