t’s been quite a while.”

Judy Rhyme sat in the lab. Hands together, face ashen, she fiercely avoided looking at anything except the criminalist’s eyes.

Two responses to his physical condition infuriated Rhyme: when visitors struggled agonizingly to pretend his disability didn’t exist, and when they considered it a reason to be his best friend, joking and slinging around tough talk as if they’d been through the war together. Judy fell into the first category, measuring her words carefully before she set them delicately in front of Rhyme. Still, she was family, of sorts, and he remained patient as he tried to keep from glancing at the telephone.

“A long time,” the criminalist agreed.

Thom was picking up the social details to which Rhyme was forever oblivious. He’d offered Judy coffee, which now sat untouched, a prop, on the table in front of her. Rhyme had glanced at the whisky once more, a longing peek that Thom had no trouble ignoring.

The attractive, dark-haired woman seemed in better shape, solid and more athletic, than the last time he’d seen her—about two years before his accident. Judy risked a look at the criminalist’s face. “I’m sorry we never got here. Really. I wanted to.”

Meaning not a social visit before he was injured but a sympathy call after. Survivors of catastrophes can read what is unsaid in conversations as clearly as the words themselves.

“You got the flowers?”

Back then, after the accident, Rhyme had been dazed—medication, physical trauma, and the psychological wrestling match with the inconceivable: the fact that he would never walk again. He didn’t remember any flowers from them but he was sure the family had sent them. A lot of people had. Flowers are easy, visits are hard. “Yes. Thanks.”

Silence. An involuntary, lightning-fast glance at his legs. People think if you can’t walk there’s something wrong with your legs. No, they’re fine. The problem was telling them what to do.

“You’re looking good,” she said.

Rhyme didn’t know whether he did or not. Never really considered it.

“And you’re divorced, I heard.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m sorry.”

Why? he wondered. But that was a cynical thought and he gave a nod, acknowledging her sympathy.

“What’s Blaine up to?”

“She’s out on Long Island. Remarried. We don’t stay in touch much. Without kids, that usually happens.”

“I enjoyed that time in Boston, when you two came up for the long weekend.” A smile that wasn’t really a smile. Painted on, a mask.

“It was nice, yes.”

A weekend in New England. Shopping, a drive south to Cape Cod, a picnic by the water. Rhyme remembered thinking how lovely the place was. Seeing the green rocks by the shore, he’d had a brainstorm and decided to start a collection of algae from around the New York City area for the NYPD crime lab database. He’d spent a week driving around the metro area, taking samples.

And, on the trip to see Arthur and Judy, he and Blaine hadn’t fought once. Even the drive home, with a stop at a Connecticut inn, was nice. He remembered making love on the back deck of their room, the smell of honeysuckle overwhelming.

That visit was the last contact with his cousin in person. They’d had one other brief conversation but only via the phone. Then came the accident, and silence.

“Arthur kind of fell off the face of the earth.” She laughed, an embarrassed sound. “You know we moved to New Jersey?”

“Really?”

“He was teaching at Princeton. But he got laid off.”

“What happened?”

“He was an assistant and a research fellow. They decided not to offer him a full professor’s contract. Art says politics was behind it. You know how that is in colleges.”

Henry Rhyme, Art’s father, was a renowned professor of physics at the University of Chicago; academia was an esteemed pursuit in that branch of the Rhyme family. In high school Arthur and Lincoln would debate the virtues of university research and teaching versus a private-sector job. “In academia, you can make a serious contribution to society,” Art had said as the boys shared two somewhat illegal beers, and managed to keep a straight face when Lincoln supplied the requisite follow-up line: “That, and the teaching assistants can be pretty hot.”

Rhyme wasn’t surprised that Art had gone for a university job.

“He could’ve continued to be an assistant but he quit. He was pretty angry. Assumed he’d get another job right away, but that didn’t happen. He was out of work for a while. Ended up at a private company. A medical-equipment manufacturer.” Another automatic glance—this time at the elaborate wheelchair. She blushed as if she’d committed a Don Imus. “It wasn’t his dream job and he hasn’t been real happy. I’m sure he wanted to come see you. But probably he was ashamed he hadn’t done so well. I mean, with you being a celebrity and all.”

Finally, a sip of coffee. “You both had so much in common. You two were like brothers. I remember Boston, all the stories you told. We were up half the night, laughing. Things I never knew about him. And my father-in-law, Henry—when he was alive he’d talk about you all the time.”

“Did he? We wrote quite a bit. In fact, I had a letter from him a few days before he died.”

Rhyme had dozens of indelible memories of his uncle, but one particular image stood out. The tall, balding, ruddy-faced man is rearing back, braying a laugh, embarrassing every one of the dozen or so family members at the Christmas Eve dinner table—embarrassing all, that is, except Henry Rhyme himself, his patient wife and young Lincoln, who is laughing right along. Rhyme liked his uncle very much and would often go to visit Art and the family, who lived about thirty miles away, on the shores of Lake Michigan in Evanston, Illinois.

Now, though, Rhyme was in no mood for nostalgia and was relieved when he heard the door open and the sound of seven firm footsteps, from threshold to carpet, the stride telling Rhyme who it was. A moment later a tall, slim redhead wearing jeans and a black T-shirt under a burgundy blouse entered the lab. The shirt was loose and the stern angle of a black Glock pistol was visible high on her hip.

As Amelia Sachs smiled and kissed Rhyme on the mouth, the criminalist was aware, in his periphery, of Judy’s body language response. The message was clear and Rhyme wondered what had dismayed her: that she’d made the slip of not asking if he was seeing someone, or that she’d assumed a crip couldn’t have a romantic partner—at least not one as disarmingly attractive as Sachs, who’d been a model before going to the police academy.

He introduced them. Sachs listened with concern to the story of Arthur Rhyme’s arrest, and asked how Judy was coping with the situation. Then: “Do you have children?”

Rhyme realized that while he’d been noting Judy’s faux pas, he’d committed one himself, neglecting to ask about their son, whose name he’d forgotten. And, it turned out, the family had grown. In addition to Arthur Junior, who was in high school, there were two others. “A nine-year-old, Henry. And a daughter, Meadow. She’s six.”

“Meadow?” Sachs asked in surprise, for reasons Rhyme couldn’t deduce.

Judy gave an embarrassed laugh. “And we live in Jersey. But it’s got nothing to do with the TV show. She was born before I’d ever seen it.”

TV show?

Judy broke the brief silence. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I called that officer to get your number. But first I have to tell you Art doesn’t know I’m here.”

“No?”

“In fact, to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have thought of it on my own. I’ve been so upset, not getting any sleep, not thinking straight. But I was talking to Art a few days ago in the detention center and he said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, but don’t call Lincoln. It’s a case of mistaken identity or something. We’ll get it straightened out. Promise me you won’t.’ He didn’t want to burden you… You know how Art is. Just so kind, always thinking of everybody else.”

Rhyme nodded.

“But the more I got to thinking about it, the more sense it made. I wouldn’t ask you to pull strings or do anything that wasn’t right, but I thought maybe you could just make a call or two. Tell me what you thought.”

Rhyme could imagine how that would go over at the Big Building. As a forensic consultant for the NYPD, his job was getting to the truth, wherever that journey led, but the brass definitely preferred him to help convict, not exonerate, defendants.

“I went through some of your clippings—”

“Clippings?”

“Art keeps family scrapbooks. He has clippings about your cases from the newspapers. Dozens. You’ve done some amazing things.”

Rhyme said, “Oh, I’m just a civil servant.”

Finally Judy delivered some unvarnished emotion: a smile, as she looked into his eyes. “Art said he never believed your modesty for a minute.”

“Is that right?”

“But only because you never believed it either.”

Sachs chuckled.

Rhyme snorted a laugh that he thought would pass for sincere. Then he grew serious. “I don’t know how much I can do. But tell me what happened.”

“It was a week ago Thursday, the twelfth. Art always takes off early every Thursday. He goes for a long run in a state park on the way home. He loves to run.”

Rhyme recalled dozens of times when the two boys, born within months of each other, would race along sidewalks or through the green-yellow fields near their Midwestern homes, grasshoppers fleeing, gnats sticking to their sweaty skin when they stopped for breath. Art always seemed to be in better shape but Lincoln had made his school’s varsity track team; his cousin hadn’t been interested in trying out.

Rhyme pushed aside the memories and concentrated on what Judy was saying.

“He left work about three-thirty and went for his run, then came home about seven, seven-thirty. He didn’t seem any different, wasn’t acting odd. He took a shower. We had dinner. But the next day the police came to the house, two from New York and a New Jersey trooper. They asked him questions and looked through the car. They found some blood, I don’t know…” Her voice conveyed traces of the shock she would have felt on that difficult morning. “They searched the house and took away some things. And then they came back and arrested him. For murder.” She had trouble saying the word.

“What was he supposed to have done exactly?” Sachs asked.

“They claimed he killed a woman and stole a rare painting from her.” She scoffed bitterly. “Stole a painting? What on earth for? And murder? Why, Arthur never hurt a single soul in his life. He isn’t capable of it.”

“The blood that was found? Have they run a DNA test?”

“Well, yes, they did. And it seemed to match the victim. But those tests can be wrong, can’t they?”

“Sometimes,” Rhyme said, thinking, Very, very rarely.

“Or the real killer could have planted the blood.”

“This painting,” Sachs asked, “did Arthur have any particular interest in it?”

Judy played with thick black and white plastic bracelets on her left wrist. “The thing is, yes, he used to own one by the same artist. He liked it. But he had to sell it when he lost his job.”

“Where was the painting found?”

“It wasn’t.”

“But how did they know it was taken?”

“Somebody, a witness, said they saw a man carrying it from the woman’s apartment to the car around the time she was killed. Oh, it’s all just a terrible mix-up. Coincidences… That’s what it has to be, just a weird series of coincidences.” Her voice cracked.

“Did he know her?”

“At first Art said he didn’t but then, well, he thought they might’ve met. At an art gallery he goes to sometimes. But he said he never talked to her that he can remember.” Her eyes now took in the whiteboard containing the schematic of the plan to capture Logan in England.

Rhyme was remembering other times he and Arthur had spent together.!!!Race you to that tree… No, you wimp… the maple way over there. Touch the trunk! On three. One… two… go!!!!You didn’t say three!

“There’s more, isn’t there, Judy? Tell us.” Sachs had seen something in the woman’s eyes, Rhyme supposed.

“I’m just upset. For the kids too. It’s a nightmare for them. The neighbors’re treating us like terrorists.”

“I’m sorry to push but it’s important for us to know all the facts. Please.”

The blush had returned and she was gripping her knees. Rhyme and Sachs had a friend who worked as an agent for the California Bureau of Investigation, Kathryn Dance. She was a kinesics, or body language, expert. Rhyme considered such skills secondary to forensic science but he’d come to respect Dance and had learned something about her specialty. He now could see easily that Judy Rhyme was a fountain of stress.

“Go on,” Sachs encouraged.

“It’s just that the police found some other evidence—well, it wasn’t really evidence. Not like clues. But… it made them think maybe Art and the woman were seeing each other.”

Sachs asked, “What’s your opinion of that?”

“I don’t think he was.”

Rhyme noted the softened verb. Not as adamant a denial as with the murder and theft. She desperately wanted the answer to be no, though she’d probably come to the same conclusion Rhyme just had: that the woman’s being his lover worked in Arthur’s favor. You were more likely to rob a stranger than someone you were sleeping with. Still, as a wife and mother, Judy was crying out for one particular answer.

Then she glanced up, less cautious now about looking at Rhyme, the contraption he sat in and the other devices that defined his life. “Whatever else was going on, he did not kill that woman. He couldn’t have. I know it in my soul… Is there anything you can do?”

Rhyme and Sachs shared a look. He said, “I’m sorry, Judy, we’re in the midst of a big case right now. We’re real close to catching a very dangerous killer. I can’t drop that.”

“I wouldn’t want you to. But, just something. I don’t know what else to do.” Her lip was trembling.

He said, “We’ll make some calls, find out what we can. I can’t give you information you couldn’t otherwise get through your lawyer but I’ll tell you honestly what I think about the D.A.’s chance of success.”

“Oh, thank you, Lincoln.”

“Who’s his lawyer?”

She gave them the name and phone number. A high-profile, and -priced, criminal defense attorney Rhyme knew. But he’d be a man with a lot on his plate and more experience with financial than violent crimes.

Sachs asked about the prosecutor.

“Bernhard Grossman. I can get you his number.”

“That’s all right,” Sachs said. “I have it. I’ve worked with him before. He’s reasonable. I assume he offered your husband a plea bargain?”

“He did, and our lawyer wanted to take it. But Art refused. He keeps saying this is just a mistake, it’ll all get straightened out. But that doesn’t always happen, does it? Even if people are innocent they go to jail sometimes, don’t they?”

They do, yes, Rhyme thought, then said, “We’ll make a few phone calls.”

She rose. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that we let things slide. Inexcusable.” Surprising him, Judy Rhyme strode directly to the wheelchair and bent down, brushing her cheek against his. Rhyme smelled nervous sweat and two distinct scents, perhaps deodorant and hair spray. No perfume. She didn’t seem the perfume type. “Thank you, Lincoln.” She walked to the door and paused. To them both she said, “Whatever else you find, about that woman and Arthur, it’s all right. All I care about is that he doesn’t go to jail.”

“I’ll do what I can. We’ll give you a call if we find something concrete.”

Sachs saw her out.

When she returned Rhyme said, “Let’s check with the lawyers first.”

“I’m sorry, Rhyme.” He frowned, and she added, “I just mean, it’s got to be hard on you.”

“How’s that?”

“Thinking a close relative got busted for murder.”

Rhyme shrugged, one of the few gestures he could manage. “Ted Bundy was somebody’s son. Maybe a cousin too.”

“But still.” Sachs lifted the receiver. Eventually she tracked down the defense lawyer, got his answering service and left a message. Rhyme wondered which hole of which golf course he was on at that moment.

She then got in touch with the assistant district attorney, Grossman, who wasn’t enjoying the day of rest but was in his office downtown. He’d never connected the last name of the perp to the criminalist. “Hey, I’m sorry, Lincoln,” he said sincerely. “But I have to say, it’s a good case. I’m not blowing smoke. I’d tell you if there were gaps. But there aren’t. A jury’s going to nail him. If you can talk him into a plea, you’d be doing him a huge favor. I could probably go down to twelve solid.”

Twelve years, with no parole. It would kill Arthur, Rhyme reflected.

“Appreciate that,” Sachs said.

The A.D.A. added that he had a complicated trial starting tomorrow so he couldn’t spend any more time talking to them now. He’d call later in the week, if they liked.

He did, however, give them the name of the lead detective in the case, Bobby LaGrange.

“I know him,” she said, dialing him at home too. She got his voice mail but when she tried his cell he answered immediately.

“LaGrange.”

The hiss of wind and the sound of slapping water explained what the detective was up to on this clear-sky, warm day.

Sachs identified herself.

“Oh, sure. Howya doin’, Amelia? I’m waiting for a call from a snitch. We’ve got something going down in Red Hook anytime now.”

So, not on his fishing boat.

“I may have to hang up fast.”

“Understood. You’re on speaker.”

“Detective, this is Lincoln Rhyme.”

A hesitation. “Oh. Yeah.” A call from Lincoln Rhyme got people’s full attention pretty fast.

Rhyme explained about his cousin.

“Wait…‘Rhyme.’ You know, I thought it was a funny name. I mean, unusual. But I never put it together. And he never said anything about you. Not in any of the interviews. Your cousin. Man, I’m sorry.”

“Detective, I don’t want to interfere with the case. But I said I’d call and find out what the story is. It’s gone to the A.D.A., I know. Just talked to him.”

“I gotta say the collar was righteous. I’ve run homicides for five years and short of somebody from Patrol witnessing a gang clip, this was the cleanest wrap I’ve seen.”

“What’s the story? Art’s wife only gave me the bones.”

In the stiff voice that cops fall into when recounting details of a crime—stripped of emotion: “Your cousin left work early. He went to the apartment of a woman named Alice Sanderson, down in the Village. She’d gotten off work early too. We aren’t sure how long he was there but sometime around six she was knifed to death and a painting was stolen.”

“Rare, I understand?”

“Yeah. But not like Van Gogh.”

“Who was the artist?”

“Somebody named Prescott. Oh, and we found some direct-mail things, flyers, you know, that a couple of galleries’d sent your cousin about Prescott. That didn’t look so good.”

“Tell me more about May twelfth,” Rhyme said.

“At about six a witness heard screams and a few minutes later saw a man carrying a painting out to a light blue Mercedes parked on the street. It left the scene fast. The wit only got the first three letters on the tag—couldn’t tell the state but we ran everything in the metro area. Narrowed the list down and interviewed the owners. One was your cousin. My partner and me went out to Jersey to talk to him, had a trooper with us, for protocol, you know. We saw what looked like blood on the back door and in the backseat. A bloody washcloth was under the seat. It matched a set of linens in the vic’s apartment.”

“And DNA was positive?”

“Her blood, yeah.”

“The witness identified him in a lineup?”

“Naw, was anonymous. Called from a pay phone and wouldn’t give their name. Didn’t want to get involved. But we didn’t need any wits. Crime Scene had a field day. They lifted a shoeprint from the vic’s entryway—same kind of shoe your cousin wore—and got some good trace.”

“Class evidence?”

“Yeah, class. Traces of shave cream, snack food chips, lawn fertilizer from his garage. Exactly matched what was at the vic’s apartment.”

No, it didn’t match, Rhyme reflected. Evidence falls into several categories. “Individuating” evidence is unique to a single source, like DNA and fingerprints. “Class” evidence shares certain characteristics with similar materials but they don’t necessarily come from the same source. Carpet fibers, for instance. A DNA test of blood at a crime scene can definitely “match” the criminal’s blood. But a comparison of carpet fiber at a scene can only be “associated with” fibers found in the suspect’s house, allowing the jury to infer he was at the scene.

“What was your take on whether or not he knew her?” Sachs asked.

“He claimed he didn’t, but we found two notes she’d written. One at her office and one at home. One was ‘Art—drinks.’ The other just said ‘Arthur.’ Nothing else. Oh, and we found his name in her phonebook.”

“His number?” Rhyme was frowning.

“No. Prepaid mobile. No record.”

“So you figure they were more than friends?”

“Crossed our minds. Why else only give her a prepaid number and not his home or office?” He gave a laugh. “Apparently she didn’t care. You’d be surprised what people accept without asking questions.”

Not that surprised, Rhyme thought.

“And the phone?”

“Toast. Never found it.”

“And you think he killed her because she was pressuring him to leave the wife?”

“That’s what the prosecutor’ll argue. Something like that.”

Rhyme compared what he knew of his cousin, whom he hadn’t seen in more than a decade, against this information; he could neither confirm nor deny the allegation.

Sachs asked, “Anybody else have a motive?”

“Nope. Family and friends said she dated some, but real casual. No terrible breakups. I was even wondering if the wife did it—Judy—but she was accounted for at the time.”

“Did Arthur have any alibi?”

“None. Claims he went for a run but nobody could confirm seeing him. Clinton State Park. Big place. Pretty deserted.”

“I’m curious,” Sachs said, “what his demeanor was during interrogation?”

LaGrange laughed. “Funny you bring that up—the weirdest part of the whole case. He looked like he was dazed. Just blown away by seeing us there. I’ve collared a lot of people in my day, some of ’em pros. Connected guys, I mean. And he was, hands down, the best at playing the innocent-me game. Great actor. You remember that about him, Detective Rhyme?”

The criminalist didn’t reply. “What happened to the painting?”

A pause. “That’s the other thing. Never recovered. Wasn’t in his house or garage, but the crime-scene folks found dirt in the backseat of the car and his garage. It matched the dirt in the state park where he went jogging every night near his house. We figured he buried it somewhere.”

“One question, Detective,” Rhyme said.

A pause at the other end of the line, during which a voice spoke indecipherable words and the wind howled again. “Go on.”

“Can I see the file?”

“The file?” Not really a question. Just stalling to consider. “It’s a solid case. We ran it by the book.”

Sachs said, “We don’t doubt that for a minute. The thing is, though, we understand he’s rejected a plea.”

“Oh. You want to talk him into one? Yeah, I get it. That’s the best thing for him. Well, all I have is copies, the A.D.A.’s got everything else and the evidence. But I can get you the reports. A day or two okay?”

Rhyme shook his head. Sachs said to the detective, “If you could talk to Records and okay it I’ll go down there and pick up the file myself.”

The wind filled the speakers again, then stopped abruptly. LaGrange must have moved into shelter.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll give ’em a call now.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Good luck.”

After they’d disconnected, Rhyme gave a brief smile. “That was a nice touch. The plea bargain thing.”

“You gotta know your audience,” Sachs said and slung her purse over her shoulder, heading out of the door.