on Sellitto was back in Rhyme's lab, pacing angrily.

Duncan's lawyer, it seemed, had met with the assistant district attorney and in exchange for an affidavit admitting guilt, the payment of $100,000 for misuse of police and fire resources, and a written guarantee to testify against Baker, all the criminal charges were dropped, subject to being reinstated if he reneged on the appearance in court as a witness against Baker. He'd never even been printed or booked.

The big, rumpled detective stared at the speakerphone, glowering, hands on his hips, as if the unit itself were the incompetent fool who'd released a potential killer.

The defensiveness in the prosecutor's voice was clear. "It was the only way he'd cooperate," the man said. "He was represented by a lawyer from Reed, Prince. He surrendered his passport. It was all legit. He's agreed not to leave the jurisdiction until Baker's trial. I've got him in a hotel in the city, with an officer guarding him. He's not going anywhere. What's the big deal? I've done this a hundred times."

"What about Westchester?" Rhyme called into the speakerphone. "The stolen corpse?"

"They agreed not to prosecute. I said we'd help them out on a few other cases they needed our cooperation for."

The prosecutor would see this as a gold ring in his career; bringing down a gang of corrupt cops would catapult him to stardom.

Rhyme shook his head, livid. Incompetence and selfish ambition infuriated him. It's hard enough to do this job without interference from politicians. Why the hell hadn't anybody called him first, before releasing Duncan? Even before Kathryn Dance's opinion about the interview tape, there were too many unanswered questions to release the man.

Sellitto barked, "Where is he?"

"Anyway, what proof —?"

"Where the fuck is he?" Sellitto raged.

The prosecutor hesitated and gave them the name of a hotel in Midtown and the mobile number of the officer guarding him.

"I'm on it." Cooper dialed the number.

Sellitto continued. "And who was his lawyer?"

The assistant district attorney gave them this name too. The nervous voice said, "I really don't see what all the fuss —"

Sellitto hung up. He looked at Dance. "I'm about to push some serious buttons. You know what I'm saying?"

She nodded. "We've got fan-hitting shit out in California too. But I'm comfortable with my opinion. Do whatever you can to find him. I mean, everything. I'll give that same opinion to whoever you want me to. Chief of department, mayor, governor."

Rhyme said to Sachs, "See what the lawyer knows about him." She took the name, flipped open her phone. Rhyme knew of Reed, Prince, of course. It was a large, respected firm on lower Broadway. The attorneys there were known for handling high-profile, white-collar criminal defense.

In a grim voice Cooper said, "We've got a problem. That was the officer at the hotel suite, guarding Duncan. He just checked his room. He's gone, Lincoln."

"What?"

"The officer said he went to bed early last night, saying he wasn't feeling well and he wanted to sleep in today. Looks like he picked the lock to the adjacent room. The officer has no idea when it happened. Could've been last night."

Sachs pinched her phone closed. "Reed, Prince doesn't have a lawyer on staff with the name he gave the prosecutor. And Duncan isn't a client."

"Oh, goddamn," Rhyme snapped.

"All right," Sellitto said, "time for the cavalry." He called Bo Haumann at ESU and told them they needed to arrest their suspect yet again. "Only we aren't exactly sure where he is."

He gave the tactical officer the few details they had. Haumann's reaction, which Rhyme didn't hear, could nonetheless be inferred from Sellitto's expression. "You don't need to tell me, Bo."

Sellitto left a message with the district attorney himself and then called the Big Building to inform the brass about the problem.

"I want more on him," Rhyme said to Cooper. "We were too fucking complacent. We didn't ask enough questions." He glanced at Dance. "Kathryn, I really hate to ask this... "

She was putting away her cell phone. "I've already canceled my flight."

"I'm sorry. It's not really your case."

"It's been my case since I interviewed Cobb on Tuesday," Dance said, her green eyes cold, her lips drawn.

Cooper was scrolling through the information they'd learned about Gerald Duncan. He made a list of phone numbers and started calling. After several conversations he said, "Listen to this. He's not Duncan. The Missouri State Police sent a car out to the address on the license. It's owned by a Gerald Duncan, yeah, but not our Gerald Duncan. The guy who lived there was transferred to Anchorage for his job for six months. The house's empty and up for rent. Here's his picture."

The image was a driver's license shot of a man very different from the one they'd arrested yesterday.

Rhyme nodded. "Brilliant. He checked the paper for rental listings, found one that'd been on the market for a while and figured it wasn't going to rent for the next few weeks because of Christmas. Same as the church. And he forged the driver's license we saw. Passport too. We've been underestimating this guy from the beginning."

Cooper, staring at his computer, called out, "The owner — the real Duncan — had some credit card problems. Identity theft."

Lincoln Rhyme felt a chill in the center of his being, a place where in theory he could feel nothing. He had a sense that an unseen disaster was unfolding quickly.

Dance was staring at the still image of Duncan's face as intently as Rhyme stared at his evidence charts. She mused, "What's he really up to?"

A question they couldn't begin to answer.

Riding the subway, Charles Vespasian Hale, the man who'd been masquerading as Gerald Duncan, the Watchmaker, checked his wristwatch (his Breguet pocket watch, which he'd grown fond of, wouldn't fit the role he was about to assume).

Everything was right on schedule. He was taking the train from the Brooklyn neighborhood where he had his primary safe house, feeling anticipation and an edginess too, but nonetheless he was as close to harmony as he'd ever been in his life.

Very little of what he'd told Vincent Reynolds about his personal past had been true, of course. It couldn't be. He planned a long career at his profession and he knew that the mealy rapist would spill everything to the cops at the first threat.

Born in Chicago, Hale was the son of a high school Latin teacher (hence the middle name, after a noble Roman emperor) and a woman who was the manager of the petites department at a suburban Sears store. The couple never talked much, didn't do much. Every night after a quiet supper his father would gravitate to his books, his mother to her sewing machine. For familial activity they might settle in two separate chairs in front of the small television set and watch bad sitcoms and predictable cop dramas, which allowed them a unique medium of communication — by commenting on the shows, they expressed to each other the desires and resentments that they'd never have the courage to say directly.

Quiet...

The boy had been a loner for much of his life. He was a surprise child and his parents treated him with formal manners and apathy and a quizzical air, as if he were a species of plant whose watering and fertilizing schedule they were unsure of. The hours of boredom and solitude grew to be an open sore, and Charles felt a desperation to occupy his time, for fear the excruciating stillness in the household would strangle him.

He spent hours and hours outside — hiking and climbing trees. For some reason it was better to be alone when you were outside. There was always something to distract you, something you might find over the next hill, on the next branch up in the maple tree. He was in the field biology club at school. He went on Outward Bound expeditions and was always the first to cross the rope bridge, dive off the cliff, rappel down a mountainside.

If he was condemned to be inside, Charles developed a habit of filling his time by putting things in order. Arranging office supplies and books and toys could endlessly fill the painful hours. He wasn't lonely when he did that, he didn't ache with boredom, he wasn't afraid of the silence.

Did you know, Vincent, that the word "meticulous" comes from the Latin meticulosus, meaning fearful?

When things weren't precise and ordered, he'd grow frantic, even when the glitch was something as silly as a misaligned train track or a bent bicycle spoke. Anything not running smoothly would set him on edge the way a fingernail screech on a blackboard caused other people to cringe.

Like his parents' marriage, for instance. After the divorce, he never spoke to either of them again. Life should be tidy and perfect. When it wasn't, you should be free to eliminate the disorderly elements altogether. He didn't pray (no empirical evidence that you could put your life in order or achieve your goals via divine communication) but if he had, Charles would have prayed for them to die.

Hale went into the army for two years, where he flourished in the atmosphere of order. He went to Officer Candidate School and caught the attention of his professors, who, after he was commissioned, tapped him to teach military history and tactical and strategic planning, at which he excelled.

After he was discharged he spent a year hiking and mountain climbing in Europe then he returned to America and went into business as an investment banker and venture capitalist, studying law at night.

He worked as an attorney for a time and was brilliant at structuring business deals. He made very good money but there was an underlying loneliness about his life. He shunned relationships because they required improvisation and were full of illogical behavior. More and more his passion for planning and order took on the role of lover. And like anyone who substitutes an obsession for a real relationship, Hale found himself looking for more intense ways to satisfy himself.

He found a perfect solution six years ago. He killed his first man.

Living in San Diego, Hale learned that a business associate had been badly injured. Some drunk driver had plowed into the man's car. The accident shattered the businessman's hip and snapped both legs — one of which had to be amputated. The driver expressed no remorse whatsoever and continued to deny he'd done anything wrong, even blaming the accident on the victim himself. The punk was convicted but, a first-time offender, he got off with a light sentence. Then he began harassing Hale's associate for money.

Hale decided that enough was enough. He came up with an elaborate plan to terrify the kid into stopping. But as he looked over the scheme he realized it made him feel uncomfortable, edgy. There was something clumsy about it. The plan wasn't as precisely ordered as he wanted. Finally he realized what the trouble was. His scheme left the victim scared but alive. If the kid died, then it would work perfectly and there'd be nothing to trace back to Hale or his injured associate.

But could he actually kill a human being? The idea sounded preposterous.

Yes or no?

On a rainy October night he made his decision.

The murder went perfectly and the police never suspected the man's death was anything but an unfortunate home electrocution accident.

Hale was prepared to feel remorse. But there was none. Instead he was ecstatic. The plan had been so perfectly executed, the fact that he'd killed someone was irrelevant.

The addict wanted more of his drug.

A short time later Hale was involved in a joint venture in Mexico City — building a development of upscale haciendas. But a corrupt politician managed to throw up enough stumbling blocks so the deal was going to collapse. Hale's Mexican counterpart explained that the petty politician had done this a number of times.

"It's a shame he can't be removed," Hale had said coyly.

"Oh, he can never be removed," the Mexican said. "He is, you would say, invulnerable."

This caught Hale's attention. "Why?"

The crooked Distrito Federal commissioner, the Mexican explained, was obsessed with security. He drove in a huge armored SUV, a Cadillac custom-made for him, and was always with armed guards. His security company constantly planned different routes for him to get to and from his homes and offices and meetings. He moved his family from house to house randomly and often didn't even stay in houses that he owned, but in friends' or rentals. And he often traveled with his young son — the rumors were that he kept the boy near as a shield. The commissioner also had the protection of a senior federal interior minister.

"So, you could say he's invulnerable," the Mexican explained, pouring two glasses of very expensive Patrón tequila.

"Invulnerable," mused Charles Hale in a whisper. He nodded.

Not long after this meeting, five apparently unrelated articles appeared in the October 23 edition of El Heraldo de México.

• A fire in the office of Mexicana Seguridad Privado, a security services company, resulted in the evacuation of all employees. No injuries were reported and the damage was minor.

• A hacker shut down the main computer of a mobile phone provider, resulting in a disruption of service in a portion of Mexico City and its southern suburbs for about two hours.

• A truck caught fire in the middle of Highway 160, south of Mexico City, near Chalco, completely blocking northbound traffic.

• Henri Porfirio, the head of the Distrito Federal commercial real estate licensing commission, died when his SUV crashed through a one-lane bridge and plunged forty feet, struck a propane truck parked there and exploded. The incident occurred when drivers were following directions from a flagman to pull off the highway and take a side road to avoid a major traffic jam. Other vehicles had made it successfully over the bridge earlier but the commissioner's vehicle, being armor plated, was too heavy for the old structure, despite a sign that stated it could support the SUV's weight. Porfirio's security chief knew about the traffic jam and had been trying to contact him about a safer route but was unable to because the commissioner's mobile phone was not working. His was the only vehicle that fell.

Porfirio's son was not in the SUV, which he otherwise would have been, because the child came down with a minor case of food poisoning the day before and remained at home with his mother.

• Erasmo Saleno, a senior interior official in the Mexican federal government, was arrested after a tip led police to his summer home, where they found a stash of weapons and cocaine (curiously reporters had been alerted too, including a photographer connected with the Los Angeles Times).

All in a day's news.

A month later Hale's real estate project broke ground and he received from his fellow investors in Mexico a bonus of $500,000 U.S. in cash.

He was pleased with the money. He was more pleased, though, with the connections he'd made through the Mexican businessman. It wasn't long before the man put him in touch with someone in America who needed similar services.

Now, several times a year, between his business projects, he would take on an assignment like this. Usually it was murder, though he'd also engaged in financial scams, insurance fraud and elaborate thefts. Hale would work for anyone, whatever the motive, which was irrelevant to him. He had no interest in why somebody wanted a crime committed. Twice he'd murdered abusive husbands. He killed a child molester one week before he'd murdered a businesswoman who was a major contributor to the United Way.

Good and bad were words whose definitions were different for Charles Vespasian Hale. Good was mental stimulation. Bad was boredom. Good was an elegant plan well executed. Bad was either a sloppy plan or one carelessly carried out.

But his current plot — certainly his most elaborate and far-reaching — was humming along perfectly.

God created the complex mechanism of the universe, then wound it up and started it running...

Hale got off the subway and climbed to the street, his nose stinging from the cold, his eyes watering, and started along the sidewalk. He was about to push the button that would set the hands of his real chronograph in motion.

________________________________________

Lon Sellitto's phone rang and he took the call. Frowning, he had a brief conversation. "I'll look into it."

Rhyme glanced up expectantly.

"That was Haumann. He just got a call from the manager of a delivery service on the same floor as the company that the Watchmaker broke into in Midtown. He said a customer just called. A package they were supposed to deliver yesterday never showed up. Looks like somebody broke in and stole it around the time that we were sweeping the offices looking for the perp. The manager asked if we knew anything about it."

Rhyme's eyes slipped to the photographs that Sachs had taken of the hallway. Bless her, she'd taken pictures of the entire floor. Below the name of the delivery service were the words High Security — Valuable Deliveries Guaranteed. Licensed and Bonded.

Rhyme heard the white noise of people talking around him. But he didn't hear the words themselves. He stared at the photograph and then at the other evidence.

"Access," he whispered.

"What?" Sellitto asked, frowning.

"We were so focused on the Watchmaker and the fake killings — and then on his scheme to flush out Baker — we never looked at what else was going on."

"Which was?" Sachs asked.

"Breaking and entering. The crime he actually committed was trespass. All of the offices on that floor were unguarded for a time. When they evacuated the building, they left the doors unlocked?"

"Well, yeah, I suppose," the big detective said.

Sachs said, "So while we were focused on the flooring company the Watchmaker might've put on a uniform or just hung a badge over his neck then strolled right inside the delivery service and helped himself to that package."

Access...

"Call the service. Find out what was in the package, who sent it and where it was going. Now."