“Yes, sir,” Sachs said.

The 38-caliber slug had missed her by three feet. Sellitto knew it. She knew it.

Nowhere near me…

The captain looked over the warehouse. “This hadn’t happened, the perp would still’ve gotten away?”

“Yep,” Bo Haumann said.

“You sure it had nothing to do with his escape? It’s going to come up.”

The ESU commander nodded. “It’s looking now like the unsub got onto the roof of the warehouse and headed north or south – probably south. The shot” – He nodded toward Sellitto’s revolver – “was after we’d secured the adjacent buildings.”

Sellitto again thought, What’s happening to me?

Tap, tap, tap…

The captain asked, “Why’d you draw your weapon?”

“I wasn’t expecting anybody to come through the basement door.”

“Didn’t you hear any transmissions about the building being cleared?”

A hesitation. “I missed that.” The last time Lon Sellitto had lied to brass had been to protect a rookie who’d failed to follow procedure when trying to save a kidnap victim, which he’d managed to do. That had been a good lie. This was a cover-your-own-ass lie, and it hurt like a broken bone to utter it.

The captain looked around the scene. Several ESU cops milled about. None of them was looking at Sellitto. They seemed embarrassed for him. The brass finally said, “No injury, no serious property damage. I’ll do a report, but a shooting review board’s optional. I won’t recommend it.”

The relief flooded through Sellitto. An SRB for an accidental discharge was a short step away from an Internal Affairs investigation as far as what it did to your reputation. Even if you were cleared, grime stuck to you for a long, long time. Sometimes forever.

“Want some time off?” the captain asked.

“No, sir,” Sellitto said firmly.

The worst thing in the world for him – for any cop – was downtime after a thing like this. He’d brood, he’d eat himself drunk on junk food, he’d be in a shitty mood to everybody around him. And he’d get even more spooked than he was now. (He still recalled with shame how he’d jumped like a schoolgirl at the truck backfire earlier.)

“I don’t know.” The captain had the power to order a mandatory leave of absence. He wanted to ask Sachs’s opinion but that would be out of line. She was a new, junior detective. Still, the captain’s hesitation in deciding was meant to give her the chance to pipe up. To say, maybe, Hey, Lon, yeah, it’d be a good idea. Or: It’s okay. We’ll manage without you.

Instead she said nothing. Which they all knew was a vote in his favor. The captain asked, “I understand some wit got killed right in front of you today, right? That have anything to do with this?”

Fuck yes, fuck no…

“Couldn’t say.”

Another long debate. But say what you will about brass, they don’t rise through the ranks in the NYPD without knowing all about life on the street and what it does to cops. “All right, I’ll keep you active. But go see a counselor.”

His face burned. A shrink. But he said, “Sure. I’ll make an appointment right away.”

“Good. And keep me in the loop on how it goes.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks.”

The captain returned his weapon and walked back to the CP with Bo Haumann. Sellitto and Sachs headed for the Crime Scene Unit rapid response vehicle, which had just arrived.

“Amelia…”

“Forget it, Lon. It happened. It’s over with. Friendly fire happens all the time.” Statistically cops had a much higher chance of being shot by their own or fellow cops’ bullets than by a perp’s.

The heavyset detective shook his head. “I just…” He didn’t know where to go from there.

Silence for a long moment as they walked to the bus. Finally Sachs said, “One thing, Lon. Word’ll go around. You know how that is. But nobody civilian’ll hear. Not from me.” Not being hooked into the wire – the network of police scuttlebutt – Lincoln Rhyme would only learn about the incident from one of them.

“I wasn’t going to ask that.”

“I know,” she said. “Just telling you how I’m going to handle it.” She started unloading crime scene equipment.

“Thanks,” he said in a thick voice. And realized that the fingers of his left hand had returned to the stigmata of blood on his cheek.

Tap, tap, tap…

“It’s a lean one, Rhyme.”

“Go ahead,” he said through the headset.

In her white Tyvek suit, she was walking the grid in the small apartment – a safe house, they knew, because of its sparseness. Most pro killers had a place like this. They kept weapons and supplies there and used it as a staging spot for nearby hits and a hidey-hole if a gig went bad.

“What’s inside?” he asked.

“A cot, bare desk and chair. Lamp. A TV hooked up to a security camera mounted in the hall outside. It’s a Video-Tect system but he’s removed the serial number stickers so we don’t know when and where it was bought. I found wires and some relays for the electric charge he rigged on the door. The electrostatics match the Bass walking shoes. I’ve dusted everywhere and can’t find a single print. Wearing gloves inside his hidey-hole – what’s up with that?”

Rhyme speculated, “Aside from the fact he’s goddamn smart? Probably he wasn’t guarding the place very carefully and knew it’d get tossed at some point. I’d just love to get a print. He’s definitely on file someplace. Maybe a lot of places.”

“I found the rest of the tarot card deck, but there’re no store labels on it. And the only card missing is number twelve, the one he left at the scene. Okay, I’m going to keep searching.”

She continued walking the grid carefully – even though the apartment was small and you could see most of it simply by standing in the center and turning three-sixty. Sachs found one piece of hidden evidence: As she passed the cot she noticed a small sliver of white protruding from under the pillow. She lifted it out, opened the folded sheet carefully.

“Got something here, Rhyme. A map of the street the African-American museum’s on. There’re a lot details of the alleys and entrances and exits for all the buildings around it, loading zones, parking spaces, hydrants, manholes, pay phones. Man’s a perfectionist.”

Not many killers would go to this much trouble for a hired clip. “Stains on it too. And some crumbs. Brownish.” Sachs sniffed. “Garlic. Crumbs look like food.” She slipped the map into a plastic envelope and continued the search.

“I’ve got some more fibers, like the other ones – cotton rope, I’d guess. A bit of dust and dirt. That’s it, though.”

“Wish I could see the place.” His voice trailed to silence.

“Rhyme?”

“I’m picturing it,” he whispered. Another pause. Then: “What’s on the surface of the desk?”

“There’s nothing. I told – ”

“I don’t mean what’s sitting on it. I mean, is it stained with ink? Doodles? Knife marks? Coffee cup rings?” He added acerbically, “When perps are rude enough not to leave their electric bill lying around, we take what we can get.”

Yep, the good mood was officially deceased.

She examined the wooden top. “It’s stained, yes. Scratched and scarred.”

“It’s wood?”

“Yes.”

“Take some samples. Use a knife and scrape the surface.”

Sachs found a scalpel in the examination kit. Just like the ones used in surgery it was sterilized and sealed in paper and plastic. She carefully scraped the surface and placed the results in small plastic bags.

As she glanced down she noticed a flash of light from the edge of the table. She looked.

“Rhyme, found some drops. Clear liquid.”

“Before you sample them, hit one with some Mirage. Go with Exspray Two. This guy likes deadly toys way too much.”

Mirage Technologies makes a convenient explosives detection system. Exspray No. 2 would detect Group B explosives, which include the highly unstable, clear liquid nitroglycerine, even a drop of which could blow off a hand.