inally somebody from the detention center called Lon Sellitto.

He nodded as he listened. “Thanks.” He disconnected. “Arthur’s going to be okay. He’s hurt but not bad.”

“Thank God,” Sachs whispered.

“What happened?” Rhyme asked.

“Nobody can figure it out. The perp’s Antwon Johnson, doing fed time for kidnapping and state lines. They moved him to the Tombs for trial on related state charges. He just kind of snapped, looks like, tried to make it look like Arthur hanged himself. Johnson denied it at first, then claimed Arthur wanted to die, asked him to help.”

“The guards found him in time?”

“No. Weird. Another prisoner went after Johnson. Mick Gallenta, two-timer in for meth and smack. He was half Johnson’s size, took him on, knocked him out and got Arthur down from the wall. Nearly started a riot.”

The phone rang and Rhyme noticed a 201 area code.

Judy Rhyme.

He took the call.

“Did you hear, Lincoln?” Her voice was unsteady.

“I did. Yes.”

“Why would somebody do that? Why?”

“Jail’s jail. It’s a different world.”

“But it’s just a holding cell, Lincoln. It’s detention. I could understand if he were in prison with convicted murderers. But most of those people are awaiting trial, aren’t they?”

“That’s right.”

“Why would somebody risk his own case by trying to kill another prisoner there?”

“I don’t know, Judy. It doesn’t make sense. Have you talked to him?”

“They let him make a call. He can’t speak very well. His throat was damaged. But it’s not too bad. They’re keeping him in for a day or two.”

“Good,” Rhyme said. “Listen, Judy, I wanted more information before I called but… I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to show that Arthur’s innocent. It looks like there’s someone else behind it. He killed another victim yesterday and I think we can tie him to the murder of the Sanderson woman.”

“No! Really? Who the hell is it, Lincoln?” No longer treading on ice, no longer carefully choosing words and worried about offending. Judy Rhyme had grown tough in the last twenty-four hours.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out now.” He glanced at Sachs then turned back to the speakerphone. “And it doesn’t look as if he had any connection with the victim. No connection at all.”

“You…?” Her voice faded. “Are you sure about that?”

Sachs identified herself and said, “That’s right, Judy.”

They could hear her inhaling. “Should I call the lawyer?”

“There’s nothing he can do. As things stand now, Arthur’s still under arrest.”

“Can I call Art and tell him?”

Rhyme hesitated. “Yes, sure.”

“He asked about you, Lincoln. In the clinic.”

“Did he?”

He sensed Amelia Sachs was looking at him.

“Yes. He said whatever came of it, thank you for helping.”!!!Everything would’ve been different….

“I should go, Judy. We have a lot to do. We’ll let you know what we find.”

“Thank you, Lincoln. And everybody there. God bless you.”

A hesitation. “Good-bye, Judy.”

Rhyme didn’t bother with the voice command. He disconnected with his right index finger. He had better control with the ring finger of his left hand but the right moved fast as a snake.

Miguel 5465 is a survivor of tragedy and a dependable employee. He regularly visits his sister and her husband on Long Island. He wires Western Union money to his mother and sister in Mexico. He’s a moral man. Once, a year after his wife and child died, he got a precious $400 out of an ATM machine in an area of Brooklyn known for its prostitutes. The janitor, though, balked. The money went back into his account the next day. Unfair he had to pay the $2.50 service charge at the ATM.

I know a lot more about Miguel 5465, more than most other sixteens in the database—because he’s one of my escape hatches.

Which I desperately need now.

I’ve been grooming him as a surrogate for the past year. After he dies the diligent police will begin to put the pieces together. Why, we’ve found the killer/rapist/art-and-coin thief! He confessed in his suicide note—despondent and driven to murder by the death of his family. And in a box in his pocket, a fingernail from the victim Myra Weinburg.

And look at what else we have here: Sums of money passed through his account and vanished inexplicably. Miguel 5465 looked into getting a large mortgage to buy a house on Long Island, with a half million down, despite his salary of $46,000 a year. He went on art-dealer Web sites, inquiring about Prescott paintings. In the basement of his apartment building is a five-pack of Miller beer, Trojan condoms, Edge shave cream and a photo of Myra Weinburg’s realm from OurWorld. Also hidden are books on hacking and thumb drives containing passcode-cracking programs. He’s been depressed and even called a suicide counseling service just last week to ask for a brochure.

And then there are his time sheets, revealing that he was out of the office when the crimes occurred.

Slam dunk.

In my pocket is his suicide note, a reasonable facsimile of his handwriting, from the copies of his canceled checks and loan applications, conveniently scanned and obscenely available online. It’s written on paper similar to what he bought a month ago at his neighborhood drugstore and the ink is from the same type of pen he owns a dozen of.

And since the last thing the police want is an extensive investigation into their prime data contractor, SSD, that will be the end of the matter. He’ll die. Case closed. And I’ll go back to my Closet, survey the mistakes I made and work on how to be more clever in the future.

But isn’t that just a life lesson for us all?

As for the suicide itself, I looked at Google Earth and ran a basic prediction program, which suggested how he would get home from the subway station after leaving SSD. Miguel 5465 will most likely take a path through a small urban park here in Queens, right next to the expressway. The irritating rush of traffic and the gassy atmosphere from diesel exhaust mean the park is usually deserted. I’ll come up fast behind him—don’t want him to recognize me and grow cautious—and deliver a half dozen blows to the head with the BB-filled iron pipe. Then I’ll slip the suicide note and box containing the fingernail into his pocket, drag him to the railing and over he goes onto the highway, fifty feet below.

Miguel 5465 is walking slowly, glancing into storefronts. And I’m thirty, forty feet behind, head down, inconspicuously lost in after-work music, like dozens of other commuters returning home, though my iPod is off (music is one thing I don’t collect).

Now, the park is one block away. I—

But wait, something’s wrong. He’s not turning toward the park. He pauses at a Korean deli, buys some flowers and turns away from the commercial strip, heading toward a deserted neighborhood.

I’m processing this, running the behavior through my knowledge base. The prediction’s not working.

A girlfriend? A relative?

How the hell can there be something about his life I don’t know?

Noise in the data. I hate it!

No, no, this isn’t good. Flowers for a girlfriend don’t fit the profile of a suicidal killer.

Miguel 5465 continues down the sidewalk, the air fragrant with the spring smell of cut grass and lilac and dog urine.

Ah, got it now. I relax.

The janitor walks through the gate of a cemetery.

Of course, the dead wife and kid. We’re doing fine. The prediction holds. We’ll just have a brief delay. His path home will still take him through the park. This might be even better, a last visit to the wife. Forgive me for raping and murdering in your absence, dear.

I follow, keeping a safe distance, in my comfortable shoes, rubber-soled, making no sound whatsoever.

Miguel 5465 makes a direct line to a double grave. There he blesses himself, kneels in prayer. Then he leaves the flowers beside four other bouquets, in varying degrees of wilt. Why haven’t the cemetery trips shown up on the grid?

Of course—he pays cash for the flowers.

He stands up and starts to walk away.

I begin to follow, breathing deeply.

When: “Excuse me, sir.”

I freeze. Then turn slowly to the groundskeeper, who is talking to me. He’s come up silently, treading over the carpet of short, dewy grass. And he looks from my face toward my right hand, which I slip into my pocket. He might or might not have seen the beige cloth glove I’m wearing.

“Hi,” I say.

“I saw you in the bushes there.”

How do I respond to that?

“The bushes?”

His eyes reveal to me that he’s protective of his dead folks.

“Can I ask who you’re visiting?”

His name is on the front of his overalls but I can’t see it clearly. Stony? What kind of name is that? I’m riddled with anger. This is Their fault… Them, the people after me! They’ve made me careless. I’m addled by all the noise, all the contamination! I hate Them hate Them hate…

I manage a sympathetic smile. “I’m a friend of Miguel’s.”

“Ah. You knew Carmela and Juan?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Stony, or is it Stanley, is wondering why I’m still here since Miguel 5465 is gone. A shift in posture. Yes, it’s Stony… His hand moves closer to the walkie-talkie riding on his hip. I don’t recall the names on the tombstones. I’m wondering if Miguel’s wife was named Rosa and the boy Jose and I’ve just waltzed into a trap.

Other people’s cleverness is so tedious.

Stony glances at his radio and when he looks up the knife is already halfway into his chest. One, two, three punches, careful around the bone—you can twist a finger if you’re not careful, as I’ve learned the hard way. It’s very painful.

The shocked groundskeeper is more resilient than I’d expected, though. He lunges forward and grabs my collar with the hand not gripping the wound. We struggle, grappling and pushing and pulling, a macabre dance among the graves, until his hand falls away and he drops onto his back on the sidewalk, a snaky strip of asphalt that leads to the cemetery office. His hand finds the walkie-talkie at the same instant my blade finds his neck.

Zip, zip, two quiet slashes open the artery or vein or both and send a surprising torrent of blood into the sky.

I dodge it.

“No, no, why? Why?” He reaches for the wound, helpfully getting his hands out of the way and allowing me to do the same on the other side of his neck. Slash, slash, I can’t stop myself. It’s unnecessary but I’m mad, furious—at Them for throwing me off stride. They forced me to use Miguel 5465 as an escape. And now They’ve distracted me. I got careless.

More slashing… Then I stand back and in thirty seconds, after a few eerie kicks, the man is unconscious. In sixty, life becomes death.

I can only stand, numb from this nightmare, gasping from the effort. I’m hunched over and I feel like a miserable animal.

The police—They—will know I was the one, of course. The data are all there. The death happened at the gravesite of an SSD employee’s family, and, after the wrestling match with the groundskeeper, I’m sure there’s some evidence the clever police can trace to the other scenes. I don’t have time to clean up.

They’ll understand that I’d followed Miguel 5465 to fake his suicide and was interrupted by the groundskeeper.

Then a clatter from the walkie-talkie. Someone is asking for Stony. The voice isn’t alarmed; it’s a simple inquiry. But with no response they’ll come looking for him soon.

I turn and leave quickly, as if I’m a mourner overcome with sorrow and bewildered by what the future holds.

But then, of course, that’s exactly who I am.