The wear pattern of the tread marks, which sometimes could give details about weight and posture, didn’t reveal much but, Rhyme reflected, who cared? They knew his weight and posture.

Sachs rolled the floor around the footprints for trace, just in case. But Mel Cooper reported that the analysis revealed, ‘A lot of Inwood marble and more of the cleanser and medical materials that had led us to the hospital in the first place. Some of the cleanser again. Nothing else.’

She had found some unique trace in the specimens room, identified by the chromatograph/spectrometer as dimethicone, which was used in cosmetics and industrial lubricants and processed foods to prevent caking. Interestingly it was also the primary ingredient in Silly Putty. Rhyme didn’t dismiss this fact immediately but after some consideration decided that the novelty toy didn’t figure in the unsub’s plan.

‘I think he picked dimethicone up when he grabbed Mrs Stanton.’ Sachs explained that, as a woman in her fifties, she had worn a fair amount of makeup. Sachs dug out her mobile and called the number Harriet had given her. She answered and, after Sachs gave her an update of the case, got the brand name of the woman’s preferred makeup products. Running the manufacturer’s website, Sachs learned that dimethicone was in fact one of the ingredients in her foundation.

Dead end there.

And no other trace or fibers.

As she wrote the details up on the whiteboard chart Sachs said, ‘One other thing. I saw he had a tattoo on his–’ She frowned. ‘Yes, his left arm. An animal or some kind of creature. Maybe a dragon. From that thriller book. The Dragon Tattoo . In red.’

‘Right,’ Sellitto added, looking at his notebook. ‘Harriet Stanton said he had one. She didn’t see what it was, though.’

‘Any trace of the poison he intended to use on the vic?’ Pulaski asked Cooper.

‘Nothing. No toxins on anything that Amelia collected.’

‘I think we can assume he keeps his love potions sealed up until he’s ready to start using them.’ Rhyme was wondering again: Why that  MO? Poison was a rare murder weapon now. The technique of killing with toxins, popular through the ages, began to fall out of fashion long ago, in the mid 1800s, after the famed English chemist James Marsh invented a test that could detect arsenic in tissue postmortem. Tests for other toxins soon followed. Homicidal husbands and greedy heirs, who’d believed that doctors would rule cause of death coronary or stroke or illness, began ending up in prison or on the gallows after early forensic detectives presented their cases in court.

Some substances like ethylene glycol – automotive coolant – were still fed to husbands by unhappy wives, and Homeland Security worried about all sorts of toxins as terrorist weapons, ranging from castor beans turned into ricin, to cyanide, to botulinum, which was the deadliest substance in existence (a very mild form of which was used in cosmetic Botox injections); a few kilograms of botulinum could kill every person on earth.

Yet poisons were cumbersome and detectable and hard to administer, not to mention potentially lethal to the poisoners. Why do you love them so much? Rhyme silently asked the unsub.

Mel Cooper interrupted his musings. ‘It was a close call at the hospital. Do you think he’ll go away?’

Rhyme grunted.

‘That means no?’

Sachs interpreted. ‘That means no.’

‘The only question,’ Rhyme said, ‘is where’s he going to strike next?’ He wheeled to the board. ‘The answer’s there. Maybe.’

Upper Manhattan Medical Center

Victim: Harriet Stanton, 53

– Tourist

– Not hurt

Unsub 11 5

– See details, prior scene

– Red tattoo on left arm

– Russian or Slavic in appearance

– Light blue eyes

– No accent

– Size 11 Bass shoes

– No friction ridges

– Spent time in Specimens Room at hospital (‘skin museum’)

Trace

– No toxin found

– Dimethicone

• But probably from makeup worn by Harriet Stanton

Provence2 was crowded.

As soon as the Times  had bestowed its stars, this hole in the wall in Hell’s Kitchen had been inundated with folks desperate to cram into the loud, frantic rooms and to sample dishes that were a fusion of two southern cuisines, American and French.

Fried chicken with capers and ratatouille.

Les escargots avec grits.

Improbable. But the dish works …

Straddled by a warehouse to the south and a chic steel and glass office building to the north, the restaurant was housed in a structure typical of those on the west side of Midtown: a century old, angled floors that snapped and creaked underfoot, and ceilings of hammered tin. Low archways led from one cramped dining room to the next and the walls were sandblasted brick, which did nothing to dim the din.

Lighting was low, courtesy of yellow bulbs in what seemed to be lamp fixtures as old as the structure itself (though they’d come not from a Victorian era ironworks on the Hudson but a factory outside Seoul).

At one of the tables in the back, the conversation ricocheted like an air hockey puck.

‘He doesn’t have a chance. It’s ridiculous.’

‘Did you hear about his girlfriend?’

‘She’s not his girlfriend.’

‘She is  his girlfriend, it was on Facebook.’

‘Anyway I don’t even think she’s a girl.’

‘Ooo. That’s sweet.’

‘When the press finds out, he’s toast. Let’s get another bottle. The Chablis.’

Samantha Levine listened to her companions’ banter but not with her full attention. For one thing, she wasn’t much concerned about local politics. The candidate they were speaking of probably wouldn’t win the next election but not because of girlfriends who might or might not pass the physical but because he was bland and petty. You needed the quality of more  to be mayor of the city of New York.

You needed that je ne sais quoi , y’all.

Apart from that, though, Samantha’s thoughts kept returning to her job. Major trouble lately. She’d worked late – close to eight p.m., a half hour ago – then hurried here from her office in the glitzy building next door to join her friends. She tried a memory dump of the concerns she’d lugged with her but in the high tech world you couldn’t really escape from the puzzle and problems you faced every day. Sure, there were advantages: You could wear – as she did now – jeans and sweaters (tank tops in the summer), you made six figures, you could be inked or studded, you could work flex hours, you could bring a pillow couch to your office and use that for your desk.

Only you had to produce.

And be one step ahead of the competition.

And, fuck, there was a lot of competition out there.

The capital I Internet. What a place. So much money, so many chances for breathtaking success. And for bottomless fuck ups.

The thirty two year old, with a voluptuous figure, ornery brown and purple hair and big doey Japanese anime dark eyes, sipped more white wine and tried to focus past a particularly difficult meeting with her boss not long ago, a meeting that had floated in her thoughts ever since.

Put. It. Away.

Finally, she managed to. Spearing and eating a wedge of fried green tomato topped with ground anchovies, she turned her attention back to her friends. Smiling, all of them (except Text Girl), as Raoul – her roommate, yes, just a roommate – was telling a story about her. He was an assistant to a fashion photog who shot for Vogue  wannabe mags, all online. The slim, bearded boss had come to pick up Raoul in the apartment they shared in Chelsea and he’d looked over Samantha’s T shirt and PJ bottoms, sprouting hair tamed with mismatched rubber bands and very, very serious glasses. ‘Hmmmm. Can I shoot you?’

‘Oh, you’re the one got the contract for the Geek Girl calendar?’ Samantha had offered. Raoul now gave his delivery a little extra oomph and the table roared.