CAN'T BELIEVE I'M TELLING YOU THIS." She sat huddled in the deep chair, legs drawn up, issue shoes kicked off. The tears were gone though her face was as ruddy as her hair.

"Go on," he encouraged.

"That guy I told you about? We were going to get an apartment together."

"Oh, with the collie. You didn't say it was a guy. Your boyfriend?"

The secret lover? Rhyme wondered.

"He was my boyfriend."

"I was thinking maybe it was your father you'd lost."

"Naw. Pop did pass away — three years ago. Cancer. But we knew it was coming. If that prepares you for it I guess we were prepared. But Nick..."

"He was killed?" Rhyme asked softly.

But she didn't answer. "Nick Carelli. One of us. A cop. Detective, third. Worked Street Crimes."

The name was familiar. Rhyme said nothing and let her continue.

"We lived together for a while. Talked about getting married." She paused, seemed to be lining up her thoughts like targets at a shooting range. "He worked undercover. So we were pretty secret about our relationship. He couldn't let word get around on the street that his gal was a cop." She cleared her throat. "It's hard to explain. See, we had this... thing between us. It was... it hasn't happened for me very often. Hell, it never happened before Nick. We clicked in some really deep way. He knew I had to be a cop and that wasn't a problem for him. Same with me and his working undercover. That kind of... wavelength. You knew, where you just completely understand someone? You ever felt what I'm talking about? With your wife?"

Rhyme smiled faintly. "I did. Yes. But not with Blaine, my wife." And that was all he wanted to say on the subject. "How'd you meet?" he asked.

"The assignments lectures at the academy. Where somebody gets up and they tell you a little about what their division does. Nick was lecturing on undercover work. He asked me out on the spot. Our first date was at Rodman's Neck."

"The gun range?"

She nodded, sniffing. "Afterwards, we went to his mom's in Brooklyn and had pasta and a bottle of Chianti. She pinched me hard and said I was too skinny to have babies. Made me eat two cannoli. We went back to my place and he stayed over that night. Quite a first date, huh? From then on we saw each other all the time. It was gonna work, Rhyme. I felt it. It was gonna work just fine."

Rhyme said, "What happened?"

"He was..."

Another bolstering hit of old liquor. "He was on the take is what happened. The whole time I knew him."

"He was?"

"Crooked. Oh, way crooked. I never had a clue. Not a single goddamn clue. He socked it away in banks around the city. He dusted close to two hundred thousand."

Lincoln was silent a moment. "I'm sorry, Sachs. Drugs?"

"No. Merch, mostly. Appliances, TVs. 'Jackings. They called it the Brooklyn Connection. The papers did."

Rhyme was nodding. "That's why I remember it. There were a dozen of them in the ring, right? All cops?"

"Mostly. A few ICC people too."

"What happened to him? Nick?"

"You know what happens when cops bust cops. They beat the crap out of him. Said he resisted but I know he didn't. Broke three ribs, a couple fingers, smashed his face all up. Pleaded guilty but he still got twenty to thirty."

"For hijacking?" Rhyme was astonished.

"He worked a couple of the jobs himself. Pistol-whipped one driver, took a shot at another one. Just to scare him. I know it was just to scare him. But the judge threw him away." She closed her eyes, pressed her lips together hard.

"When he got collared, Internal Affairs went after him like they were in heat. They checked pen registers. We were real careful about calling each other. He said perps sometimes tapped his line. But there were some calls to my place. IA came after me too. So Nick just cut me off. I mean, he had to. Otherwise I would've gone down with him. You know IA — it's always a goddamn witch-hunt."

"What happened?"

"To convince them that I wasn't anything to him... Well, he said some things about me." She swallowed, her eyes fixed on the floor. "At the IA inquest they wanted to know about me. Nick said, 'Oh, P.D. Sachs? I just fucked her a few times. Turned out she was lousy. So I dumped her.' " She tilted her head back and mopped tears with her sleeve. "The nickname? P.D."

"Lon told me."

She frowned. "Did he tell you what it means?"

"The Portable's Daughter. After your father."

She smiled wanly. "That's how it started. But that's not how it ended up. At the inquest Nick said I was such a lousy fuck it really stood for 'Pussy Diver' 'cause I probably liked girls better. Guess how fast that went through the department."

"It's a low common denominator out there, Sachs."

She took a deep breath. "I saw him in court toward the end of the inquest. He looked at me once and... I can't even describe what was in his eyes. Just pure heartbreak. Oh, he did it to protect me. But still... You were right, you know. About the lonely stuff."

"I didn't mean —"

"No," she said, unsmiling. "I hit you, you hit me. That was fair. And you were right. I hate being alone. I want to go out, I want to meet somebody. But after Nick I lost my taste for sex." Sachs gave a sour laugh. "Everybody thinks looking like me's wonderful. I could have my pick of guys, right? Bullshit. The only ones with the balls to ask me out're the ones who want to screw all the time. So I just gave up. It's easier by myself. I hate it, but it's easier."

At last Rhyme understood her reaction at seeing him for the first time. She was at ease with him because here was a man who was no threat to her. No sexual come-ons. Someone she wouldn't have to fend off. And perhaps a certain camaraderie too — as if they were both missing the same, crucial gene.

"You know," he joked, "you and me, we ought to get together and not have an affair."

She laughed. "So tell me about your wife. How long were you married?"

"Seven years. Six before the accident, one after."

"And she left you?"

"Nope. I left her. I didn't want her to feel guilty about it."

"Good of you."

"I'd have driven her out eventually. I'm a prick. You've only seen my good side." After a moment he asked, "This thing with Nick... it have anything to do with why you're leaving Patrol?"

"No. Well, yes."

"Gunshy?"

Finally she nodded. "Life on the street's different now. That's what did it to Nick, you know. What turned him. It's not like it was when Pop was walking his beat. Things were better then."

"You mean it's not like the stories your dad told you."

"Maybe," she conceded. Sachs slumped the chair. "The arthritis? That's true but it's not as serious as I pretend it is."

"I know," Rhyme said.

"You know? How?"

"I just looked at the evidence and drew some conclusions."

"Is that why you've been on my case all day? You knew I was faking?"

"I've been on your case," he said, "because you're better than you think you are."

She gave him a screwy look.

"Ah, Sachs, you remind me of me."

"I do?"

"Let me tell you a story. I'd been on crime scene detail maybe a year when we got a call from Homicide there was a guy found dead in an alley in Greenwich Village. All the sergeants were out and so I got elected to run the scene. I was twenty-six years old, remember. I go up there and check it out and it turns out the dead guy's the head of the City Health and Human Services. Now, what's he got all around him but a load of Polaroids? You should've seen some of those snaps — he'd been to one of those S&M clubs off Washington Street. Oh, and I forgot to mention, when they found him he was dressed in a stunning little black minidress and fishnet stockings.

"So, I secure the scene. All of a sudden a captain shows up and starts to cross the tape. I know he's planning to have those pictures disappear on the way to the evidence room but I was so naive I didn't care much about the pictures — I was just worried about somebody walking through the scene."

"P is for Protect the crime scene."

Rhyme chuckled. "So I didn't let him in. While he was standing at the tape screaming at me a dep com tried an end run. I told him no. He started screaming at me. The scene stays virgin till IRD's through with it, I told them. Guess who finally showed up?"

"The mayor?"

"Well, deputy mayor."

"And you held 'em all off?"

"Nobody got into that scene except Latents and Photography. Of course my payback was spending six months printing floaters. But we nailed the perp with some trace and a print off one of those Polaroids — happened to be the same snap the Post used on page one, as a matter of fact. Just like what you did yesterday morning, Sachs. Closing off the tracks and Eleventh Avenue."

"I didn't think about it," she said. "I just did it. Why're you looking at me that way?"

"Come on, Sachs. You know where you ought to be. On the street. Patrol, Major Crimes, IRD, doesn't matter... But Public Affairs? You'll rot there. It's a good job for some people but not you. Don't give up so fast."

"Oh, and you're not giving up? What about Berger?"

"Things're a little different with me."

Her glance questioned, They are? And she went prowling for a Kleenex. When she returned to the chair she asked, "You don't carry any corpses around with you?"

"I have in my day. They're all buried now."

"Tell me."

"Really, there's nothing —"

"Not true. I can tell. Come on — I showed you mine."

He felt an odd chill. He knew it wasn't dysreflexia. His smile faded.

"Rhyme, go on," she persisted. "I'd like to hear."

"Well, there was a case a few years ago," he said, "I made a mistake. A bad mistake."

"Tell me." She poured them each another finger of the Scotch.

"It was a domestic murder-suicide call. Husband and wife in a Chinatown apartment. He shot her, killed himself. I didn't have much time for the scene; I worked it fast. And I committed a classic error — I'd made up my mind about what I was going to find before I started looking. I found some fibers that I couldn't place but I assumed that the husband and wife'd tracked them in. I found the bullet fragments but didn't check them against the gun we found at the scene. I noticed the blowback pattern but didn't grid it to double-check the exact position of the gun. I did the search, signed off and went back to the office."

"What happened?"

"The scene had been staged. It was really a burglary-murder. And the perp had never left the apartment."

"What? He was still there?"

"After I left he crawled out from under the bed and started shooting. He killed one forensic tech and wounded an assistant ME. He got out on the street and there was a shootout with a couple of portables who'd heard the 10-13. The perp was shot up — he died later — but he killed one of the cops and wounded the other. He also shot up a family that'd just come out of a Chinese restaurant across the street. Used one of the kids as a shield."

"Oh, my God."

"Colin Stanton was the father's name. He wasn't hurt at all and he'd been an army medic — EMS said he probably could've saved his wife or one or both of the kids if he'd tried to stop the bleeding but he panicked and froze. He just stood there, watching them all die in front of him."

"Jesus, Rhyme. But it wasn't your fault. You —"

"Let me finish. That wasn't the end of it."

"No?"

"The husband went back home — upstate New York. Had a breakdown and went into a mental hospital for a while. He tried to kill himself. They put him under a suicide watch. First he tried to cut his wrist with a piece of paper — a magazine cover. Then he sneaked into the library and found a water glass in the librarian's bathroom, shattered it and slashed his wrists. They stitched him up okay and kept him in the mental hospital for another year or so. Finally they released him. A month or so after he was out he tried again. Used a knife." Rhyme added coolly, "That time it worked."

He'd learned about Stanton's death in an obituary faxed from the Albany County coroner to NYPD Public Affairs. Someone there had sent it to Rhyme via interoffice mail with a Post-It attached: FYI — thought you'd be interested, the officer had written.

"There was an IA investigation. Professional incompetence. They slapped my wrist. I think they should've fired me."

She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. "And you're telling me you don't feel guilty about that?"

"Not anymore."

"I don't believe you."

"I served my time, Sachs. I lived with those bodies for a while. But I gave 'em up. If I hadn't, how could I have kept on working?"

After a long moment she said, "When I was eighteen I got a ticket. Speeding. I was doing ninety in a forty zone."

"Well."

"Dad said he'd front me the money for the fine but I'd have to pay him back. With interest. But you know what else he told me? He said he would've tanned my hide for running a red light or reckless driving. But going fast he understood. He told me, 'I know how you feel, honey. When you move they can't getcha.' " Sachs said to Rhyme, "If I couldn't drive, if I couldn't move, then maybe I'd do it too. Kill myself."

"I used to walk everywhere," Rhyme said. "I never did drive much. Haven't owned a car in twenty years. What kind do you have?"

"Nothing a snooty Manhattanite like you'd drive. A Chevy. Camaro. It was my father's."

"Who gave you the drill press? For working on cars, I assume?"

She nodded. "And a torque wrench. And spark-gap set. And my first set of ratcheting sockets — my thirteenth-birthday present." Laughing softly. "That Chevy, it's a wobbly-knob car. You know what that is? An American car. The radio and vents and light switches are all loose and cheesy. But the suspension's like a rock, it's light as an egg crate and I'll take on a BMW any day."

"And I'll bet you have."

"Once or twice."

"Cars are status in the crip world," Rhyme explained. "We'd sit — or lie — around the ward in rehab and talk about what we could get out of our insurance companies. Wheelchair vans were the top of the heap. Next are hand-control cars. Which wouldn't do me any good of course." He squinted, testing his supple memory. "I haven't been in a car in years. I can't remember the last time."

"Got an idea," Sachs said suddenly. "Before your friend — Dr. Berger — comes back, let me take you for a ride. Or is that a problem? Sitting up? You were saying that wheelchairs don't work for you."

"Well, no, wheelchairs're a problem. But a car? I think that'd be okay." He laughed. "A hundred and sixty-eight? Miles per hour?"

"That was a special day," Sachs said, nodding at the memory. "Good conditions. And no highway patrol."

The phone buzzed and Rhyme answered it himself. It was Lon Sellitto.

"We got S&S on all the target churches in Harlem. Dellray's in charge of that — man's become a true believer, Lincoln. You wouldn't recognize him. Oh, and I've got thirty portables and a ton of UN security cruising for any other churches we might've missed. If he doesn't show up, we're going to do a sweep of all of them at seven-thirty. Just in case he snuck in without us seeing him. I think we're going to nail him, Linc," the detective said, suspiciously enthusiastic for a New York City homicide cop.

"Okay, Lon, I'll send Amelia up to your CP around eight."

They hung up.

Thom knocked on the door before coming into the room.

As if he'd catch us in a compromising position, Rhyme laughed to himself.

"No more excuses," he said testily. "Bed. Now."

It was after 3:00 a.m. and Rhyme had left exhaustion far behind long ago. He was floating somewhere else. Above his body. He wondered if he'd start to hallucinate.

"Yes, Mother," he said. "Officer Sachs's staying over, Thom. Could you get her a blanket, please?"

"What did you say?" Thom turned to face him.

"A blanket."

"No, after that," the aide said. "That word?"

"I don't know. 'Please'?"

Thom's eyes went wide with alarm. "Are you all right? You want me to get Pete Taylor back here? The head of Columbia-Presbyterian? The surgeon general?"

"See how this son of a bitch torments me?" Rhyme said to Sachs. "He never knows how close he comes to getting fired."

"A wake-up call for when?"

"Six-thirty should be fine," Rhyme said.

When he was gone, Rhyme asked, "Hey, Sachs, you like music?"

"Love it."

"What kind?"

"Oldies, doo-wop, Motown... How 'bout you? You seem like a classical kind of guy."

"See that closet there?"

"This one?"

"No, no, the other one. To the right. Open it up."

She did and gasped in amazement. The closet was a small room filled with close to a thousand CDs.

"It's like Tower Records."

"That stereo, see it on the shelf?"

She ran her hand over the dusty black Harmon Kardon.

"It cost more than my first car," Rhyme said. "I don't use it anymore."

"Why not?"

He didn't answer but said instead, "Put something on. Is it plugged in? It is? Good. Pick something."

A moment later she stepped out of the closet and walked over to the couch as Levi Stubbs and the Four Tops started singing about love.

It had been a year since there'd been a note of music in this room, Rhyme estimated. Silently he tried to answer Sachs's question about why he'd stopped listening. He couldn't.

Sachs lifted files and books off the couch. Lay back on it and thumbed through a copy of Scenes of the Crime.

"Can I have one?" she asked.

"Take ten."

"Will you..." Her voice braked to a halt.

"Sign it for you?" He laughed. She joined him. "How 'bout if I put my thumbprint on it? Graphoanalysts'll never give you more than an eighty-five percent probability of a handwriting match. But a thumbprint? Any friction-ridge expert'll certify it's mine."

He watched her read the first chapter. Her eyes drooped. She closed the book.

"Will you do something for me?" she asked.

"What?"

"Read to me. Something from the book. When Nick and I were together..." Her voice faded.

"What?"

"When we were together, a lot of times Nick'd read out loud before we went to sleep. Books, the paper, magazines... It's one of the things I miss the most."

"I'm a terrible reader," Rhyme confessed. "I sound like I'm reciting crime scene reports. But I've got this memory... It's pretty good. How 'bout if I just tell you about some scenes?"

"Would you?" She turned her back, pulled her navy blouse off and unstrapped the thin American Body Armor vest, tossed it aside. Beneath it she wore a mesh T-shirt and under that a sports bra. She pulled the blouse back on and lay on the couch, pulling the blanket over her, and curled up on her side, closed her eyes.

With the environmental control unit Rhyme dimmed the lights.

"I always found the sites of death fascinating," he began. "They're like shrines. We're a lot more interested in where people bought the big one than where they were born. Take John Kennedy. A thousand people a day visit the Texas Book Depository in Dallas. How many you think make pilgrimages to some obstetrics ward in Boston?"

Rhyme nestled his head in the luxurious softness of the pillow. "Is this boring you?"

"No," she said. "Please don't stop."

"You know what I've always wondered about, Sachs?"

"Tell me."

"It's fascinated me for years — Calvary. Two thousand years ago. Now, there's a crime scene I'd like to've worked. I know what you're going to say: But we know the perps. Well, do we? All we really know is what the witnesses tell us. Remember what I say — never trust a wit. Maybe those Bible accounts aren't what happened at all. Where's the proof? The PE. The nails, blood, sweat, the spear, the cross, the vinegar. Sandal prints and friction ridges."

Rhyme turned his head slightly to the left and he continued to talk about crime scenes and evidence until Sachs's chest rose and fell steadily and faint strands of her fiery red hair blew back and forth under her shallow breath. With his left index finger he flipped through the ECU control and shut off the light. He too was soon asleep.

A faint light of dawn was in the sky.

Awakening, Carole Ganz could see it through the chicken- wire- impregnated glass above her head. Pammy. Oh, baby... Then she thought of Ron. And all her possessions sitting in that terrible basement. The money, the yellow knapsack...

Mostly, though, she was thinking about Pammy.

Something had wakened her from a light, troubled sleep. What was it?

The pain from her wrist? It throbbed horribly. She adjusted herself slightly. She —

The tubular howl of a pipe organ and a rising chorus of voices filled the room again.

That's what had wakened her. Music. A crashing wave of music. The church wasn't abandoned. There were people around! She laughed to herself. Somebody would —

And that was when she remembered the bomb.

Carole peered around the filing cabinet. It was still there, teetering on the edge of the table. It had the crude look of real bombs and murder weapons — not the slick, shiny gadgets you see in movies. Sloppy tape, badly stripped wires, dirty gasoline... Maybe it's a dud, she thought. In the daylight it didn't look so dangerous.

Another burst of music. It came from directly over her head. Accompanied by a shuffling of footsteps. A door closed. Creaks and groans as people moved around the old, dry wood floors. Plumes of dust fell from the joists.

The soaring voices were cut off in mid-passage. A moment later they started singing again.

Carole banged with her feet but the floor was concrete, the walls brick. She tried to scream but the sound was swallowed by the gag. The rehearsal continued, the solemn, vigorous music rattling through the basement.

After ten minutes Carole collapsed on the floor in exhaustion. Her eyes were drawn back to the bomb again. Now the light was better and she could see the timer clearly.

Carole squinted. The timer!

It wasn't a dud at all. The arrow was set for 6:15 a.m. The dial showed the time was now 5:30.

Squirming her way farther behind the filing cabinet, Carole began to kick the metal sides with her knee. But whatever faint noises the blows made immediately vanished in the booming, mournful rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" filling the church basement from above.