“Listen to this part, son. It changes key. Wait…wait…There! You hear that?”

The boy believed he had.

Thompson now opened his eyes and returned to the book.

Five minutes later: Wsssst…“Bolero” went away and another melody started easing out through his pursed lips: “Time After Time.” That song Cyndi Lauper made famous in the eighties.

Thompson Boyd had always liked music and from an early age wanted to play an instrument. His mother took him to guitar and flute lessons for several years. After her accident his father drove the boy himself, even if that made him late to work. But there were problems with Thompson’s advancement: His fingers were too big and stubby for fret boards and flute keys and piano, and he had no voice at all. Whether it was church choir or Willie or Waylon or Asleep at the Wheel, nope, he couldn’t get more than a croak out of the old voice box. So, after a year or two, he turned away from the music and filled his time with what boys normally did in places like Amarillo, Texas: spending time with his family, nailing and planing and sanding in his father’s work shed, playing touch then tackle football, hunting, dating shy girls, going for walks in the desert.

And he tucked his love of music wherever failed hopes go.

Which usually isn’t very far beneath the surface. Sooner or later they crawl out again.

In his case this happened to be in prison a few years ago. A guard on the maximum security block came up and asked Thompson, “What the fuck was that?”

“How do you mean?” asked the ever-placid Average Joe.

“That song. You were whistling.”

“I was whistling?”

“Fuck yes. You didn’t know?”

He said to the guard, “Just something I was doing. Wasn’t thinking.”

“Damn, sounded good.” The guard wandered off, leaving Thompson to laugh to himself. How ’bout that? He had an instrument all along, one he’d been born with, one he carried around with him. Thompson went to the prison library and looked into this. He learned that people would call him an “orawhistler,” which was different from a tin-whistle player, say – like in Irish bands. Orawhistlers are rare – most people have very limited whistling range – and could make good livings as professional musicians in concerts, advertising, TV and movies (everybody knew the Bridge on the River Kwai theme, of course; you couldn’t even think about it without whistling the first few notes, at least in your head). There were even orawhistling competitions, the most famous being the International Grand Championship, which featured dozens of performers – many of them appeared regularly with orchestras around the world and had their own cabaret acts.

Wssst…

Another tune came into his head. Thompson Boyd exhaled the notes softly, getting a soft trill. He noticed he’d moved his.22 out of reach. That wasn’t doing things by the book… He pulled the pistol closer then returned to the instruction booklet again, sticking more Post-it notes onto pages, glancing into the shopping bag to make sure he had everything he needed. He thought that he had the technique down. But, as always when he approached something new, he was going to learn everything cold before executing the job.

“Nothing, Rhyme,” Sachs said into the microphone dangling near her ample lips.

That his prior good mood had vanished like steam was evident when he snapped, “Nothing?”

“Nobody’s seen him.”

“Where are you?”

“We’ve covered basically all of Little Italy. Lon and I’re at the south end. Canal Street.”

“Hell,” Rhyme muttered.

“We could…” Sachs stopped speaking. “What’s that?”

“What?” Rhyme asked.

“Hold on a minute.” To Sellitto she said, “Come on.”

Displaying her badge she forced her way through four lanes of thick, attitudinal traffic. She looked around then started south on Elizabeth Street, a dark canyon of tenements, retail shops and warehouses. She stopped again. “Smell that?”

Rhyme asked caustically, “Smell?”

“I’m asking Lon.”

“Yeah,” the big detective said. “What is that? Something, you know, sweet.”

Sachs pointed to a wholesale herbal products, soap and incense company, two doors south of Canal on Elizabeth Street. A strong flowery scent wafted from the open doors. It was jasmine – the aroma that they’d detected on the rape pack and that Geneva herself had smelled at the museum.

“We might have a lead, Rhyme. I’ll call you back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the slim Chinese man in the herbal wholesaler said, gazing at the EFIT composite picture of Unsub 109. “I see him some. Upstair. He not there a lot. What he do?”

“Is he up there now?”

“Don’t know. Don’t know. Think I saw him today. What he do?”

“Which apartment?”

The man shrugged.

The herbal import company took up the first floor, but at the end of the dim entryway, past a security door, were steep stairs leading up into darkness. Sellitto pulled out his radio and called in on the operations frequency. “We’ve got him.”

“Who’s this?” Haumann snapped.

“Oh, sorry. It’s Sellitto. We’re two buildings south of Canal on Elizabeth. We’ve got a positive ID on the tenant. Might be in the building now.”

“ESU Command, all units. You copy, K?”

Affirmative responses filled the airwaves.

Sachs identified herself and transmitted, “Make it a silent roll-up and stay off Elizabeth. He can see the street from the window in the front.”

“Roger, five-eight-eight-five. What’s the address? I’m calling in for a no-knock warrant, K.”

Sachs gave him the street number. “Out.”

Less than fifteen minutes later the teams were on site and S and S officers were checking out the front and rear of the building with binoculars and infrared and sonic sensors. The lead Search and Surveillance officer said, “There’re four floors in the building. Import warehouse is on the ground. We can see into the second and the fourth floors. They’re occupied – Asian families. Elderly couple on the second and the top’s got a woman and four or five kids.”

Haumann said, “And the third floor?”

“Windows are curtained, but the infrared scans positive for heat. Could be a TV or heater. But could be human. And we’re getting some sounds. Music. And the creaking of floors, sounds like.”

Sachs looked at the building directory. The plate above the intercom button for the third floor was empty.

An officer arrived and gave Haumann a piece of paper. It was the search warrant signed by a state court judge and had just been faxed to the ESU command post truck. Haumann looked it over, made sure the address was correct – a wrong no-knock could subject them to liability and jeopardize the case against the unsub. But the paper was in order. Haumann said, “Two entry teams, four people each, front stairwell and back fire escape. A battering ram at the front.” He pulled eight officers from the group and divided them into two groups. One of them – A team – was to go through the front. B was on the fire escape. He told the second group, “You take out the window on the three count and hit him with a flash-bang, two-second delay.”

“Roger.”

“On zero, take out the front door,” he said to the head of the A team. Then he assigned other officers to guard the innocents’ doors and to be backup. “Now deploy. Move, move, move!”

The troopers – mostly men, two women – moved out, as Haumann ordered. The B team went around to the back of the building, while Sachs and Haumann joined the A team, along with an officer manning the battering ram.

Under normal circumstances a crime scene officer wouldn’t be allowed on an entry team. But Haumann had seen Sachs under fire and knew she could pull her own. And, more important, the ESU officers themselves welcomed her. They’d never admit it, at least not to her, but they considered Sachs one of them and were glad to have her. It didn’t hurt, of course, that she was one of the top pistol shots on the force.