Spy stuff…shades of Robert Ludlum. Theories began to circulate immediately and the FBI and the State Department went into overdrive. A man from Langley showed up too, the first time Rhyme could remember the CIA taking an interest in one of his cases.

The criminalist still laughed at the disappointment of the global-conspiracy-loving Feds, when, a week after finding the shoe, Detective Amelia Sachs led a tactical team in a take-down of a businessman from Paramus, New Jersey, a gruff fellow who had at best a USA Today grasp of foreign politics.

Rhyme had proven through moisture and chemical analysis of the composite heel material that the hollowing-out had occurred weeks after the men had been killed. He found too that the computer chip had been purchased from PC Warehouse, and that the GPS information not only wasn’t secret, it had been downloaded from websites that were a year or two out of date.

A staged crime scene, Rhyme had concluded. And went on to trace stone dust in the briefcase to a kitchen and bathroom countertop company in Jersey. A fast look at the phone records of the owner and credit card receipts led to the conclusion that the man’s wife was sleeping with one of the diplomats. Her husband had found out about the liaison and, along with a Tony Soprano wannabe who worked for him in the slab yard, killed her lover and the man’s unfortunate associate on Roosevelt Island, then staged the evidence to make the crime seem politically motivated.

“An affair, yes, though not a diplomatic one,” Rhyme had offered dramatically at the conclusion of his testimony in court. “Undercover action, yes, though not espionage.”

“Objection,” the weary defense lawyer had said.

“Sustained.” Though the judge couldn’t keep from laughing.

The jury took forty-two minutes to convict the businessman. The lawyers had, of course, appealed – they always do – but, as Sellitto had just revealed, the appellate court upheld the conviction.

Thom said, “Say, let’s celebrate the victory with a ride to the hospital. You ready?”

“Don’t push it,” Rhyme grumbled.

It was at that moment that Sellitto’s pager went off. He looked at the screen, frowned and then pulled his cell phone off his belt and made a call.

“Sellitto here. What’s up?…” The big man nodded slowly, his hand absently kneading his belly roll. He’d been trying Atkins lately. Eating a lot of steaks and eggs had apparently not had much effect. “She’s all right?…And the perp?…Yeah…That’s not good. Hold on.” He looked up. “A ten twenty-four call just came in. That African-American museum on Five-five? The vic was a young girl. Teenager. Attempted rape.”

Amelia Sachs winced at this news, exuding sympathy. Rhyme had a different reaction; his mind automatically wondered: How many crime scenes were there? Did the perp chase her and possibly drop evidence? Did they grapple, exchanging trace? Did he take public transportation to and from the scene? Or was a car involved?

Another thought crossed his mind as well, one that he had no intention of sharing, however.

“Injuries?” Sachs asked.

“Scraped hand is all. She got away and found a uniform on patrol nearby. He checked it out but the beast was gone by then…So, can you guys run the scene?”

Sachs looked at Rhyme. “I know what you’re going to say: that we’re busy.”

The entire NYPD was feeling a crunch. Many officers had been pulled off regular detail and assigned to anti-terrorism duty, which was particularly hectic lately; the FBI had gotten several anonymous reports about possible bombings of Israeli targets in the area. (The reassignments reminded Rhyme of Sachs’s stories her grandfather would tell about life in prewar Germany. Grandpa Sachs’s father-in-law had been a criminal police detective in Berlin and was constantly losing his personnel to the national government whenever a crisis arose.) Because of the diverted resources, Rhyme was busier than he’d been in months. He and Sachs were presently running two white-collar fraud investigations, one armed robbery and a cold-case murder from three years ago.

“Yep, really busy,” Rhyme summarized.

“Either rains or it pours,” Sellitto said. He frowned. “I don’t quite get that expression.”

“Believe that’s ‘Never rains but it pours.’ A statement of irony.” Rhyme cocked his head. “Love to help. I mean it. But we’ve got all those other cases. And, look at the time, I have an appointment now. At the hospital.”

“Come on, Linc,” Sellitto said. “Nothing else you’re working on’s like this – the vic’s a kid. That’s one bad actor, going after teenagers. Take him off the street and who knows how many girls we’ll save. You know the city – doesn’t matter what else is going on. Some beast starts going after kids, the brass’ll give you whatever you need to nail him.”

“But that’d make it five cases,” Rhyme said petulantly. He let the silence build up. Then, reluctantly, he asked, “How old is she?”

“Sixteen, for Christ’s sake. Come on, Linc.”

A sigh. He finally said, “Oh, all right. I’ll do it.”

“You will?” Sellitto asked, surprised.

“Everybody thinks I’m disagreeable,” Rhyme scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Everybody thinks I’m the wet blanket – there’s another cliché for you, Lon. I was just pointing out that we have to consider priorities. But I think you’re right. This’s more important.”

It was the aide who asked, “Your helpful nature have anything to do with the fact you’ll have to postpone your hospital visit?”

“Of course not. I didn’t even think about that. But now you mention it, I guess we better cancel. Good idea, Thom.”

“It isn’t my idea – you engineered it.”

True, he was thinking. But he now asked indignantly, “Me? You make it sound like I’ve been attacking people in Midtown.”

“You know what I mean,” Thom said. “You can have the test and be back before Amelia’s through with the crime scene.”

“There might be delays at the hospital. Why do I even say ‘might’? Always are.”

Sachs said, “I’ll call Dr. Sherman and reschedule.”

“Cancel, sure. But don’t reschedule. We have no idea how long this could take. The perp might be an organized offender.”

“I’ll reschedule,” she said.

“Let’s plan on two, three weeks.”

“I’ll see when he’s available,” Sachs said firmly.

But Lincoln Rhyme could be as stubborn as his partner. “We’ll worry about that later. Now, we’ve got a rapist out there. Who knows what he’s up to at the moment? Probably targeting somebody else. Thom, call Mel Cooper and get him in here. Let’s move. Every minute we delay is a gift to the perp. Hey, how’s that expression, Lon? The genesis of a cliché – and you were there.”

Instinct.

Portables – beat cops – develop a sixth sense for knowing when somebody’s concealing a gun. Veterans on the force’ll tell you it’s really nothing more than the way the suspect carries himself – less a matter of a pistol’s heaviness in pounds than the weight of consequences of having it close to you. The power it gives you.

The risk of getting caught too. Carrying an unlicensed weapon in New York comes with a Cracker Jack prize: an automatic stint in jail. You carry concealed, you do time. Simple as that.

No, Amelia Sachs couldn’t say exactly how she understood it, but she knew that the man leaning against a wall across the street from the Museum of African-American Culture and History was armed. Smoking a cigarette, arms crossed, he gazed at the police line, the flashing lights, the officers.

As she approached the scene Sachs was greeted by a blond NYPD uniform – so young he had to be a rookie. He said, “Hi, there. I was the first officer. I -”

Sachs smiled and whispered, “Don’t look at me. Keep your eyes on that garbage pile up the street.”