incoln Rhyme had his second wind.

Thom had fixed food again and, although Rhyme generally took no particular pleasure in eating, he’d enjoyed the chicken club sandwiches with the aide’s homemade bread. “It’s James Beard’s recipe,” the aide announced, though the reference to the revered chef and cookbook author was utterly lost on Rhyme. Sellitto had wolfed down one sandwich and taken another with him when he left for home. (“Even better than the tuna,” he judged.) Mel Cooper asked for the bread recipe for Gretta.

Sachs was on the computer sending some e-mails. Rhyme was going to ask what she was doing when the doorbell rang.

A moment later Thom ushered into the lab Terry Dobyns, the NYPD behaviorist whom Rhyme had known for years. He was a little balder, a little thicker in the belly than when they’d first met—when Dobyns had sat with Rhyme for hours at a time, during that terrible time after the accident that left him paralyzed. The doctor still had the same kind, perceptive eyes that Rhyme recalled, and a calming, nonjudgmental smile. The criminalist was skeptical of psychological profiling, preferring forensics, but he had to admit that Dobyns had from time to time offered brilliant and helpful insights into the perps Rhyme pursued.

He now said hello to everyone, took coffee from Thom and declined food. He sat on a stool next to Rhyme’s wheelchair.

“Good call, about the hoarding. I think you’re right. And first, let me tell you that I checked with the task force and they looked into the known hoarders in the city. There aren’t many and the odds are that it’s none of them. I eliminated the women, since you told me about the rape. Of the men, most are elderly or nonfunctioning. The only two that fit the functioning profile are in Staten Island and the Bronx and they were accounted for by social workers or family members at the time of the killing on Sunday.”

Rhyme wasn’t surprised—522 was too smart not to cover his tracks. But he’d hoped for a small lead, at least, and scowled at the dead end.

Dobyns couldn’t help but smile. This had been an issue they’d dealt with years ago. Rhyme had never been comfortable expressing personal anger and frustration. Professionally, though, he’d always been a master at it.

“But I can give you some insights that might be helpful. Now, let me tell you about hoarders. It’s a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder. That occurs when a subject is faced with conflict or tensions they can’t emotionally confront. Focusing on a behavior is much easier than looking at the underlying problem. Hand washing and counting are symptoms of OCD. So is hoarding.

“Now, it’s rare for somebody who hoards to be dangerous per se. There are health risks—animal and insect infestation, mold and fire hazards—but essentially hoarders just want to be left alone. They’d live surrounded by their collection if they could and never go outside.

“But your fellow, well, he’s a strange breed. A combination of narcissistic, antisocial personality and hoarding OCD. If he wants something—apparently collectible coins or paintings or sexual gratification—he has to have it. Absolutely has to. Killing is nothing to him if it helps him acquire what he wants and protect his collection. In fact, I’d go so far as to suggest that killing calms him down. Living humans give him stress. They would disappoint him, they’d abandon him. But inanimate objects—newspapers, cigar boxes, candy, even bodies—you can tuck away in your lair; they never betray you… I don’t suppose you’re interested in the childhood factors that may have made him that way?”

“Not really, Terry,” Sachs said. She was smiling at Rhyme, who was shaking his head.

“First, he’s going to need space. A lot of it. And with the real estate prices here he’s either very resourceful or very rich. Hoarders tend to live in big, older houses or town houses. They never rent. They can’t stand the thought of a landlord with rights to come into their living area. And the windows will be painted black or taped over. He has to keep the outside world away.”

“How much space?” she asked.

“Rooms and rooms and rooms.”

“Some of the SSD employees would have plenty of money,” Rhyme speculated. “The senior people.”

“Now, because your perp is so high functioning, he’ll be leading two lives. We’ll call them the ‘secret’ life and the ‘façade.’ He needs to exist in the real world—to add to his collection and maintain it. And so he’ll keep up appearances. He’ll probably have a second house or a part of a single one that’ll appear normal. Oh, he’d prefer to live in his secret place. But if he did, only there, people would start to take notice. So he’ll also have a living space that seems like anybody in his socioeconomic situation would have. The residences might be connected or nearby. The ground floor could be normal, the upstairs where he keeps his collection. Or the basement.

“As for his personality, he’ll play a role in his façade life that’s almost the opposite of who he really is. Say the real Five Twenty-Two’s personality is snide and petty. The public Five Twenty-Two will be measured, calm, mature, polite.”

“He could appear to be a businessman?”

“Oh, easily. And he’ll play the part very, very well. Because he has to. It makes him angry, resentful. But he knows if he doesn’t his trove could be endangered and that’s simply not acceptable to him.”

Dobyns looked over the charts. He nodded. “Now, I notice you’re wondering about children? I really doubt he has any. He probably just collects toys. That again is something about his childhood. He’ll be single too. It’s rare to find a married hoarder. His obsession with collecting is too intense. He wouldn’t want to share his time or space with another person—and frankly it’s hard to find a partner who’s so codependent she puts up with him.

“Okay, the tobacco and matches? He hoards cigarettes and matchbooks but I doubt very much he smokes. Most hoarders have huge stockpiles of papers and magazines, flammable objects. This perp isn’t stupid. He’d never risk a fire because it could destroy his collection. Or at least expose him, when the fire department comes. And he probably has no particular interest in coins or art. He has an obsession with collecting for its own sake. What he collects is secondary.”

“So he probably doesn’t live near an antiques store?”

Dobyns gave a laugh. “That’s exactly what his place’ll look like. But, of course, without customers… Well, I can’t think of much else. Except to tell you how dangerous he is. From what you’ve told me you’ve already stopped him several times. That makes him furious. He’ll kill anybody who interferes with his trove, kill them without a second thought. I can’t impress that on you enough.”

They thanked Dobyns. He wished them luck and the psychologist left. Sachs updated the UNSUB list, based on what he’d told them.

UNSUB 522 PROFILE

• Male

• Probably nonsmoker

• Probably no wife/children

• Probably white or light-skinned ethnic

• Medium build

• Strong—able to strangle victims

• Access to voice-disguise equipment

• Possibly computer literate; knows OurWorld. Other social-networking sites?

• Takes trophies from victims. Sadist?

• Portion of residence/workplace dark and moist

• Eats snack food/hot sauce

• Wears size-11 Skechers work shoe

• Hoarder. Suffers from OCD

• Will have a “secret” life and a “façade” life

• Public personality will be opposite of his real self

• Residence: Won’t rent, will have two separate living areas, one normal and one secret

• Windows will be covered or painted

• Will become violent when collecting or trove are threatened

“Helpful?” Cooper asked.

Rhyme could only shrug.

“What do you think, Sachs? Could it be anybody you talked to at SSD?”

She shrugged. “I’d say Gillespie came the closest. He seemed just plain odd. But Cassel seemed the slickest—in terms of putting on a good façade. Arlonzo-Kemper’s married, which takes him out of the running, according to Terry. I didn’t see the technicians. Ron did.”

With an electronic trill, a caller ID box popped up on the screen. It was Lon Sellitto, back home but apparently still at work on the Expert Plan that Rhyme and the detective had put together earlier.

“Command, answer phone… Lon, how are we doing?”

“It’s all set, Linc.”

“Where are we?”

“Watch the eleven o’clock news. You’ll find out. I’m going to bed.”

Rhyme disconnected and turned on the TV in the corner of the lab.

Mel Cooper said good night. He was packing up his briefcase when his computer dinged. He looked over the screen. “Amelia, you’ve got an e-mail here.”

She wandered over, sat down.

“Is it the Colorado State Police, about Gordon?” Rhyme asked.

Sachs said nothing but he noticed an eyebrow rise as she read through the lengthy document. Her finger disappeared into her long red hair, tied back in a ponytail, and worried her scalp.

“What?”

“I’ve got to go,” she said. She rose quickly.

“Sachs? What is it?”

“It’s not about the case. Call me if you need me.”

And with that she was out the door, leaving behind a cloud of mystery as subtle as the aroma of the lavender soap she’d been favoring recently.

The 522 case was moving fast.

And yet cops always have to juggle other aspects of their lives.

Which was why she was now standing uneasily in front of a tidy detached house in Brooklyn, not far from her own home. The night was pleasant. A delicate breeze, fragrant with lilac and mulch, waltzed around her. It would be good to sit on the curb or a door stoop here and not do what she was about to.

What she had to do.

God, I hate this.

Pam Willoughby appeared in the doorway. She was wearing sweats and had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was talking to one of the other foster children, another teenager. Their faces had that conspiratorial yet innocent expression teenage girls wear like makeup. Two dogs played at their feet: Jackson, the tiny Havanese, and a much larger but equally exuberant Briard, Cosmic Cowboy, who lived with Pam’s foster family.

The policewoman would meet the girl here occasionally, then they’d head off for a movie or Starbucks or ice cream. Pam’s face usually brightened when she saw Sachs.

Not tonight.

Sachs got out of the car and leaned against the hot hood. Pam picked up Jackson and joined her as the other girl waved to Sachs and disappeared into the house with Cosmic Cowboy.

“Sorry to come by so late.”

“It’s okay.” The girl was cautious.

“How’s homework?”

“Homework’s homework. Some’s good, some sucks.”

True now, true in Sachs’s day.

Sachs petted the dog, which Pam clutched possessively. She did this often with her things. The girl always refused offers to let someone else carry her book bag or groceries. Sachs guessed that so much had been taken away from her, she held tight to whatever she could.

“So. What’s up?”

She could think of no way to ease gently into the subject. “I talked to your friend.”

“Friend?” Pam asked.

“Stuart.”

“You what?” Light fragmented by leaves of a ginkgo tree fell on her troubled face.

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Pam… I was worried about you. I had a friend in the department—somebody who does security checks—look him up.”

“No!”

“I wanted to see if there were any skeletons in his closet.”

“You didn’t have any right to do that!”

“True. But I did anyway. And I just got an e-mail back.” Sachs felt her stomach muscles clench. Facing killers, driving 170 mph… those were nothing. She was shaken badly now.

“So is he a fucking murderer?” Pam snapped. “A serial killer? A terrorist?”

Sachs hesitated. She wanted to touch the girl’s arm. But didn’t. “No, honey. But… he’s married.”

In the dappled light Sachs saw Pam blink.

“He’s… married?”

“I’m sorry. His wife’s a teacher too. A private school on Long Island. And he has two children.”

“No! You’re wrong.” Sachs saw Pam’s free hand was clenched so tightly the muscles had to be cramping. Anger filled her eyes, but there wasn’t much surprise. Sachs wondered if Pam would be running through certain memories. Maybe Stuart had said he didn’t have a home phone, only a mobile. Or maybe he’d asked her to use a particular e-mail account, not his general one.!!!And my house is such a mess. I’d be embarrassed for you to see it. I’m a teacher, you know. We’re absentminded… I need to get a housekeeper…

Pam blurted, “It’s a mistake. You’ve got him mixed up with somebody else.”

“I went to see him just now. I asked him and he told me.”

“No, you didn’t! You’re making it up!” The girl’s eyes flared and a cold smile crossed her face, cutting deep into Sachs’s heart. “You’re doing just what my mother did! When she didn’t want me to do something, she lied to me! Just like you’re doing.”

“Pam, I’d never—”

“Everybody takes things away from me! You’re not going to! I love him and he loves me, and you’re not taking him away!” She wheeled and made for the house, the dog firmly under her arm.

“Pam!” Sachs’s voice choked. “No, honey…”

As the girl stepped inside she looked back once fast, hair swirling, posture stiff as iron, leaving Amelia Sachs grateful that the backlight prevented her from seeing Pam’s face; she couldn’t have stomached witnessing the hatred she knew was there.

The travesty at the cemetery still burns like fire.

Miguel 5465 should have died. Should be pinned to a velvet board for the police to examine. They’d say case closed and all would be well.

But he didn’t. That butterfly got away. I can’t try to fake a suicide again. They’ve learned something about me. They’ve collected some knowledge…!!!Hate Them hate Them hate Them hate Them…

I’m so close to taking my razor and storming out and…

Calm. Down. But it’s becoming harder and harder to do that, as the years go by.

I’ve canceled certain transactions for this evening—I was going to celebrate the suicide—and now I head into my Closet. Being surrounded by my treasures helps. I wander through the fragrant rooms and hold several items close to me. Trophies from various transactions over the past year. Feeling the dried flesh and fingernails and hair against my cheek is such a comfort.

But I’m exhausted. I sit down in front of the Harvey Prescott painting, gaze up at it. The family looking back. As with most portraits their eyes follow you wherever you are.

Comforting. Eerie too.

Maybe one of the reasons I love his work so much is that these people were created fresh. They have no memories to plague them, to make them edgy, to keep them up all night and to drive them out into the streets, collecting treasures, and trophies.

Ah, memories:!!!June, five years old. Father sits me down, tucks his unlit cigarette away and explains to me I’m not theirs. “We brought you into the family because we wanted you wanted you badly and we love you even if you aren’t our natural son you understand don’t you…” Not exactly, I don’t. I stare at him blankly. Kleenex twisting in Mother’s damp hands. She blurts that she loves me like a natural-born son. No, loves me more, though I don’t understand why she would. It sounds like a lie.!!!Father leaves for his second job. Mother goes to take care of the other children, leaving me to consider this. My feeling is that something’s been taken away from me. But I don’t know what. I look out my window. It’s beautiful here. Mountains and green and cool air. But I prefer my room and that’s where I go.!!!August, seven years old. Father and Mother have been fighting. The oldest of us, Lydia, is crying. Don’t leave don’t leave don’t leave… I myself plan for the worst, stocking up. Food and pennies—people never miss pennies. Nothing can stop me from collecting them, $134 worth of shiny or dull copper. Hide them in boxes in my closet…!!!November, seven years old. Father returns from where he’s been for a month, “scratching for the elusive dollar,” which he says a lot. (Lydia and I smile when he does.) He asks where the other children are. She tells him she couldn’t handle all of them. “Do the math. The fuck you thinking of? Get on the phone and call the city.”!!! “You weren’t here,” she cries.!!!This mystifies Lydia and me but we know it’s not good.!!!In my closet are $252 in pennies, thirty-three cans of tomatoes, eighteen of other vegetables, twelve of SpaghettiOs, which I don’t even like but I have them. That’s all that’s important.!!!October, nine years old. More emergency foster placements. At the moment there are nine of us. We help, Lydia and me. She’s fourteen and knows how to take care of the younger ones. Lydia asks Father to buy the girls dolls—because she never had one and it’s important—and he said how can they make money from the city if they spend it on crap?!!!May, ten years old. I come back from school. It took all I could do to take some of the pennies and buy a doll for Lydia. I can’t wait for her reaction. But then I see I made a mistake and left the closet door open. Father is inside, ripping open the boxes. The pennies are lying like dead soldiers on a battlefield. He fills his pockets and takes the boxes. “You steal it you lose it.” I’m crying and telling him I found the pennies. “Good,” Father says triumphantly. “I found ’em too and that must mean they’re mine… Right, young man? How can you argue with that? You can’t. And, Jesus, almost five hundred bucks there.” And pulls the cigarette out from behind his ear.!!!Want to understand somebody taking your things away, your soldiers, your dolls, your pennies? Just close your mouth and pinch your nose. That’s what’s it like and you can’t do it very long before something terrible happens.!!!October, eleven years old. Lydia’s gone. No note. She doesn’t take the doll. Fourteen-year-old Jason comes to live with us from Juvenile. He pushes into my room one night. He wants my bed (mine’s dry and his isn’t). I sleep in his wet one. Every night for a month. I complain to Father. He tells me to shut up. They need the money and they get a bonus for ED kids like Jason and… He stops talking. Does he mean me too? I don’t know what ED means. Not then.!!!January, twelve years old. Flashing red lights. Mother sobbing, the other foster children sobbing. The burn on Father’s arm was painful but fortunately, the fireman says, the lighter fluid on the mattress didn’t ignite fast. If it was gasoline he’d be dead. As they take Jason away, dark eyes under dark brows, he screams he didn’t know how the lighter fluid and matches got into his book bag. He didn’t do it, he didn’t! And he didn’t pin up those pictures of people burned alive in his classroom at school.!!!Father screams at mother, Look at what you did!

You!!!wanted the bonus! she screams back.!!!The ED bonus.!!!Emotionally disturbed, I found out.

Memories, memories… Ah, some collections I would gladly give away, leave in a Dumpster if I could.

I smile up at my silent family, the Prescotts. Then I turn back to the problem at hand—Them.

I’m calmer now, the edginess dulled. And I’m confident that like my lying father, like panicked Jason Stringfellow led off by the police, like the sixteens screaming at the climax of a transaction, those pursuing me—They—will soon be dead and dust. And I’ll be living out my days happily with my two-dimensional family and my treasures here in the Closet.

My soldiers, the data, are about to march into battle. I’m like Hitler in his Berlin bunker, ordering his Waffen-SS troops to meet the invaders. Data are invincible.

I see now that it’s nearly 11:00 P.M. Time for the news. I need to see what They know about the death at the cemetery and what They don’t. On goes the TV.

The station has “gone live” to City Hall. Now the deputy mayor, Ron Scott, a distinguished-looking man, is explaining that the police have put together a task force to investigate a recent murder and rape, and a murder this evening in a Queens cemetery, which seems related to the earlier crime.

Scott introduces an NYPD inspector, Joseph Malloy, who “will discuss the case more specifically.”

Though he doesn’t, not really. He shows a composite of the perpetrator that resembles me only in the way it resembles about 200,000 other men in the city.

White or light-skinned? Oh, please.

He tells people to be cautious. “We think the perpetrator has used techniques of identity theft to get close to his victims. Lower their defenses.”

Be wary, he goes on to say, of anyone you don’t know but who has knowledge of your purchases, bank accounts, vacation plans, traffic violations. “Even little things you wouldn’t normally pay attention to.”

In fact, the city has just flown in an expert in information management and security from Carnegie Mellon University. Dr. Carlton Soames will spend the next few days assisting the investigators and advising them on the issue of identity theft, which they believe is the best way to find the perpetrator.

Soames looks like a typical ruffled-haired small-town Midwest boy gone smart. An awkward grin. Suit a little off center, glasses a bit smudged, the asymmetrical glare tells me. And how much wear would that wedding ring show? Plenty, I’ll bet. He looks like the sort who married early.

He doesn’t say anything but gazes out like a nervous animal at the press and the camera. Captain Malloy continues, “In an age when identity theft is increasing, and the consequences are increasingly grave—”

The pun, obviously unintentional, is unfortunate.

“—we take seriously our responsibility to protect the citizens of this city.”

The reporters jump into the fray, pelting the deputy mayor, captain and unsettled professor with questions a third-grader could have come up with. Malloy generally demurs. The word “ongoing” is his shield.

Deputy Mayor Ron Scott reassures the public that the city is safe and everything is being done to protect them. The press conference ends abruptly.

We go back to the regular news, if you can call it that. Tainted veggies in Texas, a woman on a hood of a truck caught in a Missouri flood. The President has a cold.

I shut off the set and sit in my dim Closet, wondering how best to process this new transaction.

An idea occurs to me. It’s so obvious, though, that I’m skeptical. But, surprise, it takes only three phone calls—to hotels close to One Police Plaza—to find the one where Dr. Carlton Soames is registered.