‘I’ll be there in five, six minutes.’

‘K,’ said the man with a serenity that Pulaski found reassuring and they disconnected.

A gust of wind slashed. Pulaski pulled his coat more tightly around him. Didn’t do much good. He and Jenny had been talking about getting to a beach, any beach. The kids were in swimming class and he was really looking forward to taking them to an ocean. They’d been to a few lakes Upstate but a sandy beach, with crashing waves? Man, they would love –

‘Hi, there, Mr. Walesa.’

Pulaski stopped abruptly and turned. He tried to mask his surprise.

Ten feet behind him was Dave Weller. What was going on? They were still two blocks from the hotel. Weller had stopped and was standing under the awning of a pet shop, not yet open for business.

Pulaski thought: Act cool. ‘Hey. Thought we were going to meet at the hotel.’ A nod up the street.

Weller said nothing, just looked Pulaski up and down.

The officer said, ‘Hell of a day, hm? This sucks. Been sleeting like this off and on for almost a week.’ He nearly said, ‘You don’t get this in L.A.’ But then he wasn’t supposed to know that the lawyer had his office – or un office – in California. Of course, maybe it would’ve been less  suspicious and more  inscrutable to let Weller know he’d done some homework on the man. Hard to tell.

Hell, this undercover stuff, you really had to think ahead.

Pulaski joined Weller in front of the pet store, out of the sleet. In the window, just behind them, was a murky aquarium.

A beach, any beach …

Weller said, ‘Thought this’d be safer.’ That faint Southern accent again.

But, of course, Stan Walesa might be wondering why safety was an issue. He said, ‘Safer?’

But Weller said nothing in reply. He didn’t wear a hat, and his bald head was dotted with moisture.

Pulaski gave a shrug. ‘You were saying you have a client who might want to meet with me.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I’m into import export. Is that what your client needs?’

‘Could be.’

‘And what specifically you have in mind?’

‘Exactly’ would’ve been better than ‘specifically’. Tough guys wouldn’t use the S word.

Weller’s voice dipped, hard to hear over the wind. ‘You know that project that Richard put together down in Mexico?’

Pulaski’s gut thudded. Getting even better. The man was referring to an attempted hit of a Mexican anti drug officer a few years ago. Logan had orchestrated an elaborate plan to kill the federale . This was great. If Weller knew about that, he wasn’t quite who he claimed to be.

My theory …

‘Sure. I know it. He told me that that asshole fucked it up, Rhyme.’

So the lawyer did know about the criminalist, after all.

Pulaski offered, ‘But Richard came up with a good plan.’

‘Yeah, it was.’ Weller seemed more comfortable now that Pulaski had given him some details not known in public about Richard Logan. He eased closer. ‘Well, my client might be interested in talking to you about that situation.’

Your client or you? Pulaski wondered. He kept his eyes locked on Weller’s. This was hard but he didn’t waver.

‘What’s there to talk about?’

Weller said evasively: ‘Could be renewed interest in an alternative approach to the situation. In Mexico. Mr Logan had been working on it when he died.’

‘I’m not sure what we’re talking about,’ Pulaski said.

‘A new approach.’

‘Oh.’

‘If it’s to everybody’s advantage.’

‘What kind of advantage?’ Pulaski inquired. This seemed like a good question.

‘Significant.’

That didn’t seem like a particularly good answer. But he knew you had to play games like these – well, he supposed you did, since what he’d learned about undercover work was mostly from Blue Bloods  and movies.

‘My client is looking for people he can trust. You might be one of those people. But we’d need to check you out more.’

‘I’ll have to do some checking too.’

‘We’d expect that. And,’ Weller said slowly, ‘my client would need something from you. To show your commitment. Can you bring something to the table?’

‘What sort of “something”?’

‘You have to spend money to make money,’ Weller said.

So, he was being asked to invest. Cash. Good. Much better than having to bring them the head of a rival drug dealer to prove his loyalty.

‘That’s not a problem,’ Pulaski said dismissively, as if he could jump in his private jet, fly to Switzerland and pluck stacks of hundreds from his private bank.

‘What would you be willing to cough up?’

This was a stumper. It was tough to get buy money for sting operations. The brass knew there was always a chance of losing it. But he had no idea what the limits were. What would they do on Blue Bloods ? He shrugged. ‘A hundred K.’

Weller nodded. ‘That’s a good figure.’

And it was then that Pulaski thought: How did he know I’d come this way? There were three or four possible approaches to the hotel. And, hell, for that matter, how did he know I’d be on foot and not take a cab or drive? Earlier Weller had referred to parking in front of the Huntington Arms.

One answer was that Weller, or somebody, had been following Pulaski.

And there was only one reason for that. To set him up. Maybe he’d seen him come out of Rhyme’s and looked up the owner of the townhouse.

And here I am without a fucking wire and two blocks from the backup team and a gun on my ankle, a thousand miles away.

‘So. Glad this is moving along. Let me see about that money and–’

But Weller wasn’t listening. His eyes flickered past Pulaski, who spun around.

Two unsmiling men in leather jackets approached. One with shaggy hair, one with a shaved head.

When they noted Pulaski’s gaze, they drew pistols and lunged.

The young officer turned and started to sprint. He made it all of two yards before the third killer stepped out from behind the truck where he’d been waiting, wrapped his massive arm around the patrolman’s throat and slammed the officer against the window of the pet shop.

Weller stepped back. The hit man touched the gun muzzle to Pulaski’s temple while, inside the store, a colorful toucan in a flamboyant Polynesian cage ruffled its feathers and watched with scant interest the goings on outside.

Rhyme phoned Rachel Parker and happened to get Lon Sellitto’s son.

The young man had come to town from upstate New York, where he was working after graduating from SUNY in Albany. Rhyme remembered the boy as being quiet and pleasant enough, though he’d had some anger issues and mood problems – common among the children of law enforcers. But that was years ago and now he seemed mature and steady. In a voice missing any of Lon’s Brooklyn twang, Richard Sellitto told Rhyme that his father’s condition was largely unchanged. He was still categorized as critical. Rhyme was pleased that the young man was doing everything he could to support Rachel and Sellitto’s ex, Richard’s mother.

After he disconnected, Rhyme gave Cooper the update – which was really no update at all. He reflected that this was one of the most horrific aspects of poisoning: The substance wormed its way into your cells, destroying delicate tissues for days and weeks afterward. Bullets could be removed and wounds stitched. But poisons hid, residing, and killed at their leisure.

Rhyme now returned to the chart containing the pictures of the tattoos.

What on earth are you trying to say? he wondered yet again.

A puzzle, a quotation, a code? He kept returning to the theory that the clues referred to a location. But where?

His phone buzzed once more. He frowned looking at the caller ID. He didn’t recognize it.

He answered. ‘Rhyme here.’

‘Lincoln.’

‘Rookie? Is that you? What’s wrong?’

‘Yes, I–’

‘Where the hell have you been? The team’s at the hotel, where you’re meeting Weller. Or were supposed  to be meeting. They’ve been in place for an hour. You never showed up.’ He added sternly, ‘We were, you can imagine, a little concerned.’