ith a snap of systems shutting down, deprived of their lifeblood, the town house went dark.

“What the hell is going on?” Rhyme shouted.

“The electricity’s out,” Thom announced.

“That part I figured,” the criminalist snapped. “What I’d like to know is why.”

“We weren’t running the GC,” Mel Cooper said defensively. He looked out the window, as if checking to see if the rest of the neighborhood grid had gone down too, but since it was not yet dusk there were no ConEd references to tell the story.

“We can’t afford to be offline now. Goddamnit. Get it taken care of!”

Rhyme, Sellitto, Pulaski and Cooper remained in the silent, dim room, while Thom walked into the hall and, on his cell phone, made a call. He was soon talking with somebody at the electric company. “Impossible. I pay the bills online. Every month. Never missed one. I have receipts… Well, they’re in the computer and I can’t go online because there’s no electricity, now can I?… Canceled checks, yes, but once again, how can I fax them to you if there’s no electricity?… I don’t know where there’s a Kinko’s, no.”

“It’s him, you know,” Rhyme said to the others.

“Five Twenty-Two? He got your power shut off?”

“Yep. He found out about me and where I live. Malloy must’ve told him this is our command post.”

The silence was eerie. The first thing Rhyme thought of was how completely vulnerable he was. The devices that he relied on were useless now and he had no way to communicate, no way to lock or unlock the doors or use the ESU. If the blackout continued and Thom couldn’t recharge his wheelchair’s battery he’d be immobilized completely.

He couldn’t remember that last time he’d felt so vulnerable. Even having others around didn’t allay the concern; 522 was a threat to anybody, anywhere.

He was also wondering: Is the blackout a diversion, or the prelude to an attack?

“Keep an eye out, everybody,” he announced. “He could be moving in on us.”

Pulaski glanced out the window. Cooper too.

Sellitto pulled out his cell phone and called someone downtown. He explained the situation. He rolled his eyes—Sellitto was never one for stoic faces—then ended the conversation with: “Well, I don’t care. Whatever it takes. This asshole’s a killer. And we can’t do a thing to find him without any fucking electricity… Thanks.”

“Thom, any luck?”

“No,” came the aide’s abrupt reply.

“Shit.” Rhyme then reflected on something. “Lon, call Roland Bell. I think we need protection. Five Twenty-Two went after Pam, he went after Amelia.” The criminalist nodded at a dark monitor. “He knows about us. I want officers on Amelia’s mother’s place. Pam’s foster home. Pulaski’s house, Mel’s mother’s place. Your house too, Lon.”

“You think it’s that much of a risk?” the big detective asked. Then shook his head. “What the hell am I saying? Sure, it is.” He got the information—addresses and phone numbers—then called Bell and had him arrange for officers. After hanging up he said, “It’ll take a few hours but he’ll get it done.”

A loud knock on the door shattered the silence. Still clutching the phone, Thom started for it.

“Wait!” Rhyme shouted.

The aide paused.

“Pulaski, go with him.” Rhyme nodded at the pistol on his hip.

“Sure.”

They walked into the hallway. Then Rhyme heard a muted conversation and a moment later two men in suits, with trim hair and unsmiling faces, walked into the town house, looking around curiously—first at Rhyme’s body, then at the rest of the lab, surprised either at the amount of scientific equipment or the absence of lights, or both, most likely.

“We’re looking for a Lieutenant Sellitto. We were told he’d be here.”

“That’s me. Who’re you?”

Shields were displayed and ranks and names given—they were two NYPD detective sergeants. And they were with Internal Affairs.

“Lieutenant,” the older of the two said, “we’re here to take possession of your shield and weapon. I have to tell you that the results were confirmed.”

“I’m sorry. What’re you talking about?”

“You’re officially suspended. You’re not being arrested at this time. But we recommend you talk to an attorney—either your own or one from the PBA.”

“The hell is going on?”

The younger officer frowned. “The drug test.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to deny anything to us. We just do the fieldwork, pick up shields and weapons and inform suspects of their suspension.”

“What fucking test?”

The older looked at the younger. This apparently had never happened before.

Naturally it hadn’t, since whatever was going on had been ginned up by 522, Rhyme understood.

“Detective, really, you don’t have to act—”

“Do I fucking look like I’m acting?”

“Well, according to the suspension order, you took a drug test last week. The results just came in, showing significant levels of narcotics in your system. Heroin, cocaine and psychedelics.”

“I took the drug test, like everybody in my department. It can’t show up positive because I don’t do any fucking drugs. I have never done any fucking drugs. And… Oh, shit,” the big man spat out, grimacing. He jabbed a finger at the SSD brochure. “They’ve got drug-screening and background-check companies. He got into the system somehow and screwed up my file. The results were faked.”

“That would be very difficult to accomplish.”

“Well, it got accomplished.”

“And you or your attorney can bring up that defense at the hearing. Again, we really just need your shield and your weapon. And here’s the paperwork on that. Now, I hope there’s not going to be a problem. You don’t want to add to your difficulties, do you?”

“Shit.” The big, rumpled man handed over his gun—an old-style revolver—and the shield. “Gimme the fucking paperwork.” Sellitto snatched it out of the hand of the younger one, as the older wrote out a receipt and handed it to him, as well. He then unloaded the gun and placed it and the bullets in a thick envelope.

“Thank you, Detective. Have a good day.”

After they were gone, Sellitto flipped open his phone and called the head of IA. The man was out and he left a message. Then he called his own office. The assistant he shared with several other detectives in Major Cases had apparently heard the news.

“I know it’s bullshit. They what?… Oh, great. I’ll call you when I find out what’s going on.” He snapped the phone closed so hard Rhyme wondered if he’d broken it. He raised an eyebrow. “They just confiscated everything in my desk.”

Pulaski asked, “How the hell do you fight somebody like this?”

It was then that Rodney Szarnek called on Sellitto’s mobile. He set it to speakerphone. “What’s wrong with the landline there?”

“The prick got the electricity shut off. We’re working on it. What’s up?”

“The list of SSD customers, from the CD. We found something. One customer downloaded pages of data about all victims and fall guys the day before each killing.”

“Who is it?”

“His name’s Robert Carpenter.”

Rhyme said, “Okay. Good. What’s his story?”

“All I have is what’s on the spreadsheet. He’s got his own company in Midtown. Associated Warehousing.”

Warehousing? Rhyme was thinking of the place where Joe Malloy was murdered. Was there a connection?

“Have an address?”

The tech specialist recited it.

After disconnecting, Rhyme noted Pulaski was frowning. The young officer said, “I think we saw him at SSD.”

“Who?”

“Carpenter. When we were there yesterday. A big, bald guy. He was in a meeting with Sterling. He didn’t seem happy.”

“Happy? What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Just an impression.”

“Not helpful.” Rhyme said, “Mel, check this Carpenter out.”

Cooper called downtown on his mobile. He spoke for a few minutes, moving closer to the window for the light, then jotted notes. He disconnected. “You don’t seem to like the word ‘interesting,’ Lincoln, but it is. I’ve got the NCIC and department database results. Robert Carpenter. Lives on the Upper East Side. Single. And, get this, he’s got a record. Some credit card fraud and bad-check busts. Did six months in Waterbury. And he was arrested in a corporate extortion scheme. Those charges were dropped but he went nuts when they came to pick him up, tried to swing at the agent. They dropped those charges when he agreed to go into ED counseling.”

“Emotionally disturbed?” Rhyme nodded. “And his company’s in the warehousing business. Just the line of work for a hoarder… Okay, Pulaski, find out where this Carpenter was when Amelia’s town house got broken into.”

“Yes, sir.” Pulaski was lifting his phone from its holster when the unit trilled. He glanced at caller ID. He answered. “Hi, hon—What?… Hey, Jenny, calm down…”

Oh, no… Lincoln Rhyme knew that 522 had attacked on yet another front.

“What? Where are you?… Take it easy, it’s just a mistake.” The rookie’s voice was shaking. “It’ll all get taken care of… Give me the address… Okay, I’ll be right there.”

He snapped shut the phone, closed his eyes momentarily. “I have to go.”

“What’s wrong?” Rhyme asked.

“Jenny’s been arrested. By the INS.”

“Immigration?”

“She got put on a watch list at Homeland Security. They’re saying she’s illegal and a security threat.”

“Isn’t she—?”

“Our great-grandparents were citizens,” Pulaski snapped. “Jesus.” The young officer was wild-eyed. “Brad’s at Jenny’s mom’s but she has the baby with her now. They’re transporting her to detention—and they may take the baby. If they do that… Oh, man.” Pure despair filled his face. “I have to go.” His eyes told Rhyme that nothing would stop him being with his wife.

“Okay. Go. Good luck.”

The young man sprinted out the door.

Rhyme closed his eyes briefly. “He’s picking us off like a sniper.” He grimaced. “At least Sachs’ll be here any minute. She can check out Carpenter.”

Just then another pounding shook the door.

Alarmed, his eyes jerked open. What now?

But this, at least, wasn’t another disruption by 522.

Two crime-scene officers from the main facility in Queens walked inside, carrying a large milk crate, which Sachs had handed off to them before she’d raced to her town house. This would be the evidence from the scene of Malloy’s death.

“Hi, Detective. You know your doorbell’s not working.” One looked around. “And your lights’re off.”

“We’re pretty aware of that,” Rhyme said coolly.

“Anyway, here you go.”

After the officers had left, Mel Cooper put the box on an examination table and extracted the evidence and Sachs’s digital camera, which would contain images of the scene.

“Now, that’s helpful,” Rhyme growled sarcastically, pointing his chin at the silent computer and its black screen. “Maybe we can hold the memory chip up to the sunlight.”

He glanced at the evidence itself—a shoeprint, some leaves, duct tape and envelopes of trace. They had to examine it as soon as possible; since this wasn’t planted evidence it might provide the final clue as to where 522 was. But without their equipment to analyze it and check the databases, the bags were nothing more than paperweights.

“Thom,” Rhyme called, “the power?”

“I’m still on hold,” the aide shouted from the dark hallway.

He knew this was probably a bad idea. But he was out of control.

And it took a lot for Ron Pulaski to be out of control.

Yet he was furious. This was beyond anything he’d ever felt. When he’d signed up for the blue he’d expected to be beat up and threatened from time to time. But he’d never thought that his career would put Jenny at risk, much less his children.

So despite being straitlaced and by the book—Sergeant Friday—he was taking the matter into his own hands. Going behind the backs of Lincoln Rhyme and Detective Sellitto and even his mentor, Amelia Sachs. They wouldn’t be happy at what he was going to do but Ron Pulaski was desperate.

And so on the way to the INS detention center in Queens, he’d made a call to Mark Whitcomb.

“Hey, Ron,” the man had said, “what’s going on?… You sound upset. You’re out of breath.”

“I’ve got a problem, Mark. Please. I need some help. My wife’s being accused of being an illegal alien. They say her passport’s forged and she’s a security threat. It’s crazy.”

“But she’s a citizen, isn’t she?”

“Her family’s been here for generations. Mark, we think this killer we’ve been after got into your system. He’s had one detective fail a drug test… and now he’s had Jenny arrested. He could do that?”

“He must’ve swapped her file with somebody who’s on a watch list and then called it in… Look, I know some people at INS. I can talk to them. Where are you?”

“On my way to the detention center in Queens.”

“I’ll meet you outside in twenty minutes.”

“Oh, thanks, man. I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t worry, Ron. We’ll get it worked out.”

Now, waiting for Whitcomb, Ron Pulaski was pacing in front of INS detention, beside a temporary sign indicating that the service was now operated by the Department of Homeland Security. Pulaski thought back to all the TV news reports he and Jenny had seen about illegal immigrants, how terrified they’d looked.

What was happening to his wife at the moment? Would she be stuck for days or weeks in some kind of bureaucratic purgatory? Pulaski wanted to scream.

Calm down. Handle it smart. Amelia Sachs always told him that.

Handle it smart.

Finally, thank you, Lord, Pulaski saw Mark Whitcomb walking quickly toward him, the expression one of urgent concern. He wasn’t sure exactly what the man could do to help but he hoped that the Compliance Department, with its connections to the government, could pull strings with Homeland Security and get his wife and child released, at least until the matter was officially resolved.

Whitcomb, breathless, came up to him. “Have you found out anything else?”

“I called about ten minutes ago. They’re inside now. I didn’t say anything. I wanted to wait for you.”

“You okay?”

“No. I’m pretty frantic here, Mark. Thanks for this.”

“Sure,” the Compliance officer said earnestly. “It’ll be okay, Ron. Don’t worry. I think I can do something.” Then he looked up into Pulaski’s eyes; the SSD Compliance officer was just slightly taller than Andrew Sterling. “Only… it’s pretty important for you to get Jenny out of there, right?”

“Oh, yeah, Mark. This’s just a nightmare.”

“Okay. Come this way.” He led Pulaski around the corner of the building, then into an alley. “I’ve got a favor to ask, Ron,” Whitcomb whispered.

“Whatever I can do.”

“Really?” The man’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, calm. And his eyes had a sharpness that Pulaski hadn’t seen before. As if he’d dropped an act and was now being himself. “You know, sometimes, Ron, we have to do things that we don’t think are right. But in the end it’s for the best.”

“What do you mean?”

“To help your wife out you might have to do something you might think isn’t so good.”

The officer said nothing, his thoughts whirling. Where was this going?

“Ron, I need you to make this case go away.”

“Case?”

“The murder investigation.”

“Go away? I don’t get it.”

“Stop the case.” Whitcomb looked around and whispered, “Sabotage it. Destroy the evidence. Give them some false leads. Point them anywhere but at SSD.”

“I don’t understand, Mark. Are you joking?”

“No, Ron. I’m real serious. This case’s got to stop and you can do it.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, yes, you can. If you want Jenny out of there.” A nod toward the detention center.

No, no… this was 522. Whitcomb was the killer! He’d used the passcodes of his boss, Sam Brockton, to get access to innerCircle.

Instinctively Pulaski started for his gun.

But Whitcomb drew first, a black pistol appearing in his hand. “No, Ron. That’s not going to get us anywhere.” Whitcomb reached into the holster and pulled Pulaski’s Glock out by the grip, slipped it into his waistband.

How could he have misjudged this so badly? Was it the head injury? Or was he just stupid? Whitcomb’s friendship had been feigned, which hurt as much as it shocked. Bringing him the coffee, defending him to Cassel and Gillespie, suggesting they get together socially, helping with the time sheets… it was all a tactic to get close to the cop and use him.

“It’s all a goddamn lie, isn’t it, Mark? You didn’t grow up in Queens at all, did you? And you don’t have a brother who’s a cop?”

“No to both.” Whitcomb’s face was dark. “I tried to reason with you, Ron. But you wouldn’t work with me. Goddamnit! You could have. Now look what you’ve made me do.”

The killer pushed Pulaski farther into the alley.