etadata.”

On speakerphone Rodney Szarnek, in the NYPD computer lab, was explaining to Lincoln Rhyme how 522 most likely had learned that the “expert” was in fact an undercover cop.

Sachs, standing nearby, with her arms crossed and fingers picking at her sleeve, reminded him of what she’d learned from Calvin Geddes of Privacy Now. “That’s data about data. Embedded in documents.”

“Right,” Szarnek confirmed, hearing her comment. “He probably saw that we’d created the C.V. last night.”

“Shit,” Rhyme murmured. Well, you can’t think of everything. Then: But you have to when you’re up against the man who knows everything. And now the plan, which potentially could have netted him, had been wasted. The second time they’d failed.

And worse, they’d tipped their hand. Just like they’d learned about his suicide ploy, he’d learned how they operated and had a defense against future tactics.!!!Knowledge is power…

Szarnek added, “I had somebody at Carnegie Mellon trace the addresses of everyone who was in their site this morning. A half dozen hits originated in the city but they were from public terminals, no trace of the users. Two were from proxies in Europe, and I know the servers. They won’t cooperate.”

Naturally.

“Now we’ve got some information from the empty-space files Ron got from SSD. It’s taking some time. They were…” He apparently decided to avoid the technical explanation and said, “… pretty scrambled. But we’ve got fragments coming together. Looks like somebody did assemble dossiers and download them. We’ve got a nym—that’s a screen name or code name. ‘Runnerboy.’ That’s all so far.”

“Any idea who? An employee, customer, hacker?”

“Nope. I called a friend in the Bureau and checked their database for known nyms and e-mail addresses. They found about eight hundred Runnerboys. None in the metro area, though. We’ll know more later.”

Rhyme had Thom write the name Runnerboy on the list of suspects. “We’ll check with SSD. See if that’s a name anybody recognizes.”

“And the customer files on the CD?”

“I’ve got somebody going through it manually. The code I wrote only got us so far. There’re too many variables—different consumer products, Metro fare cards, E-ZPasses. Most of the companies downloaded certain information from the victims but statistically nobody’s jumping out as a suspect yet.”

“All right.”

He disconnected.

“We tried, Rhyme,” Sachs said.

Tried… He offered a lifted eyebrow, a gesture that meant absolutely nothing.

The phone buzzed and “Sellitto” popped up on caller ID.

“Command, answer… Lon, any—”

“Linc.”

Something was wrong. The tone, through the speakerphone, was hollow, the voice shaky.

“Another vic?”

Sellitto cleared his throat. “He got one of us.”

Alarmed, glancing at Sachs, who was involuntarily leaning forward toward the phone, her arms unfolding. “Who? Tell us.”

“Joe Malloy.”

“No,” whispered Sachs.

Rhyme’s eyes closed and his head eased into the wheelchair’s headrest. “Sure, of course. That was the setup, Lon. He had it all planned.” His voice lowered. “How bad was it?”

“What do you mean?” asked Sachs.

In a soft voice, Rhyme said, “He didn’t just kill Malloy, did he?”

Sellitto’s quivering voice was wrenching. “No, Linc, he didn’t.”

“Tell me!” Sachs said bluntly. “What are you talking about?”

Rhyme looked at her eyes, wide with the horror that they both felt. “He set up the whole thing because he wanted information. He tortured Joe to get it.”

“Oh, God.”

“Right, Lon?”

The big detective sighed. He coughed. “Yeah, got to say it was pretty bad. He used some tools. And from the amount of blood Joe held out for a long time. The prick finished him off with a gunshot.”

Sachs’s face was red with anger. She kneaded the grip of her Glock. Through clenched jaws she asked, “Did Joe have kids?”

Rhyme recalled that the captain’s wife had been killed a few years ago.

Sellitto answered, “A daughter in California. I made the call already.”

“You okay about it?” Sachs asked.

“Naw, I’m not.” His voice cracked again. Rhyme didn’t think he’d ever heard the detective sound so upset.

In his mind he could hear Joe Malloy’s voice when he was responding to Rhyme’s “forgetting” to share about the 522 case. The captain had looked beyond pettiness and backed them up, even after the criminalist and Sellitto hadn’t been honest with him.

Policing came before ego.

And 522 had tortured and killed him simply because he needed information. Goddamn information…

But then, from somewhere, Rhyme summoned the stone that resided within him. The detachment that, as some people had said, meant he had a damaged soul, but that he believed allowed him to better do his job. He said firmly, “Okay, you know what this means, don’t you?”

“What?” Sachs asked.

“He’s declaring war.”

“War?” It was Sellitto who asked this question.

“On us. He’s not going underground. He’s not running. He’s telling us to go fuck ourselves. He’s fighting back. And he thinks he can get away with it. Killing brass? Oh, yeah. He’s drawn the battle line. And he knows all about us now.”

“Maybe Joe didn’t tell him,” Sachs said.

“No, he told. He did everything he could to hold out but in the end he told.” Rhyme didn’t even want to picture what the captain had been through as he’d tried to keep silent. “It wasn’t his fault… But we’re all at risk now.”

“I’ve gotta go talk to the brass,” Sellitto said. “They want to know what went wrong. They weren’t happy about the plan in the first place.”

“I’m sure they weren’t. Where did it happen?”

“A warehouse. Chelsea.”

“Warehouse… perfect for a hoarder. Was he connected to it? Work there? Remember his comfortable shoes? Or did he just find out about it from going through the data? I want to know all of the above.”

“I’ll have it checked out,” Cooper said. “Sellitto gave him the details.”

“And we’ll get the scene searched.” Rhyme glanced at Sachs, who nodded.

After the detective disconnected, Rhyme asked, “Where’s Pulaski?”

“On his way back from the Roland Bell set.”

“Let’s call SSD, find out where all our suspects were at the time Malloy was killed. Some of them must have been in the office. I want to know who wasn’t. And I want to know about this Runnerboy. Think Sterling’ll help?”

“Oh, definitely,” Sachs said, reminding him how cooperative Sterling had been throughout the investigation. She hit the speakerphone button and placed the call.

An assistant answered and Sachs identified herself.

“Hello, Detective Sachs. This is Jeremy. How can I help you?”

“I need to talk to Mr. Sterling.”

“I’m afraid he’s not available.”

“It’s very important. There’s been another killing. A police officer.”

“Yes, I heard that on the news. I’m very sorry. Hold on a moment. Martin just walked in.”

They heard a muffled conversation and then another voice came through the speaker. “Detective Sachs. It’s Martin. I’m sorry to hear, another killing. But Mr. Sterling’s off-site.”

“It’s really important we talk to him.”

The calm assistant said, “I’ll relay the urgency.”

“What about Mark Whitcomb or Tom O’Day?”

“Hold for a moment, please.”

After a lengthy pause the young man’s voice said, “I’m afraid Mark is out of the office too. And Tom is in a meeting. I’ve left messages. I have another call, Detective Sachs. I should go. And I am truly sorry about your captain.”

“ ‘You that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more to my meditations, than you might suppose.’ ”

Sitting on a bench, overlooking the East River, Pam Willoughby felt a thud in her chest and her palms began to sweat.

She looked behind her at Stuart Everett, lit brilliantly by the sun over New Jersey. A blue shirt, jeans, a sports coat, the leather bag over his shoulder. His boyish face, a flop of brown hair, narrow lips about to break into a grin that often never arrived.

“Hi,” she said, sounding cheerful. She was angry with herself, wanted to sound harsh.

“Hey.” He glanced north, toward the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. “Fulton Street.”

“The poem? I know. It’s ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.’”

From Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman’s masterpiece. After Stuart Everett had mentioned in class that it was his favorite anthology of poems, she’d bought an expensive edition. Thinking that somehow it made them more connected.

“I didn’t assign that for class. You knew it anyway?”

Pam said nothing.

“Can I sit down?”

She nodded.

They sat in silence. She smelled his cologne. Wondered if his wife had bought it for him.

“Your friend talked to you, I’m sure.”

“Yeah.”

“I liked her. When she first called, okay, I thought she was going to arrest me.”

Pam’s frown softened into a smile.

Stuart continued, “She wasn’t happy about the situation. But that was good. She was looking out for you.”

“Amelia’s the best.”

“I couldn’t believe she was a cop.”

And a cop who ran a check on my boyfriend. Being in the dark wasn’t so bad, Pam reflected; having too much information sucked big-time.

He took her hand. Her impulse to pull it away vanished. “Look, let’s get this whole thing out in the open.”

She kept her eyes focused on the distance; looking into his brown eyes, under droopy lids, would be a way bad idea. She watched the river and the harbor beyond. Ferries still ran but most of the traffic was either private boats or cargo ships. She often sat near the river here and watched them. Forced to live underground, deep in the Midwest woods, with her crazy mother and a bunch of right-wing fanatics, Pam had developed a fascination with rivers and oceans. They were open and free and constantly in motion. That thought soothed her.

“I wasn’t honest, I know. But my relationship with my wife isn’t what it seems. I don’t sleep with her anymore. Haven’t for a long time.”

Was that the first thing a man said at a time like this? Pam wondered. She hadn’t even considered the sex, just the married.

He continued, “I didn’t want to fall in love with you. I thought we’d be friends. But you turned out to be different from everybody else. You lit up something in me. You’re beautiful, obviously. But you’re, well, you’re like Whitman. Unconventional. Lyrical. A poet in your own way.”

“You’ve got kids,” Pam couldn’t stop herself from saying.

A hesitation. “I do. But you’d like them. John’s eight. Chiara’s in middle school. She’s eleven. They’re wonderful kids. That’s why Mary and I are together, the only reason.”

Her name’s Mary. Was wondering.

He squeezed her hand. “Pam, I can’t let you go.”

She was leaning into him, feeling the comfort of his arm against hers, smelling the dry, pleasing scent, not caring who’d bought the aftershave. She thought: He was probably going to tell me sooner or later.

“I was going to tell you in a week or so. I swear. I was working up my courage.” She felt his hand trembling. “I see my children’s faces. I think, I can’t break up the family. And then you come along. The most incredible person I’ve ever met… I’ve been lonely for a long, long time.”

“But what about holidays?” she asked. “I wanted to do something on Thanksgiving or Christmas with you.”

“I can probably get away for one of them. At least part of the day. We just need to plan ahead of time.” Stuart lowered his head. “Here’s the thing. I can’t live without you. If you can be patient, we’ll make it work.”

She thought back to the one night they’d spent together. A secret night that nobody knew about. At Amelia Sachs’s town house, when she was staying at Lincoln Rhyme’s and Pam, and Stuart, had the place to themselves. It was magical. She wished every night of her life could be like that one.

She gripped his hand harder yet.

He whispered, “I can’t lose you.”

He inched closer on the bench. She found comfort in every square inch of contact. She actually had written a poem about him, describing their attraction as gravitational: one of the fundamental forces in the universe.

Pam rested her head against his shoulder.

“I promise I’ll never hide anything from you again. But please… I have to keep seeing you.”

She thought of the wonderful times they’d had, times that would seem insignificant to anyone else, silly.

Nothing like it.

The comfort was like warm water on a wound, washing away the pain.

When they’d been on the run, Pam and her mother had lived with and around petty men who would strike them “for their own good,” who didn’t share a word with their wives or children except when correcting or silencing them.

Stuart wasn’t even in the same universe with those monsters.

He whispered, “Just give me a little while. It’ll work out. I promise. We’ll see each other like we have been… Hey, here’s an idea. I know you want to travel. There’s a poetry conference in Montreal next month. I could fly you there, get you a room. You could attend the sessions. And we’d have the evenings free.”

“Oh, I love you.” She leaned toward his face. “I understand why you didn’t tell me, really.”

He gripped her hard, kissed her neck. “Pam, I’m so—”

Which is when she eased back and clutched her book bag to her chest like a shield. “But no, Stuart.”

“What?”

Pam believed her heart was beating faster than it ever had. “When you get divorced call me up and let’s see. But until then, no. I can’t see you anymore.”

She’d said what she thought Amelia Sachs would say at a time like this. But could she behave the same and not cry? Amelia wouldn’t. No way.

She slapped a smile onto her face, struggling to control the pain as the loneliness and panic killed the comfort instantly. The warmth froze to icy shards.

“But, Pam, you’re everything to me.”

“But what are you to me, Stuart? You can’t be everything. And I’m not willing to take less than that.” Keep your voice steady, she told herself. “If you get a divorce I’ll be with you… Will you?”

Now the seductive eyes lowered. “Yes.” A whisper.

“Now?”

“I can’t just now. It’s complicated.”

“No, Stuart. It’s really, really simple.” She rose. “If I don’t see you again, have a nice life.” She began walking away quickly, heading for Amelia’s town house, which was nearby.

Okay, maybe Amelia wouldn’t cry. But Pam could no longer hold the tears back. She walked straight down the sidewalk, eyes streaming, and—afraid she’d weaken—not daring to look back, not daring to think about what she’d done.

Though she did have one thought about the encounter, which she supposed someday she’d consider pretty funny: What a sucky parting line that was. Wish I’d come up with something better.