Amused at his own wasted concern, Alexander continued on to his building and to the entrance to the parking garage, where they kept the Subaru. The parking space was a luxury – it alone cost more than his first apartment. But a guaranteed slot in the city that brought the world alternate side of the street parking? Didn’t get any better than that – except it did: The space was enclosed, so he never had to shovel snow or scrape ice. Extremely enclosed, in fact. The space was in the third sub basement.

He now waved to the cashier, who called, ‘Hey, Mr Alexander. When’s it gonna let up? You know what I mean?’ The skinny, gray complexioned man gazed up at the sky.

He’d said virtually the same thing every day for the past week.

Alexander grinned and shrugged. He descended the spiral ramp of the dim place.

On the bottom floor, the Subie’s floor, as his wife had dubbed the vehicle, Alexander walked under the low ceiling toward where the front of his green car peeked out. The garage – this floor at least – seemed completely deserted. But he wasn’t feeling uneasy anymore, now that the imaginary killer shadowing him had disappeared into the building across the street. Besides, no mugger – or hacker intent on breaking Alexander’s typing fingers – would dare risk an attack here. The only way in was past the watchful attendant.

You know what I mean? …

As he approached the Subaru he pulled his keys out and hit the unlock button on the fob. The lights flashed. He continued on to the car, thinking of the bike for his son. He was looking forward to riding his own ten speed with Emery through Central Park this weekend.

He was smiling at the prospective pleasure when a man stepped casually out from behind a wall to Alexander’s right and punched him in the neck.

‘The hell–?’ Alexander gasped and spun around.

Oh, Christ, Christ … The guy wore gray coveralls like a repairman or utility worker but his face looked like an alien’s – encased in a tight yellowish mask, latex.

Then he saw the hypodermic needle in the gloved, yellow hand.

Alexander touched his neck, which stung.

He’d poked him with something! The first thing he thought was: AIDS.

Some kind of psycho. No, no, no …

Then he thought: Nobody’s going to get away with this crap. Alexander had taken several self defense courses and a kickboxing class at the gym. Not to mention being racked from the thousands of crunches and curls. He turned to face the guy and planted his feet firmly on the ground, drawing back his right arm, recalling how to hit fast and follow up.

One, two, feint, hit.

One, two …

But his arm wasn’t behaving. It was heavy. Too heavy even to lift. And he noted the terrible panic, the shock, fading. He didn’t even feel scared at all anymore.

And when the dim light grew dimmer he understood:

No, not tainted blood. Of course not. It was a sedative of some kind the asshole had injected him with. Sure, sure, this was  the guy who’d been following him. He’d slipped down here from the building across the street. But how …? Oh, there. There was a small metal access door open. Behind it darkness, like a tunnel or a basement. And the guy’s mission? To kidnap Alexander. To get him to reveal codes or security flaws in his clients’ programs.

‘Ahhhl talll you … whah …’ Alexander was speaking. Trying  to speak.

Say it! Come on! I’ll tell you what you want. Just let me go.

‘Lllll. Tllll. You waaaaa …’

The syllables were falling apart.

Then the words were just gurgling from his throat.

He was surprised to find he wasn’t standing any longer but sitting down, paralyzed, staring up at the masked freak. Looking around at his surroundings. The Subie’s tire. A Hershey bar wrapper. An oval of dried dog pee.

The attacker bent down over a backpack.

As the darkness grew, serious darkness now, Alexander squinted, looking at a weird tattoo on the man’s left arm. A snake … no, a centipede. With a human face.

Then he was lying on his back, too weak even to sit up any longer. The attacker roughly tugged Alexander’s wrists behind his back and cuffed them. Rolled him over on his back once more.

But just because this guy had the melted skin mask and a macabre tattoo didn’t mean he was a psychotic killer. No, he just wanted to get the codes to the Livingston Associates main server. Or the password to crack the Bank of Eastern Nassau’s security lock out system.

Sure.

Not a wacko.

This was business was all. Only business. They didn’t want to hurt him. They were after data? Fine, he’d give them data. Passcodes? They’d get passcodes.

Only business, right?

But then why was he lifting Alexander’s jacket and shirt and staring at his abdomen intently? And reaching forward and stroking the skin with a rigid, probing finger?

Has to be … only …

Blackness enwrapped him completely.

‘Where are you, Sachs?’

‘Almost there.’ Her voice was echoing through the speaker in Rhyme’s parlor. The criminalist was here with Pulaski and Cooper, while Amelia Sachs was presently streaking across Central Park, one of the traverses, headed east. ‘Hanging up. Gotta drive.’

It turned out there were forty eight places in Manhattan in which ‘Belvedere’ figured in the name. This had been the conclusion of yet another team that Lon Sellitto had assembled at One Police Plaza. There’d been the Find the Out of Print Book team, now disbanded. Then the current What the Fuck Do the Words the Second and Forty Mean team, still active.

Now the Which Belvedere Is It team, assembled thanks to skin artist Anne Thomson’s fortuitous eavesdropping.

Four dozen instances of Belvedere in Manhattan (which seemed to be 11 5’s preferred hunting borough; besides, you can’t search everywhere).

Delis, apartment buildings, transport companies, boutiques, a cab company, a ferry.

An escort service.

A half hour ago, in Rhyme’s parlor, he and Sachs, along with Sellitto, Cooper and Pulaski, had debated which of the Belvederes were the most likely to be connected to the unsub. Of course, the name might have nothing to do with the next or a future target. It could be where he lived, or near where he lived, or his dry cleaner or where he boarded his cat. Or a business he was curious about. But, being cautious, they assumed it was a kill site and wanted to get tac teams to the most likely ones ASAP.

They’d decided three were good candidates for an attack. One was a deserted warehouse in the Chelsea area of Manhattan – north of Greenwich Village. It featured an extensive labyrinth of underground passages and storerooms. Perfect for their unsub’s purposes, though Cooper had made the point that it might be a little too deserted. ‘He needs to get a victim from somewhere.’

Rhyme considered this but tapped into some CCTV images there and noted that it had more pedestrian traffic than you’d think – including even some joggers out on this blustery day.

‘He only needs one,’ Rhyme pointed out.

Sellitto’d called ESU to have a team sent there.

The second Belvedere was an old movie theater on the Upper West Side, the sort of grande dame you used to see on Broadway, the ornate venues where Clark Gable or Marilyn Monroe would open films. It was closed at this hour and, according to one of Rhyme’s underground diagrams, had a number of basements, just the place for Unsub 11 5 to take his victims. Another ESU team was sent there.

The final possibility was an apartment building on Midtown’s East Side named the Belvedere. A grimy old structure, like the gothic Dakota. It featured both a large basement and an underground parking garage. The detective arranged for a third team to speed there.

Sachs had said, ‘Smells like that’s the one. I’ll go too.’

Rhyme had noted her eyes, that huntress look, the undeterred focus. Which he found so appealing, and so unnerving, at the same time. Sachs was one of the best crime scene cops Rhyme had ever known. But she was never more alive than when leading a dynamic entry in a tactical scenario.