Rhyme opened an official investigation into the most recent case-the fake suicide that Pulaski had commented on. The scene was pretty cold and hadn’t been well preserved-being only a suicide-but Amelia Sachs came up with a few clues that gave some hope of finding the killer. A few clothing fibers that didn’t match anything in the victim’s apartment, tool marks that might have come from jimmying a window, and traces of unusual cooking oil. Those weren’t helpful in finding the killer’s identity, but something else she found suggested where he might live: traces of loam-rich soil that turned out to be unique to the banks of the Hudson River, some of which contained “white gas,” kerosene used in boats.

So it was possible that the rogue cop lived near the river in Manhattan, the Bronx, Westchester, or New Jersey.

This narrowed the list to four detectives: from the Bronx, Diego Sanchez; from New Jersey, Carl Sibiewski; from Westchester, Peter Antonini and Eddie Yu.

But there the case stalled. The evidence wasn’t strong enough to get a warrant to search their houses for the clothing fibers, tools, cooking oil, and guns.

They needed to flush him out. And Rhyme had an idea how.

The killer would know that Rhyme was investigating the suicide-it was an official case-and would know that the criminalist had some evidence. They decided to give him the perfect opportunity to steal it or replace it with something implicating someone else.

So Rhyme arranged his own death and had the chief send out the memo about it to a number of officers, including the four suspects (the others were told of the ploy, and they agreed to play along). The memo would mention the memorial service, implying that at that time the lab would be unoccupied.

Sellitto set up a search-and-surveillance team outside the town house, and while Rhyme remained in his bedroom, Sachs and Sellitto played the good mourners and left, giving the perp a chance to break in and show himself.

Which he oh so courteously had done, using a screwdriver that appeared to be the same one that had left marks on the windows of prior victims’ residences.

Rhyme now ordered, “Get a warrant. I want all the clothes in his house, cooking oils and soil samples, other tools too. And any guns. Send ’em to ballistics.”

As he was led to the door, Peter Antonini pulled away roughly from one of the officers holding him and spun to face Rhyme and Sachs. “You think the system works. You think justice is served.” His eyes were mad with rage. “But it doesn’t. I’ve been a cop long enough to know how screwed up it all is. You know how many guilty people get off every day? Murderers, child abusers, wife beaters… I’m sick of it!”

Amelia Sachs responded. “And what about those innocent ones you killed? Our system would have worked for them. Yours didn’t.”

“Acceptable losses,” he said coolly. “Sacrifices have to be made.”

Rhyme sighed. He found rants tedious. “It’s time you left, Detective Antonini. Get him downtown.”

The escorts led him out the door.

“Thom, if you don’t mind, it’s cocktail hour. Well past it, in fact.”

A few moments later, as Thom was fastening a cup of single-malt scotch to Rhyme’s chair, Lon Sellitto walked into the room. He squinted at Rhyme. “You don’t even look sick. Let alone dead.”

“Funny. Have a drink.”

The chunky detective pursed his lips, then said, “You know how many calories’re in whiskey?”

“Less than a doughnut, I’ll bet.”

Sellitto cocked his head, meaning good point, and took the glass Thom offered. Sachs declined, as did Pulaski.

The rumpled detective sipped the whiskey. “Chief of department’s on his way. Wants to thank you. Press officer too.”

“Oh, great,” Rhyme muttered. “Just what I need. A bunch of sappy-eyed grateful visitors. Hell. I liked being dead better.”

“Linc, got a question. Why’d you pick the Watchmaker to do the deed?”

“Because he’s the only credible perp I could think of.” Rhyme had recently foiled an elaborate murder plot by the professional killer, who’d threatened Rhyme’s life before disappearing. “Everybody on the force knows he wants to kill me.” The criminalist took a long sip of the smoky liquor. “And he’s probably one of the few men in the world who could.”

An uneasy silence followed that sobering comment, and Pulaski apparently felt the need to fill it. “Hey, Detective Rhyme, is this all accurate?” A nod at the memo that contained his obituary.

“Of course it is,” Rhyme said, as if the comment were absurd. “It had to be-in case the killer knew something about me. Otherwise he might think something was up.”

“Oh, sure. I guess.”

“And by the way, do you always get your superior officers’ attention with ‘hey’?”

“Sorry. I-”

“Relax, rookie. I’m a civilian, not your superior. But it’s something to ponder.”

“I’ll keep it in mind, sir.”

Sachs sat next to Rhyme and put her hand on his-the right one, which had some motion and sensation. She squeezed his fingers. “Gave me kind of a pause.” Looking down at the sheet. “Lon and I were talking about it.”

It had given Rhyme some pause too. He felt the breeze from death’s wings nearly every day, closer than to most people. He’d learned to ignore the presence. But seeing the account in black-and-white had been a bit startling.

“Whatta you gonna do with it?” Sellitto asked, glancing down at the paper.

“Save it, of course. Such beautiful prose, such pithy journalism… Besides, it’s going to come in handy someday.”

Sellitto barked a laugh. “Hell, Linc, you’re gonna live forever. You know what they say. Only the good die young.”

Born in Lincolnshire, England, in 1930, Colin Dexter graduated from Cambridge University and spent most of his professional life as an educator in his beloved Oxford. He came comparatively late to crime writing, being already in his forties when he attempted his first novel, Last Bus to Woodstock, which was accepted by the second publisher to which it was sent. It introduced Inspector Morse, the somewhat curmudgeonly senior officer in the Criminal Investigator Department with the Thames Valley Police, and Sergeant Lewis, who appeared in every one of Dexter’s thirteen novels and most of the short stories collected in Morse’s Greatest Mystery and Other Stories (1993).

Among his numerous awards are Gold Daggers from the British Crime Writers’ Association for The Wench Is Dead (1989) and The Way Through the Woods (1992) and the Cartier Diamond Dagger for lifetime achievement, presented to him in 1997.

The hugely successful Inspector Morse television series, produced by ITV in England and shown in the United States on PBS, was based on the books and additional stories; it starred John Thaw and Kevin Whateley, running for thirty-three episodes from 1987 to 2000. Like Alfred Hitchcock did in his films, Colin Dexter made brief cameo appearances in most of the episodes.