hat then is time? If no one asks me, I know what it is. If I wish to explain it to him who asks, I do not know.

— SAINT AUGUSTINE

The December day wasn't particularly cold but the ancient furnace in Rhyme's town house was on the fritz and everyone in his ground floor lab huddled in thick jackets. Clouds of steam blew from their mouths with every exhalation, and extremities were bright red. Amelia Sachs wore two sweaters and Pulaski was in a padded green jacket from which dangled Killington ski lift tickets like a veteran soldier's campaign medals.

A skier cop, Rhyme reflected. That seemed odd, though he couldn't say why exactly. Maybe something about the dangers of hurtling down a mountain with a hair-trigger 9-millimeter pistol under your bunny suit.

"Where's the furnace repair guy?" Rhyme snapped to his aide.

"He said he'll be here between one and five." Thom was wearing a tweed jacket, which Rhyme had given him last Christmas, and a dark purple cashmere scarf, which had been one of Sachs's presents.

"Ah, between one and five. One and five. Tell you what. Call him back and —"

"That's what he told —"

"No, listen. Call him back and tell him we got a report there's a crazed killer loose in his neighborhood and we'll be there to catch him between one and five. See how he likes them apples."

"Lincoln," the patient aide said. "I don't —"

"Does he know what we do here? Does he know that we serve and protect? Call him and tell him that."

Pulaski noted that Thom wasn't reaching for the phone. He asked, "Uhm, you want me to? Call, I mean?"

Ah, the sincerity of youth...

Thom replied to the young officer, "Don't pay him any attention. He's like a dog jumping up on you. Ignore him and he'll stop."

"A dog?" Rhyme asked. "I'm a dog. That's a bit ironic, isn't it, Thom? Since here you are biting the hand that feeds you." Pleased with the retort, he added, "Tell the repairman I think I'm suffering from hypothermia. I really think I am, by the way."

"So you can feel —" the rookie asked, his question braking to a halt.

"Yes, I goddamn well can feel uncomfortable, Pulaski."

"Sorry, wasn't thinking."

"Hey," Thom said, laughing. "Congratulations!"

"What's that?" the rookie asked.

"You've graduated to last-name basis. He's beginning to think of you as a step above a slug... That's how he refers to the people he really likes. I, for instance, am merely Thom. Forever Thom."

"But," Sachs said to the rookie, " tell him you're sorry again and you'll be demoted."

The doorbell sounded a moment later and first-name Thom went to answer it.

Rhyme glanced at the clock. The time was 1:02. Could it be that a repairman was actually prompt?

But, of course, this wasn't the case. It was Lon Sellitto, who walked inside, started to take his coat off, then changed his mind. He glanced at his breath billowing from his mouth. "Jesus, Linc, with what the city coughs up for you, you can afford to pay your heating bill, you know. Is that coffee? Is it hot?"

Thom poured him a cup and Sellitto clutched it in one hand as he opened his briefcase with the other. "Finally got it." He nodded at what he now extracted, an old Redweld folder disfigured with faded ink and pencil notations, many of the entries crossed out, evidence of years of frugal municipal government reuse.

"The Luponte file?" Rhyme asked.

"That's it."

"I wanted it last week," the criminalist grumbled, the inside of his nose stinging from the cold. Maybe he'd tell the repairman he'd pay the bill in one to five months. He glanced at the folder. "I'd almost given up. I know how much you love clichés, Lon. Does the phrase 'day late and a dollar short' come to mind?"

"Naw," the detective said amiably, "the one I'm thinking of is 'If you do somebody a favor and they complain, then fuck 'em.'"

"That's a good one," conceded Lincoln Rhyme.

"Anyway, you didn't tell me how classified it was. I had to find that out on my own, and I needed Ron Scott to track it down."

Rhyme was staring at the detective as he opened the file and browsed through it. He felt an acute sense of uneasiness, wondering what he would find inside. Could be good, could be devastating. "There should be an official report. Find it."

Sellitto dug through the folder. He held up the document. On the cover was an old typewritten label that read!!!Anthony C. Luponte, Deputy Commissioner!!!. The folder was sealed with a fading piece of red tape that said,!!!Classified.

"Should I open it?" he asked.

Rhyme rolled his eyes.

"Linc, tell me when the good mood's going to kick in, will you?"

"Put it on the turning frame. Please and thank you."

Sellitto ripped open the tape and handed the booklet to Thom.

The aide mounted the report in a device like a cookbook holder, to which was attached a rubber armature that turned the pages when instructed by a tiny movement from Rhyme's finger on his ECU touch pad. He now began to flip through the document, reading and trying to quell the tension within him.

"Luponte?" Sachs looked up from an evidence table.

Another page turned. "That's it."

He kept reading paragraph after paragraph of dense city government talk.

Oh, come on, he thought angrily. Get to the goddamn point...

Would the message be good or bad?

"Something about the Watchmaker?" Sachs asked.

So far, there'd been no leads to the man, either in New York or in California, where Kathryn Dance had started her own investigation.

Rhyme said, "It doesn't have anything to do with him."

Sachs shook her head. "But that's why you wanted it."

"No, you assumed that's why I wanted it."

"What's it about then, one of the other cases?" she asked. Her eyes went to the evidence boards, which revealed the progress of several cold cases they'd been investigating.

"Not those."

"Then what?"

"I could tell you a lot sooner if I wasn't interrupted so much."

Sachs sighed.

At last he came to the section he sought. He paused, looked out the window at the stark brown branches populating Central Park. He believed in his heart that the report would tell him what he wanted to hear but Lincoln Rhyme was a scientist before all else and distrusted the heart.!!!Truth is the only goal...

What truths would the words reveal to him?

He looked back at the frame and read the passage quickly. Then again.

After a moment he said to Sachs, "I want to read you something."

"Okay. I'm listening."

His right finger moved on the touch pad and the pages flipped back. "This is from the first page. Listening?"

"I said I was."

"Good. 'This proceeding is and shall be kept secret. From June eighteenth to June twenty-ninth, ninety seventy-four, a dozen New York City police officers were indicted by a grand jury for extorting money from shopkeepers and businessmen in Manhattan and Brooklyn and accepting bribes to fail to pursue criminal investigations. Additionally, four officers were indicted for assault pursuant to these acts of extortion. Those twelve officers were members of what was known as the Sixteenth Avenue Club, a name that has become synonymous with the heinous crime of police corruption.'"

Rhyme heard Sachs take a fast breath. He looked up and found her staring at the file the way a child stares at a snake in the backyard.

He continued reading. "'There is no trust greater than that between the citizens of these United States and the law enforcement officers who are charged with protecting them. The officers of the Sixteenth Avenue Club committed an inexcusable breach of this sacred trust and not only perpetuated the crimes they were meant to prevent but brought inestimable shame upon their courageous and self-sacrificing brothers and sisters in uniform.

"'Accordingly, I, the Mayor of the City of New York, hereby bestow upon the following officers the Medal for Valor for their efforts in bringing these criminals to justice: Patrolman Vincent Pazzini, Patrolman Herman Sachs and Detective Third-Grade Lawrence Koepel.'"

"What?" Sachs whispered.

Rhyme continued reading. "Each of these officers risked his life on a number of occasions by working undercover to provide information instrumental in identifying the perpetrators and gathering evidence to be used in their trials. Because of the dangerous nature of this assignment, these commendations are being presented in a closed proceeding, and this record will be sealed, for the safety of these three courageous officers and their families. But they should rest assured that, although the praises for their efforts are not being sung in public, the gratitude of the city is no less.'"

Amelia Sachs was staring at him. "He —?"

Rhyme nodded at the file. "Your father was one of the good guys, Sachs. He was one of the three who got away. Only they weren't perps; they were working for Internal Affairs. He was to the Sixteenth Avenue Club just what you were to the St. James crew, only he was undercover."

"How did you know?"

"I didn't know. I remembered something about the Luponte report and the corruption trials but I didn't know your father was involved. That's why I wanted to see it."

"How 'bout that," Sellitto said through a mouthful of coffee cake.

"Keep looking, Lon. There's something else."

The detective dug through the folder and found a certificate and a medal. It was an NYPD Medal for Valor, one of the highest commendations given by the department. Sellitto handed it to Sachs. Her full lips parted, eyes squinting, as she read the unframed parchment document, which bore her father's name. The decoration swung from her unsteady fingers.

"Hey, that's sweet," said Pulaski, pointing at the certificate. "Look at all those scrolls and things."

Rhyme nodded toward the folder on the turning frame. "It's all in there, Sachs. His handler at Internal Affairs had to make sure that the other cops believed him. He gave your dad a couple thousand a month to spread around, make it seem like he was on the take too. He had to be credible — if anybody thought he was an informant, he could've been killed, especially with Tony Gallante involved. IAD started a fake investigation on him so it'd look believable. That's the case they dropped for insufficient evidence. They worked out a deal with Crime Scene so that the chain-of-custody cards were lost."

Sachs lowered her head. Then she gave a soft laugh. "Dad was always the modest one. It was just like him — the highest commendation he ever got was secret. He never said a thing about it."

"You can read all the details. Your father said he'd wear a wire, he'd give all the information they needed about Gallante and the other capos involved. But he'd never testify in open court. He wasn't going to jeopardize you and your mother."

She was staring at the medal, which swung back and forth — like a pendulum of a clock, Rhyme thought wryly.

Finally Lon Sellitto rubbed his hands together. "Listen, glad for the happy news," he grumbled. "But how 'bout we get the hell out of here and go over to Manny's. I could use some lunch. And, guess what? I'll bet they pay their heating bill."

"I'd love to," Rhyme said, with a sincerity that he believed masked his absolute lack of desire to be outside, negotiating the icy streets in his wheelchair. "But I'm writing an op ed piece for the Times." He nodded at his computer. "Besides, I have to wait here for the repairman." He shook his head. "One to five."

Thom started to say something — undoubtedly to urge Rhyme to go anyway — but it was Sachs who said, "Sorry. Other plans."

Rhyme said, "If it involves ice and snow, I'm not interested." He supposed she and the girl, Pammy Willoughby, were planning another outing with the girl's adoptee, Jackson the Havanese.

But Amelia Sachs apparently had a different agenda. "It does," she said. "Involve snow and ice, I mean." She laughed and kissed him on the mouth. "But what it doesn't involve is you."

"Thank God," Lincoln Rhyme said, blowing a stream of wispy breath toward the ceiling and turning back to the computer screen.

"You."

"Hey, Detective, how you doing?" Amelia Sachs asked.

Art Snyder gazed at her from the doorway of his bungalow. He looked better than when she'd seen him last — when he was lying in the backseat of his van. He wasn't any less angry, though. His red eyes were fixed on hers.

But when your profession involves getting shot at from time to time, a few glares mean nothing. Sachs gave a smile. "I just came by to say thanks."

"Yeah, for what?" He held a coffee mug that clearly didn't contain coffee. She saw that a number of bottles had reappeared on the sideboard. She noted too that none of the Home Depot projects had progressed.

"We closed the St. James case."

"Yeah, I heard."

"Kind of cold out here, Detective," she said.

"Honey?" A stocky woman with short brown hair and a cheerful, resilient face called from the kitchen doorway.

"Just somebody from department."

"Well, invite her in. I'll make coffee."

"She's a busy lady," Snyder said sourly. "Running all over town, doing all kinds of things, asking questions. She probably can't stay."

"I'm freezing my ass off out here."

"Art! Let her in."

He sighed, turned and walked inside, leaving Sachs to follow him and close the door herself. She dropped her coat on a chair.

Snyder's wife joined them. The women shook hands. "Give her the comfy chair, Art," she scolded.

Sachs sat in the well-worn Barcalounger, Snyder on the couch, which sighed under his weight. He left the volume up on the TV, which displayed a frantic, high-definition basketball game.

His wife brought two cups of coffee.

"None for me," Snyder said, looking at the mug.

"I've already poured it. You want me to throw it out? Waste good coffee?" She left it on the table beside him and returned to the kitchen, where garlic was frying.

Sachs sipped the strong coffee in silence, Snyder staring at ESPN. His eyes followed a basketball from its launchpad outside the three-point line; his fist clenched minutely when it swished in.

A commercial came on. He changed channels to celebrity poker.

Sachs remembered that Kathryn Dance had mentioned the power of silence in getting somebody to talk. She sat, sipping, looking at him, not saying a word.

Finally, irritated, Snyder asked, "The St. James thing?"

"Uh-huh."

"I read it was Dennis Baker behind it. And the deputy mayor."

"Yep."

"I met Baker a few times. Seemed okay. Him being on the bag surprised me." Concern crossed Snyder's face. "Homicides too? Sarkowski and that other guy?"

She nodded. "And an attempt." She didn't share that she herself had been the potential victim.

He shook his head. "Money's one thing. But offing people... that's a whole different ball game."

Amen.

Snyder asked, "Was one of perps that guy I told you about? Had a place in Maryland or something?"

She figured that he deserved some credit. "That was Wallace. But it wasn't a place. It was a thing." Sachs explained about Wallace's boat.

He gave a sour laugh. "No kidding. The Maryland Monroe? That's a pisser."

Sachs said, "Might not've broken the case if you hadn't helped."

Snyder had a millisecond of satisfaction. Then he remembered he was mad. He made a point of rising, with a sigh, and filling his mug with more whiskey. He sat down again. His coffee remained untouched. He channel-surfed some more.

"Can I ask you something?"

"I can stop you?" he muttered.

"You said you knew my father. Not many people're still around who did. I just wanted to ask you about him."

"The Sixteenth Avenue Club?"

"Nope. Don't want to know about that."

Snyder said, "He was lucky he got away."

"Sometimes you dodge the bullet."

"At least he cleaned up his act later. Heard he never got into any trouble after that."

"You said you worked with him. He didn't talk much about his job. I always wondered what it was like back then. Thought I'd write down a few things."

"For his grandkids?"

"Something like that."

Reluctantly Snyder said, "We never were partners."

"But you knew him."

A hesitation. "Yeah."

"Just tell me: What was the story on that commander... the crazy one? I always wanted to know the scoop."

"Which crazy one?" Snyder scoffed. "There were plenty."

"The one who sent the tactical team to the wrong apartment?"

"Oh. Caruthers?"

"I think that was him. Dad was one of the portables holding off the hostage-taker until ESU found the right place."

"Yeah, yeah. I was on that. What an asshole, Caruthers. The putz... Thank God nobody was hurt. Oh, and that was the same day he forgot the batteries in his bullhorn... One other thing about him: He'd send his boots out to be polished. He'd have the rookies do it, you know. And he'd tip 'em, like, a nickel. I mean, tipping uniforms is weird to start. But then five goddamn cents?"

The TV volume came down a few bars. Snyder laughed. "Hey, you wanta hear one story?"

"You bet."

"Well, your dad and me and a bunch of us, off duty, were going to the Garden, see a fight or game or something. And this kid comes up with a zip gun — you know what that is?"

She did. She said she didn't.

"Like a homemade gun. Holds a single twenty-two shell. And this poor fuck mugs us, you can believe it. He sticks us up right in the middle of Three-four Street. We're handing over wallets. Then your dad drops his billfold, accidental on purpose, you know what I'm saying? And the kid bends down to pick it up. When he stands up he shits — he's staring right into the muzzles of our pieces, four Smitties, cocked and ready to unload. The look on that kid's face... He said, 'Guess it ain't my day.' Is that classic or what? 'Guess it ain't my day.' Man, we laughed all night about that... " His face broke into a smile. "Oh, and one other thing..."

As he talked, Sachs nodded and encouraged him. In reality she knew many of these stories. Herman Sachs wasn't the least reluctant to talk to his daughter about his job. They'd spend hours in the garage, working on a transmission or fuel pump, while stories of a cop's life on the streets reeled past — planting the seeds for her own future.

But of course she wasn't here to learn family history. No, this was simply an officer-needs-assistance call, a 10-13 of the heart. Sachs had decided that former detective Art Snyder wasn't going down. If his supposed friends didn't want to see him because he'd helped nail the St. James crew, then she'd set him up with plenty of cops who would: herself, Sellitto, Rhyme and Ron Pulaski, Fred Dellray, Roland Bell, Nancy Simpson, Frank Rettig, a dozen others.

She asked him more questions and he replied — sometimes eagerly, sometimes with irritation, sometimes distracted, but always giving her something. A couple of times Snyder rose and refilled his mug with liquor and frequently he'd glance at his watch and then at her, his meaning clear: Don't you have someplace else to be?

But she just sat back comfortably in the Barcalounger, asked her questions and even told a few war stories of her own. Amelia Sachs wasn't going anywhere; she had all the time in the world.