Pam pulled her hat back on. Started to rise.

‘Please. Just wait a minute.’ Sachs’s mind was racing. ‘Let me say one more thing. Please.’

Impatient, Pam dropped back into her seat. A waitress came by. She waved the woman away.

Sachs said, ‘Could we–?’

But she never got to finish her plea to the teenager, for just then her phone hummed. It was a text from Mel Cooper. He was asking her to get to Rhyme’s town house as soon as she could.

Actually, she noted, the message wasn’t a request at all.

It never really is when the word ‘emergency’ figures in the header.

Upon examining the back door to Rhyme’s town house, a gowned and gloved Amelia Sachs decided: The son of a bitch sure can pick locks.

Unsub 11 5 hadn’t left more than a minute scratch when he’d broken into the town house to doctor a bottle of scotch on Rhyme’s shelf – insidiously leaving it within the wheelchair bound criminalist’s reach. Sachs wasn’t surprised the unsub had some skill at breaking and entering; his talent at skin art attested to his dexterity.

The sleet spattered and the wind blew. By now any evidence in the cul de sac and around the back door had probably been obliterated. Inside the door, where footprints would have been visible, she discovered nothing other than marks left by his booties.

The strategy behind the assault was now clear: 11 5 had called in a false alarm – an attempted rape in Central Park, near the town house. When Rhyme and the others inside went to the front door to see what was going on, the unsub had snuck through the back and found an open bottle of whisky, poured some poison inside, then escaped silently.

Sachs walked the grid on the route from the back door up the stairs, through the hall from the kitchen to the parlor. Rhyme had an alarm system, which was turned off when the town house was occupied, as now. Video cameras covered the front and back doors but they were real time monitoring only; the images weren’t recorded.

A sense of violation filled Sachs. Somebody had breached the castle, somebody stealthy and adroit. And deadly. Thom had already arranged for the locks to be changed and a drop bar put on both doors but once someone has intruded into your living area, you’re never completely free from the taint of desecration. And from worry that it might happen again.

Finally she arrived at the main floor and handed the bagged trace off to Mel Cooper.

Lincoln Rhyme turned his Merits wheelchair around from the table where he’d been reviewing evidence and asked, ‘Well? Anything?’

‘Not much,’ Sachs told him. ‘Not much at all.’

Rhyme wasn’t surprised.

Not with Unsub 11 5.

Sachs looked him over carefully, as if he’d actually sipped some of the poisoned whisky.

Or maybe she was just troubled that the unsub had gotten inside, spiked the bottle and gotten out without anybody’s knowing.

Lord knew Rhyme himself was. Actually more pissed off than troubled – because he hadn’t deduced that the whisky was tainted, even though, looking back, he should have. It was obvious that Thom would never leave a nearly full bottle of forty proof liquor within his boss’s reach. Combine that with the facts that Lon Sellitto and Seth McGuinn had been attacked and that a police action had unfolded right outside his town house, a perfect diversion, and, yeah, Rhyme should have guessed.

But, on the contrary, the salvation had come from a call to 911. A passerby on the cross street had seen someone slip into the service area behind Rhyme’s and pocket a hypodermic. ‘Looking suspicious,’ the Good Samaritan had reported. ‘A drug thing, maybe going to break in, you know.’

The dispatcher had called Rhyme, who understood immediately that the mis shelved Glenmorangie was Snow White’s apple.

He’d glanced at the glass in his hands and realized that he’d come an instant away from a very unpleasant demise, though less unpleasant to him than to others, given that most of his body would not have felt the excruciating pain the poison causes.

But he’d tucked this shadow of mortality away because he was a man for whom death had been an easy option – voluntary and otherwise – for years. His condition, quadriplegia, brought with it many accessories that could dump him into a coffin at a moment’s notice: dysreflexia and sepsis, for instance.

So, an attempted poisoning? Good news, as far as he was concerned. It might reveal new evidence to lead them a bit closer to the man who was the spiritual heir to the Bone Collector.

Something was up.

Ron Pulaski had been told that there was no memorial service planned for Richard Logan.

But apparently that had changed.

Six people stood in the room he’d been directed to in the Berkowitz Funeral Home, Broadway and 96th.

He hadn’t gone inside yet. The patrol officer stood in the hallway, off to the side, peering in. He was thinking: Tough to blend comfortably when you’re a stranger facing a half dozen people who know each other – one or all of whom might have a very good incentive to suspect you’re an intruder and shoot you dead.

And the name of the place! Wasn’t Berkowitz the Son of Sam? That serial killer from the 1970s or ’80s?

Bad sign.

Even though Ron Pulaski tried hard to be like Lincoln Rhyme and not believe in signs or superstitions, he kind of did.

He started forward. Stopped.

Pulaski had been spending a lot of nerves on the idea that he was going undercover. He was a street cop, a beat cop – he and his twin brother, also blue, used to say. He was thinking of bad hip hop riff the bros threw together.

A beat cop, a street cop, write you up a ticket and send you on your way.

Or let your know your rights and put your ass away …

In Rikers, the island, in the bay.

He knew next to nothing about the art of sets and covert work – so brilliantly played by people like Fred Dellray, the tall, lean African American FBI agent who could be anyone from a Caribbean drug dealer to a Charles Taylor – style warlord to a Fortune 50 °CEO.

Man was a born actor. Voices, postures, expressions … everything. And apparently this Gielgud guy too (maybe Dellray worked with him). And Serpico. Even if he got shot.

Beat cop, street cop, walking through the sleet cop …

The rap riff skipped through his head, somehow stilling the uneasiness.

Why’re you so damn nervous?

Not like he was having to pass with druggies or gangbangers. Richard Logan’s family or friends, whoever these visitors were, seemed like your average law abiding Manhattanites. The Watchmaker had moved in a different circle, a higher level than most criminals. Oh, he’d been guilty of murder. But it was impossible to picture Logan, the Watchmaker, the sophisticate, in a crack house or in the double wide of a meth cooker. Fine restaurants, chess matches, museums had been more his thing. Still, he was aware that the Watchmaker had  tried to kill Rhyme the last time they’d met. Maybe he’d left instructions in his will for a hit man associate of his to do just what Pulaski was doing at the moment: hang out in the funeral home, identify any nervous undercover cops, drag ’em into the alley afterward.

All right. Jesus. Get real.

There is a risk, he reflected, but not a bullet in the back of the head. It’s that you’ll fuck up and disappoint Lincoln and Amelia.

That damn uncertainty, the questioning. They never go away. Not completely.

At least he thought he looked the part. Black suit, white shirt, narrow tie. (He’d almost worn his dress NYPD tie but decided: Are you out of your fucking mind? It didn’t have little badges on it but one of these people might’ve known cops in the past. Be smart.) He had scruffed up, per Lincoln Rhyme’s request. A one day growth of beard (a bit pathetic since you had to get close to see the blond stubble), shirt stained, shoes scuffed. And he’d been practicing his cold stare.