ince Amelia Sachs had begun spending occasional nights and weekends here at Rhyme’s, certain changes had occurred around the Victorian town house. When he’d lived here alone, after the accident and before Sachs, the place had been more or less neat—depending on whether or not he’d been firing aides and housekeepers—but “homey” wasn’t a word that described it. Nothing personal had graced the walls—none of the certificates, degrees, commendations and medals he’d received during his celebrated tenure as head of the NYPD crime-scene operation. Nor any pictures of his parents, Teddy and Anne, or his uncle Henry’s family.

Sachs hadn’t approved. “It’s important,” she lectured, “your past, your family. You’re purging your history, Rhyme.”

He’d never seen her apartment—the place wasn’t disabled accessible—but he knew that the rooms were chockablock with evidence of her history. He’d seen many of the pictures, of course: Amelia Sachs as a pretty young girl (with freckles that had long since vanished) who didn’t smile a lot; as a high school student with mechanics tools in hand; as a college-age daughter flanked on holidays by a grinning cop father and a stern mother; as a magazine and advertising model, her eyes offering the chic frigidity that was au courant (but which Rhyme knew was contempt for the way models were considered mere coat hangers).

Hundreds of other pix too, shot mostly by her father, the man with a quick-draw Kodak.

Sachs had studied Rhyme’s bare walls and had gone where the aides—even Thom—did not: the boxes in the basement, scores of cartons containing evidence of Rhyme’s prior life, his life in the Before, artifacts hidden away and as unmentioned as first wife to second. Many of these certificates and diplomas and family pictures now filled the walls and mantelpiece.

Including the one he was presently studying—of himself as a lean teenager, in a track uniform, taken after he’d just competed in a varsity meet. It depicted him with unruly hair and a prominent Tom Cruise nose, bending forward with his hands on his knees, having just finished what was probably a mile run. Rhyme was never a sprinter; he liked the lyricism, the elegance of the longer distances. He considered running “a process.” Sometimes he would not stop running even after crossing the finish line.

His family would have been in the stands. Both father and uncle resided in suburbs of Chicago, though some distance apart. Lincoln’s home was to the west, in the flat, balding sprawl that was then still partly farmland, a target of both thoughtless developers and frightening tornados. Henry Rhyme and his family were somewhat immune to both, being on the lakefront in Evanston.

Henry commuted twice a week to teach his advanced physics courses at the University of Chicago, a long, two-train trek through the city’s many social divides. His wife, Paula, taught at Northwestern. The couple had three children, Robert, Marie and Arthur, all named after scientists, Oppenheimer and Curie being the most famous. Art was named after Arthur Compton, who in 1942 ran the famed Metallurgic Lab at the University of Chicago, the cover for the project to create the world’s first controlled nuclear chain reaction. All the children had attended good schools. Robert, Northwestern Medical. Marie, UC-Berkeley. Arthur went to M.I.T.

Robert had died years earlier in an industrial accident in Europe. Marie was working in China on environmental issues. As for the Rhyme parents, only one remained of the four: Aunt Paula now lived in an assisted-care facility, amid vivid, coherent memories of sixty years ago, while experiencing the present in bewildering fragments.

Rhyme now continued to stare at the picture of himself. He was unable to look away, recalling the track meet… In his college classes Professor Henry Rhyme signified approval with a subtle, raised eyebrow. But on the playing field, he was always leaping to his feet in the bleachers, whistling and bellowing for Lincoln to push, push, push, you can do it! Encouraging him over the finish line first (he often was).

Following the meet, Rhyme supposed he’d gone off with Arthur. The boys spent as much time together as they could, filling the sibling gap. Robert and Marie were considerably older than Arthur, and Lincoln was an only child.

So Lincoln and Art adopted each other. Most weekends and every summer the surrogate brothers would go off on their adventures, often in Arthur’s Corvette (Uncle Henry, even as a professor, made several times what Rhyme’s father did; Teddy was a scientist too, though he was more comfortable out of the spotlight). The boys’ outings were typical teenage venture—girls, ball games, movies, arguing, eating burgers and pizza, sneaking beer and explaining the world. And more girls.

Now, sitting in the new TDX wheelchair, Rhyme wondered where exactly he and Arthur had gone after the meet.

Arthur, his surrogate brother…

Who never came to see him after his spine was cracked like a piece of defective wood.

Why, Arthur? Tell me why…

But these memories were derailed by the ringing doorbell in his town house. Thom veered toward the hallway and a moment later, a slightly built, balding man wearing a tuxedo strode into the room. Mel Cooper shoved his thick glasses up on his thin nose and nodded to Rhyme. “Afternoon.”

“Formal?” Rhyme asked, glancing at the tux.

“The dance competition. If we’d been finalists, you know I wouldn’t have come.” He took off jacket and bow tie, then rolled up the sleeves of the frilly shirt. “So what do we have, this unique case you were telling me about?”

Rhyme filled him in.

“I’m sorry about your cousin, Lincoln. I don’t think you ever mentioned him.”

“What do you think of the M.O.?”

“If it’s true it’s brilliant.” Cooper gazed at the evidence chart of the Alice Sanderson homicide.

“Thoughts?” Rhyme asked.

“Well, half the evidence at your cousin’s was in the car or the garage. A lot easier to plant it there than in the house.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

The doorbell rang again. A moment later Rhyme heard his aide’s footsteps returning solo. Rhyme was wondering if someone had delivered a package. But then his mind jumped: Sunday. A visitor could be in street clothes and running shoes, which would make no sound on the entryway floor.

Of course.

Young Ron Pulaski turned the corner and nodded shyly. He wasn’t a rookie any longer, having been a uniformed patrolman for several years. But he looked like a rookie and so, to Rhyme, that’s what he was. And probably would always be.

The shoes were indeed quiet Nikes but he was wearing a very loud Hawaiian shirt over blue jeans. His blond hair was stylishly spiked and a scar prominently marked his forehead—a remnant from a nearly fatal attack during his first case with Rhyme and Sachs. The assault was so vicious that he’d suffered a brain injury and nearly quit the force. The young man had decided to fight his way through rehab and stay on the NYPD, inspired largely by Rhyme (a fact he shared only with Sachs, of course, not the criminalist himself; she relayed the news).

He blinked at Cooper’s tux and then nodded hello to both men.

“Your dishes spotless, Pulaski? Your flowers watered? Your leftovers tucked away in freezer bags?”

“I left right away, sir.”

The men were going over the case when they heard Sachs’s voice from the doorway. “A costume party.” She was looking at Cooper’s tuxedo and Pulaski’s brash shirt. To the lab man she said, “You’re looking pretty smart. That’s the word for somebody in a tux, right? ‘Smart’?”

“Sadly, ‘semifinalist’ is the only thing that comes to my mind.”

“Is Gretta taking it well?”

His beautiful Scandinavian girlfriend was, he reported, “hanging out with her friends and drowning her sorrows with Aquavit. Her homeland’s beverage. But, if you ask me, it’s undrinkable.”

“How’s your mom?”

Cooper lived with his mother, a feisty lady who was a long-term Queensean.

“She’s doing well. Out for brunch at the Boat House.”

Sachs also asked about Pulaski’s wife and two young children. Then added, “Thanks for coming in on Sunday.” To Rhyme: “You did tell him how much we appreciate it, didn’t you?”

“I’m sure I did,” he muttered. “Now, if we could get to work… So what’ve you got?” He eyed the large brown folder she carried.

“Evidence inventory and photos from the coin theft and rape.”

“Where’s the actual P.E.?”

“Archived in the evidence warehouse on Long Island.”

“Well, let’s take a look.”

As she had with his cousin’s file, Sachs picked up a marker and began writing on another whiteboard.

HOMICIDE/THEFT — MARCH 27

March 27

Crime: Homicide, theft of six boxes of rare coins

COD: Blood loss, shock, due to multiple stab wounds

Location: Bay Ridge, Brooklyn

Victim: Howard Schwartz

Suspect: Randall Pemberton

EVIDENCE LOG FROM VICTIM’S HOUSE:

• Grease

• Flecks of dried hair spray

• Polyester fibers

• Wool fibers

• Shoeprint of size 9 1/2 Bass walker

Witness reported man in tan-colored vest fleeing to black Honda Accord

EVIDENCE INVENTORY FROM SUSPECT’S HOUSE AND CAR:

• Grease on umbrella on patio, matching what was found at victim’s house

• Pair of 9 1/2 Bass walkers

• Clairol hair spray, matching fleck found at scene

• Knife/Trace embedded in handle:

• Dust matching nothing at either crime scene or suspect’s house

• Flecks of old cardboard

• Knife/Trace on blade:

• Victim’s blood. Positive match

• Suspect owned 2004 black Honda Accord

• One coin identified as coming from the collection of victim

• A Culberton Outdoor Company vest, tan. Polyester fiber found at the scene matches

• A wool blanket in the car. The wool fiber at the scene matches

Note: Prior to trial, investigators canvassed major coin dealers in metro area or on the Internet. No one attempted to fence the particular stolen coins.

“So if our perp stole the coins he’s kept them. And ‘dust matching nothing at either crime scene.’… That means it probably came from the perp’s house. But what the hell kind of dust is it? Didn’t they analyze it?” Rhyme shook his head. “Okay, I want to see the pictures. Where are they?”

“I’m getting them. Hold on.”

Sachs found some tape and mounted printouts on a third whiteboard. Rhyme maneuvered closer and squinted up at the dozens of photos of the crime scenes. The coin collector’s living space was tidy, the perp’s less so. The kitchen, where the coin and knife had been found, under the sink, was cluttered, the table covered with dirty dishes and food cartons. On the table was a pile of mail, most of it apparently junk.

“Next one,” he announced. “Let’s go.” He tried to keep his voice from tipping into impatience.

HOMICIDE/RAPE — APRIL 18

April 18

Crime: Homicide, rape

COD: Strangulation

Location: Brooklyn

Victim: Rita Moscone

Suspect: Joseph Knightly

EVIDENCE FROM VICTIM’S APARTMENT:

• Traces of Colgate-Palmolive Softsoap hand soap

• Condom lubricant

• Rope fibers

• Dust adhering to duct tape, matching no samplars in apartment

• Duct tape, American Adhesive brand

• Fleck of latex

• Wool/polyester fibers, black

• Tobacco on victim (see note below)

EVIDENCE FROM SUSPECT’S HOUSE:

• Durex condoms containing lubricant identical to that found on victim

• Coil of rope, fibers matching those found at crime scene

• Two-foot length of same rope, victim’s blood on it, along with two-inch strand of BASF B35 nylon 6, most likely source a doll’s hair

• Colgate-Palmolive Softsoap

• Duct tape, American Adhesive brand

• Latex gloves, matching the fleck found at the scene

• Men’s socks, wool-polyester blend, matching fiber found at scene. Another identical pair in the garage, containing traces of victim’s blood

• Tobacco from Tareyton cigarettes (see note below)

“The supposed perp saved his socks with blood on them and took them home with him? Bullshit. Planted evidence.” Rhyme read through the material again. “What’s the ‘note below’?”

Sachs found it: a few paragraphs to the prosecutor from the lead detective about possible problems with this case. She showed it to Rhyme.!!!Stan:!!!A couple potential glitches the defense might try to bring up:!!!—Possible contamination issue: Similar tobacco flakes found at crime scene and perp’s home, but neither the victim or the suspect smoked. Arresting officers and crime scene staff questioned, but assured lead detective that they were not the source.!!!—Found no DNA linking material, other than victim’s blood.!!!—Suspect has an alibi, eyewitness who placed him outside his own house—about four miles away, at around the time of the crime. Alibi witness is a homeless man who suspect gives money to occasionally.

“Had an alibi,” Sachs pointed out. “Who the jury didn’t believe. Obviously.”

“What do you think, Mel?” Rhyme asked.

“I’m sticking to my story. It all lines up too conveniently.”

Pulaski nodded. “The hair spray, the soap, the fibers, the lubricant… everything.”

Cooper continued, “They’re obvious choices for planted evidence. And look at the DNA—it’s not the suspect’s at the crime scene; it’s the victim’s at the suspect’s home. That’s a lot easier to plant.”

Rhyme continued to examine the charts, scanning slowly.

Sachs added, “But not all of the evidence matches. The old cardboard and the dust—those aren’t related to either scene.”

Rhyme said, “And the tobacco. Neither the vic nor the fall guy smoked. That means those might be from the real perp.”

Pulaski asked, “What about the doll’s hair? Does that mean he has kids?”

Rhyme ordered, “Tape up those pictures. Let’s take a look.”

Like the other scenes, the victim’s apartment and the perp’s house and garage had been well documented by the Crime Scene Unit. Rhyme scanned the photos. “No dolls. No toys at all. Maybe the real killer has children or some contact with toys. And he smokes or has some access to cigarettes or tobacco. Good. Oh, we’re on to something here.

“Let’s do a profile chart. We’ve been calling him ‘Mr. X.’ But we need something else for our perp… What’s today’s date?”

“May twenty-second,” Pulaski said.

“Okay. Unknown subject Five Twenty-Two. Sachs, if you would…” He nodded toward a whiteboard. “Let’s start the profile.”

UNSUB 522 PROFILE

• Male

• Possibly smokes or lives/works with someone who does, or near source of tobacco

• Has children or lives/works near them or near source of toys

• Interest in art, coins?

NONPLANTED EVIDENCE

• Dust

• Old cardboard

• Hair from doll, BASF B35 nylon 6

• Tobacco from Tareyton cigarettes

Well, it was a start, he reflected, if a pretty lame one.

“Should we call Lon and Malloy?” Sachs asked.

Rhyme scoffed. “And tell them what?” He nodded at the chart. “I think our little clandestine operation’d get closed down pretty fast.”

“You mean, this isn’t official?” Pulaski asked.

“Welcome to the underground,” Sachs said.

The young officer digested this information.

“That’s why we’re in disguise,” Cooper added, pointing at the black satin strip on his tuxedo trousers. He might have winked but Rhyme couldn’t tell through his dense glasses. “What’re our next steps?”

“Sachs, call Crime Scene in Queens. We can’t get our hands on the evidence in my cousin’s case. With the trial coming up, all the P.E.’ll be in custody at the prosecutor’s office. But see if anybody at the warehouse can send us the evidence from these earlier crimes—the rape and the coin theft. I want the dust, cardboard and rope. And, Pulaski, you go down to the Big Building. I want you to look through the files of every murder in the past six months.”

“Every murder?”

“The mayor’s cleaned up the city, didn’t you hear? Be thankful we’re not in Detroit or Washington. Flintlock thought of these two cases. I’ll bet there are others. Look for an underlying crime, maybe theft, maybe rape, ending in homicide. Clear class evidence and an anonymous call right after the crime. Oh, and a suspect who swears he’s innocent.”

“Okay, sir.”

“And us?” Mel Cooper asked.

“We wait,” Rhyme muttered, as if the word were an obscenity.