the power to remake the past.

— ARISTOTLE

Sunday, 5:45 a.m., to Monday, 7:00 p.m.

HE AWOKE TO A SCENT. AS HE OFTEN DID.

And — as on many mornings — he didn't at first open his eyes but just remained in his half-seated position, trying to figure out what the unfamiliar smell might be:

The gassy scent of dawn air? The dew on the oil-slick streets? Damp plaster? He tried to detect the scent of Amelia Sachs but could not.

His thoughts skipped over her and continued. What was it?

Cleanser? No.

A chemical from Cooper's impromptu lab?

No, he recognized all of those.

It was... Ah, yes... marking pen.

Now he could open his eyes and — after a glance at sleeping Sachs to make certain she hadn't deserted him — found himself gazing at the Monet poster on the wall. That's where the smell was coming from. The hot, humid air of this August morning had wilted the paper and brought the scent out.

• knows CS proc.

• possibly has record

• knows FR prints

• gun =.32 Colt

• Ties vics w/unusual knots

• "Old" appeals to him

• Called one vic "Hanna"

• Knows basic German

• Underground appeals to him

UNSUB 823 (page 1 of 3)

Appearance: •Caucasian male, slight build

•Dark clothing

•Old gloves, reddish kidskin

•Aftershave; to cover up other scent?

Residence: •Prob. has safe house

•Located near:

•B'way &82nd,

•ShopRite •Greenwich & Bank,

Vehicle: •Yellow Cab

•Recent model sedan

•Lt. gray, silver, beige

Other: •knows CS proc.

•possibly has record

•knows FR prints

•gun =.32 Colt

•Ties vics w/ unusual knots

UNSUB 823 (page 2 of 3)

Appearance: •Ski mask? Navy blue?

•Gloves are dark

•Aftershave = Brut

•Hair color not brown

•Deep scar, index finger

Residence: •ShopRite •8th Ave. & 24th,

•ShopRite Houston & Lafayette,

•ShopRite

•Old building, pink marble

•At least 100 years old, prob. mansion or institutional

Vehicle: •Rental car: prob. stolen

•Hertz, silver Taurus, this year's model

Other: •"Old" appeals to him

•Called one vic "Hanna"

•Knows basic German

•Underground appeals to him

•Dual personalities

UNSUB 823 (page 3 of 3)

Appearance: •Casual clothes

•Gloves faded? Stained?

Residence: •ShopRite Houston & Lafayette,

•ShopRite

•Old building, pink marble

•At least 100 years old, prob. mansion or institutional

Vehicle: •Rental car: prob. stolen

•Hertz, silver Taurus, this year's model

Other: •Maybe priest, soc. worker, counselor

•Unusual wear on shoes, reads a lot?

•Listened as he broke vic's finger

•Left snake as slap at investigators

The wall clock's pale numbers glowed: 5:45 a.m. His eyes returned to the poster. He couldn't see it clearly, just a ghostly pattern of pure white against a lesser white. But there was enough light from the dawn sky to make out most of the words.

• Dual personalities

• Maybe priest, soc. worker, counselor

• Unusual wear on shoes, reads a lot?

• Listened as he broke vic's finger

• Left snake as slap at investigators

The falcons were waking. He was aware of a flutter at the window. Rhyme's eyes skipped over the chart again. In his office at IRD he'd nailed up a dozen erasable marker boards and on them he'd keep a tally of the characteristics of the unsubs in major cases. He remembered: pacing, staring at them, wondering about the people they described.

Molecules of paint, mud, pollen, leaf...

• Old building, pink marble

Thinking about a clever jewel thief he and Lon had collared ten years ago. At Central Booking the perp had coyly said they'd never find the loot from the prior jobs but if they'd consider a plea he'd tell them where he'd hidden it. Rhyme had responded, "Well, we have been having some trouble figuring out where it is."

"I'm sure you have," the snide crook said.

"See," Rhyme continued, "we've narrowed it down to the stone wall in the coal bin of a Colonial farmhouse on the Connecticut River. About five miles north of Long Island Sound. I just can't tell whether the house is on the east bank or the west bank of the river."

When the story made the rounds the phrase everybody used to describe the expression on the perp's face was: You had to fucking be there.

Maybe it is magic, Sachs, he thought.

• At least 100 years" old, prob. mansion or institutional

He scanned the poster once again and closed his eyes, leaning back into his glorious pillow. It was then that he felt the jolt. Almost like a slap on his face. The shock rose to his scalp like spreading fire. Eyes wide, locked onto the poster.

• "Old" appeals to him

"Sachs!" he cried. "Wake up!"

She stirred and sat up. "What? What's...?"

Old, old, old...

"I made a mistake," he said tersely. "There's a problem."

She thought at first it was something medical and she leapt from the couch, reaching for Thom's medical bag.

"No, the clues, Sachs, the clues... I got it wrong." His breathing was rapid and he ground his teeth together as he thought.

She pulled her clothes on, sat back, her fingers disappearing automatically into her scalp, scratching. "What, Rhyme? What is it?"

"The church. It might not be in Harlem." He repeated, "I made a mistake."

Just like with the perp who killed Colin Stanton's family. In criminalistics you can nail down a hundred clues perfectly and it's the one you miss that gets people killed.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Quarter to six, a little after. Get the newspaper. The church-services schedule."

Sachs found the paper, thumbed through it. Then looked up. "What're you thinking?"

"Eight twenty-three's obsessed with what's old. If he's after an old black church then he might not mean uptown. Philip Payton started the Afro-American Realty Company in Harlem in 1900. There were two other black settlements in the city. Downtown where the courthouses are now and San Juan Hill. They're mostly white now but... Oh, what the hell was I thinking of?"

"Where's San Juan Hill?"

"Just north of Hell's Kitchen. On the West Side. It was named in honor of all the black soldiers who fought in the Spanish-American War."

She read through the paper.

"Downtown churches," she said. "Well, in Battery Park there's the Seamen's Institute. A chapel there. They have services. Trinity. Saint Paul's."

"That wasn't the black area. Farther north and east."

"A Presbyterian church in Chinatown."

"Any Baptist. Evangelical?"

"No, nothing in that area at all. There's — Oh, hell." With resignation in her eyes she sighed. "Oh, no."

Rhyme understood. "Sunrise service!"

She was nodding. "Holy Tabernacle Baptist... Oh, Rhyme, there's a gospel service starting at six. Fifty-ninth and Eleventh Avenue."

"That's San Juan Hill! Call them!"

She grabbed the phone and dialed the number. She stood, head down, fiercely plucking an eyebrow and shaking her head. "Answer, answer... Hell. It's a recording. The minister must be out of his office." She said into the receiver, "This is the New York Police Department. We have reason to believe there's a firebomb in your church. Evacuate as fast as possible." She hung up, pulled her shoes on.

"Go, Sachs. You've got to get there. Now!"

"Me?"

"We're closer than the nearest precinct. You can be there in ten minutes."

She jogged toward the door, slinging her utility belt around her waist.

"I'll call the precinct," he yelled as she leapt down the stairs, hair a red cloud around her head. "And Sachs, if you ever wanted to drive fast, do it now."

The RRV wagon skidded into 81st Street, speeding west.

Sachs burst into the intersection at Broadway, skidded hard and whacked a New York Post vending machine, sending it through Zabar's window before she brought the wagon under control. She remembered all the crime scene equipment in the back. Rear-heavy vehicle, she thought; don't corner at fifty.

Then down Broadway. Brake at the intersections. Check left. Check right. Clear. Punch it!

She peeled off on Ninth Avenue at Lincoln Center and headed south. I'm only —

Oh, hell!

A mad stop on screaming tires.

The street was closed.

A row of blue sawhorses blocked Ninth for a street fair later that morning. A banner proclaimed, Crafts and Delicacies of all Nations. Hand in hand, we are all one.

Gaw... damn UN! She backed up a half block and got the wagon up to fifty before she slammed into the first sawhorse. Spreading portable aluminum tables and wooden display racks in her wake, she tore a swath through the deserted fair. Two blocks later the wagon broke through the southern barricade and she skidded west on Fifty-ninth, using far more of the sidewalk than she meant to.

There was the church, a hundred yards away.

Parishioners on the steps — parents, little girls in frilly white and pink dresses, young boys in dark suits and white shirts, their hair in gangsta knobs or fades.

And from a basement window, a small puff of gray smoke.

Sachs slammed the accelerator to the floor, the engine roaring.

Grabbing the radio. "RRV Two to Central, K?"

And in the instant it took her to glance down at the Motorola to make sure the volume was up, a big Mercedes slipped out of the alley directly into her path.

A fast glimpse of the family inside, eyes wide in horror, as the father slammed on the brakes.

Sachs instinctively spun the wheel hard to the left, putting the wagon into controlled skid. Come on, she was begging the tires, grip, grip, grip! But the oily asphalt was loose from the heat of the past few days and covered with dew. The wagon danced over the road like a hydrofoil.

The rear end met the Merc's front flat-on at fifty miles an hour. With an explosive boom the 560 sheared off the rear right side of the wagon. The black CS suitcases flew into the air, breaking open and strewing their contents along the street. Church-goers dove for cover from the splinters of glass and plastic and sheet metal.

The air bag popped and deflated, stunning Sachs. She covered her face as the wagon tumbled over a row of cars and through a newsstand then skidded to a stop upside down. Newspapers and plastic evidence bags floated to the ground like tiny paratroopers.

Held upside down by the harness, blinded by her hair, Sachs wiped blood from her torn forehead and lip and tried to pop the belt release. It held tight. Hot gasoline flowed into the car and trickled along her arm. She pulled a switchblade from her back pocket, flicked the knife open and cut the seat belt. Falling, she nearly skewered herself on the knife and lay, gasping, choking on the gas fumes.

Come on, girl, get out. Out!

The doors were jammed closed and there was no escape through the crushed rear end of the wagon. Sachs began kicking the windows. The glass wouldn't break. She drew her foot back and slammed it hard into the cracked windshield. No effect, except that she nearly sprained her ankle.

Her gun!

She slapped her hip; the gun had been torn from the holster and tossed somewhere inside the car. Feeling the hot drizzle of gasoline on her arm and shoulder, she searched frantically through the papers and CS equipment littering the ceiling of the station wagon.

Then she saw the clunky Glock near the dome light. She swept it up and aimed at the side window.

Go ahead. Backdrop's clear, no spectators yet.

Then she hesitated. Would the muzzle flash ignite the gas?

She held the gun as far away from her soaked uniform blouse as she could, debating. Then squeezed the trigger.