Sunday, 5:45 a.m., to Monday, 7:00 p.m. 3 page

Yes! he thought, his heart thudding: The Collect had been filled in because it had grown so polluted the city commissioners considered it a major health risk. And among the main polluters were the tanneries on the eastern shore!

Pretty good with the dialer now, Rhyme didn’t flub a single number and got put through to the mayor on the first try. Hizzoner, though, the man’s personal secretary said, was at a brunch at the UN. But when Rhyme identified himself the secretary said, “One minute, sir,” and in much less time than that he found himself on the line with a man who said, through a mouthful of food, “Talk to me, detective. How the fuck’re we doing?”

“Five-eight-eight-five, K,” Amelia Sachs said, answering the radio. Rhyme heard the edginess in her voice.

“Sachs.”

“This isn’t good,” she told him. “We’re not having any luck.”

“I think I’ve got him.”

“What?”

“The six-hundred block, East Van Brevoort. Near Chinatown.”

“How’d you know?”

“The mayor put me in touch with the head of the Historical Society. There’s an archaeologic dig down there. An old graveyard. Across the street from where a big tannery used to be. And there were some big Federal mansions in the area at one time. I think he’s nearby.”

“I’m rolling.”

Through the speakerphone he heard a squeal of tires, then the siren cut in.

“I’ve called Lon and Haumann,” he added. “They’re on their way over now.”

“Rhyme,” her urgent voice crackled. “I’ll get her out.”

Ah, you’ve got a cop’s good heart, Amelia, a professional heart, Rhyme thought. But you’re still just a rookie. “Sachs?” he said.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been reading this book. Eight twenty-three’s picked a bad one for this role model of his. Really bad.”

She said nothing.

“What I’m saying is,” he continued, “whether the girl’s there or not, if you find him and he so much as flinches, you nail him.”

“But we get him alive, he can lead us to her. We can—”

“No, Sachs. Listen to me. You take him out. Any sign he’s going for a weapon, anything ... you take him out.”

Static clattered. Then he heard her steady voice, “I’m at Van Brevoort, Rhyme. You were right. Looks like his place.”

Eighteen unmarkeds, two ESU vans and Amelia Sachs’s RRV were clustered near a short, deserted street on the Lower East Side.

East Van Brevoort looked like it was in Sarajevo. The buildings were abandoned—two of them burned to the ground. On the east side of the street was a dilapidated hospital of some kind, its roof caved in. Next to it was a large hole in the ground, roped off, with a No Trespassing sign emblazoned with the County Court seal—the archaeologic dig Rhyme had mentioned. A scrawny dog had died and lay in the gutter, its corpse picked over by rats.

In the middle of the other side of the street was a marble-fronted townhouse, faintly pink, with an attached carriage house, marginally nicer than the other decrepit tenements along Van Brevoort.

Sellitto, Banks and Haumann stood beside the ESU van, as a dozen officers suited up in Kevlar and racked their M-16s. Sachs joined them and, without asking, tucked her hair under a helmet and started to vest up.

Sellitto said, “Sachs, you’re not tactical.”

Slapping the Velcro strap down, she stared at the detective, eyebrow lifted high, until he relented and said, “Okay. But you’re rear guard. That’s an order.”

Haumann said, “You’ll be Team Two.”

“Yessir. I can live with that.”

One ESU cop offered her an MP-5 machine gun. She thought about Nick—their date on the range at Rodman’s Neck. They’d spent two hours practicing with automatic weapons, firing Z-patterns through doors, flip-reloading with taped banana clips and field-stripping M-16s to clear the sand jams that plagued the Colts. Nick loved the staccato clutter but Sachs didn’t much like the messy firepower of the big weapons. She’d suggested a match between them with Glocks and had whupped him three straight at fifty feet. He laughed and kissed her hard as the last of her empty casings spun, ringing, onto the firing range.

“I’ll just use my sidearm,” she told the ESU officer.

The Hardy Boys ran up, crouching as if they were mindful of snipers.

“Here’s what we’ve got. There’s nobody around. Block is—”

“Completely empty.”

“The windows of his building’re all barred. A back entrance—”

“Leading into the alley. The door’s open.”

“Open?” Haumann asked, glancing at several of his officers.

Saul confirmed, “Not just unlocked but open.”

“Booby traps?”

“Not that we could see. Which isn’t to say—”

“There aren’t any.”

Sellitto asked, “Any vehicles in the alley?”

“Nope.”

“Two front entrances. Main front door—”

“Which looks painted shut. The second’s the carriage-house doors. Double, wide enough for two vehicles. There’s a padlock and chain.”

“But they’re lying on the ground.”

Haumann nodded, “So maybe he’s inside.”

“Maybe,” Saul said, then added, “And tell him what we think we heard.”

“Very faint. Could have been crying.”

“Could have been screaming.”

Sachs asked, “The little girl?”

“Maybe. But then it just stopped. How’d Rhyme figure this place?”

“You tell me how his mind works,” Sellitto said.

Haumann called one of his commanders and issued a series of orders. A moment later two ESU vans pulled into the intersection and blocked the other end of the street.

“Team One, front door. Blow it with cutting charges. It’s wood and it’s old so keep the plastic down, okay? Team Two, into the alley. On my three, you go. Got it? Neutralize but we’re assuming the girl’s in there so check your backdrops ’fore you squeeze. ‘Officer Sachs, you’re sure you want to do this?”

A firm nod.

“Okay, boys and girls. Go get him.”

THIRTY-TWO

SACHS AND THE FIVE OTHER OFFICERS of Team Two ran into the torrid alley, which had been blocked off by ESU trucks. Renegade weeds grew profusely through the cobblestones and cracked foundations and the desolation reminded Sachs of the train-track grave yesterday morning.

He hoped the victim was dead. For his sake ...

Haumann had ordered troopers onto the roofs of the surrounding buildings, and she saw the muzzles of their black Colts bristling like antennae.

The team paused at the rear doorway. Her fellow cops glanced at Sachs as she checked the rubber bands over her shoes. Heard one of them whisper to another something about superstition.

Then she heard through her earphone:

“Team One leader at front door, charge mounted and armed. We are clear, K.”

“Roger, Team One leader. Team Two?”

“Team Two, in position, K.”

“Roger, Team Two leader. Both teams, dynamic entry. On my three.”

Checked her weapon one last time.

“One ...”

Her tongue touched a dot of sweat hanging from the swollen wound on her lip.

“Two ...”

Okay, Rhyme, here we go ...

“Three!”

The explosion was very sedate, a distant pop, and then the teams were moving. Fast. She sprinted along behind the ESU troopers as they slipped inside and scattered, their muzzle-mounted flashlights crisscrossing the shafts of brilliant sunlight that streamed through the windows. Sachs found herself alone as the rest of the team dispersed, checking out armoires and closets and the shadows behind the grotesque statues the place was filled with.

She turned the corner. A pale face loomed. A knife ...

A thud in her heart. Combat stance, gun up. She laid five pounds of pressure on the slick trigger before she realized she was staring at a painting on the wall. An eerie, moon-faced butcher, holding a knife in one hand, a slab of meat in the other.

Brother ...

He picked a great place for home.

The ESU troops clopped upstairs, searching the first and second floors.

But Sachs was looking for something else.

She found the door leading down to the basement. Partly open. Okay. Halogen off. You’ve got to take a look first. But she remembered what Nick had said: never look around corners at head or chest level—that’s where he’s expecting you. Down on one knee. A deep breath. Go!

Nothing. Blackness.

Back to cover.

Listen ...

At first she heard nothing. Then there was a definite scratching. A clatter. The sound of a fast breath or grunt.

He’s there and he’s digging his way out!

Into her mike she said, “I’ve got activity in the basement. Backup.”

“Roger.”

But she couldn’t wait. She thought of the little girl down there with him. And she started down the stairs. Paused and listened again. Then she realized she was standing with her body fully exposed from the waist down. She practically leapt down to the floor, dropped into a crouch in the darkness.

Breathe deep.

Now, do it!

The halogen in her “left hand stabbed a brilliant rod of light through the room. The muzzle of her weapon targeted the center of the white disk as it swung left to right. Keep the beam down. He’d be at crotch level too. Remembering what Nick had told her: Perps don’t fly.

Nothing. No sign of him.

“Officer Sachs?”

An ESU trooper was at the top of the stairs.

“Oh, no,” she muttered, as her beam fell on Pammy Ganz, frozen in the corner of the basement.

“Don’t move,” she called to the trooper.

Inches away from the girl stood the pack of emaciated wild dogs, sniffing at her face, her fingers, her legs. The girl’s wide eyes darted from one animal to the other. Her tiny chest rose and fell and tears streamed down her face. Her mouth was open and the dot of her pink tongue seemed glued to the right arc of her lip.

“Stay up there,” she said to the ESU trooper. “Don’t spook ’em.”

Sachs drew targets but didn’t fire. She could kill two or three but the others might panic and grab the girl. One was big enough to snap her neck with a single flip of its scarred, mangy head.

“Is he down there?” the ESU cop asked.

“Don’t know. Get a medic here. To the top of the stairs. Nobody come down.”

“Roger.”

Her weapon sights floating from one animal to another, Sachs slowly started forward. One by one the dogs became aware of her and turned away from Pammy. The little girl was merely food; Sachs was a predator. They growled and snarled, front legs quivering as their hindquarters tensed, ready to jump.

“I’m ascared,” Pammy said shrilly, drawing their attention again.

“Shhhh, honey,” Sachs cooed. “Don’t say anything. Be quiet.”

“Mommy. I want my mommy!” Her abrasive howl set the dogs off. They danced in place, and swung their battered noses from right to left, growling.

“Easy, easy ...”

Sachs moved to the left. The dogs were facing her now, glancing from her eyes to her outstretched hand and the gun. They separated into two packs. One stayed close to Pammy. The other moved around Sachs, trying to flank her.

She eased between the little girl and the three dogs closest to her.

The Glock swinging back and forth, a pendulum. Their black eyes on the black gun.

One dog, with a scabby yellow coat, snarled and stepped forward on Sachs’s right.

The little girl was whimpering, “Mommy ...”

Sachs moved slowly. She leaned down, clamped her hand on the child’s sweatshirt and dragged Pammy behind her. The yellow dog moved closer.

“Shoo,” Sachs said.

Closer still.

“Go away!”

The dogs behind the yellow one tensed as he bared cracked brown teeth.

“Get the fuck outa here!” Sachs snarled and slammed the barrel of the Glock onto his nose. The dog blinked in dismay, yelped, skittered up the stairs.

Pammy screamed, sending the others into a frenzy. They started fighting among themselves, a whirlwind of snapping teeth and slaver. A scarred Rottweiler tossed a dustmop of a mutt to the floor in front of Sachs. She stamped her foot beside the scrawny brown thing and he skittered to his feet, raced up the stairs. The others chased him like greyhounds after a rabbit.

Pammy began to sob. Sachs crouched beside her and swept the basement again with her light. No sign of the unsub.

“It’s okay, honey. We’ll have you home soon. You’ll be all right. That man here? You remember him?”

She nodded.

“Did he leave?”

“I don’t know. I want my mommy.”

She heard the other officers call in. The first and second floors were secure. “The car and taxi?” Sachs asked. “Any sign?”

A trooper transmitted, “They’re gone. He’s probably left.”

He’s not there, Amelia. That would be illogical.

From the top of the stairs an officer called, “Basement secure?’’

She said, “I’m going to check. Hold on.”

“We’re coming down.”

“Negative on that,” she said. “We’ve got a pretty clean crime scene here and I want to keep it that way. Just get a medic down here to check out the little girl.”

The young medic, a sandy-haired man, walked down the stairs and crouched beside Pammy.

It was then that Sachs saw the trail leading into the back of the basement—to a low, black-painted metal door. She walked to it, avoiding the path itself to save the prints, and crouched down. The door was partly open and there seemed to be a tunnel on the other side, dark but not completely black, leading to another building.

An escape route. The son of a bitch.

With the knuckles of her left hand she pushed the door open wider. It didn’t squeak. She peered into the tunnel. Faint light, twenty, thirty feet away. No moving shadows.

If Sachs saw anything in the dimness it was T.J.’s contorted body dangling from the black pipe, Monelle Gerger’s round, limp body as the black rat crawled toward her throat.

“Portable 5885 to CP,” Sachs said into her mike.

“Go ahead, K,” Haumann’s terse voice responded.

“I’ve got a tunnel leading to the building south of the unsub’s. Have somebody cover the doors and windows.”

“Will do, K.”

“I’m going in,” she told him.

“The tunnel? We’ll get you some backup, Sachs.”

“Negative. I don’t want the scene contaminated. Just have somebody keep an eye on the girl.”

“Say again.”

“No. No backup.”

She clicked the light out and started crawling.

There’d been no courses in tunnel-rat work at the academy of course. But the things Nick had told her about securing a unfriendly scene came back to her. Weapon close to the body, not extended too far, where it could be knocked aside. Three steps—well, shuffles—forward, pause. Listen. Two more steps. Pause. Listen. Four steps next time. Don’t do anything predictable.

Hell, it’s dark.

And what’s that smell? She shivered in disgust at the hot, foul stink.

The claustrophobia wrapped around her like a cloud of oil smoke and she had to stop for a moment, concentrating on anything but the closeness of the walls. The panic slipped away but the smell was worse. She gagged.

Quiet, girl. Quiet!

Sachs controlled the reflex and kept going.

And what’s that noise? Something electrical. A buzzing. Rising and falling.

Ten feet from the end of the tunnel. Through the doorway she could see a second large basement. Murky though not quite as dark as the one Pammy had been in. Light leached in through a greasy window. She saw motes of dust pedaling through the gloom.

No, no, girl, the gun’s too far in front of you. One kick and it’s gone. Close to your face. Keep your weight low and back! Use your arms to aim, ass for support.

Then she was at the doorway.

She gagged again, tried to stifle the sound.

Is he waiting for me, or not?

Head out, a fast look. You’ve got a helmet. It’ll deflect anything but a full-metal or Teflon and remember he’s shooting a .32. A girl gun.

All right. Think. Look which way first?

The Patrolman’s Guide wasn’t any help and Nick wasn’t offering any advice at the moment. Flip a coin.

Left.

She stuck her head out fast, glancing to the left. Back into the tunnel.

She’d seen nothing. A blank wall, shadows.

If he’s the other way he’s seen me and’s got good target positioning.

Okay, fuck. Just go. Fast.

When you move ...

Sachs leapt.

... they can’t getcha.

She hit the ground hard, rolling. Twisting around.

The figure was hidden in shadows against the wall to the right, under the window. Drawing a target she started to fire. Then froze.

Amelia Sachs gasped.

Oh, my God. ...

Her eyes were inexorably drawn to the woman’s body, propped up against the wall.

From the waist up she was thin, with dark-brown hair, a gaunt face, small breasts, bony arms. Her skin was covered with swarms of flies—the buzzing Sachs had heard.

From the waist down, she was ... nothing. Bloody hip bones, femur, the whip of her spine, feet ... All the flesh had been dissolved in the repulsive bath she rested next to—a horrible stew, deep brown, chunks of flesh floating in it. Lye or acid of some sort. The fumes stung Sachs’s eyes, while horror—and fury too—boiled in her heart.

Oh, you poor thing ...

Sachs waved pointlessly at the flies that strafed the new intruder.

The woman’s hands were relaxed, palms upward as if she were meditating. Eyes closed, A purple jogging outfit lay by her side.

She wasn’t the only victim.

Another skeleton—completely stripped—lay beside a similar vat, older, empty of the terrible acid but coated with a dark sludge of blood and melted muscle. Its forearm and hand were missing. And beyond that was another one—this victim picked apart, the bones carefully scrubbed of all the flesh, cleaned, resting carefully on the floor. A stack of triple-ought sandpaper rested beside the skull. The elegant curve of the head shone like a trophy.

And then she heard it behind her.

A breath. Faint but unmistakable. The snap of air deep in a throat.

She spun around, furious at herself for her carelessness.

But the emptiness of the basement gaped back at her. She swept the light over the floor, which was stone and didn’t show footprints as clearly as the dirt floor in 823’s building next door.

Another inhalation.

Where was he? Where?

Sachs crouched further, sending the light sideways, up and down. ... Nothing.

Where the fuck is he? Another tunnel? An exit to the street?

Looking at the floor again she spotted what she thought was a faint trail, leading into the shadows of the room. She moved along beside it.

Pause. Listen.

Breathing?

Yes. No.

Stupidly she spun around and looked at the dead woman once more.

Come on!

Eyes back again.

Moving along the floor.

Nothing. How can I hear him and not see him?

The wall ahead of her was solid. No doors or windows. She backed up, toward the skeletons.

From somewhere, Lincoln Rhyme’s words came back. “Crime scenes’re three-dimensional.”

Sachs looked up suddenly, flashing the light in front of her. The huge Doberman’s teeth shone back—dangling bits of gray flesh. Two feet away on a high ledge. He was waiting, like a wildcat, for her.

Neither of them moved for a moment. Absolutely frozen.

Then Sachs instinctively dropped her head and, before she could bring her weapon up, he launched himself toward her face. His teeth connected with the helmet. Gripping the strap in his mouth, he shook furiously, trying to break her neck as they fell backwards, onto the edge of an acid-filled pit. The pistol flew from her hand.

The dog kept his grip on her helmet while his hind legs galloped, his claws digging into her vest and belly and thighs. She hit him hard with her fists but it was like slugging wood; he didn’t feel the blows at all.

Releasing the helmet, he reared back then lunged for her face. She flung her left arm over her eyes and, as he grabbed her forearm and she felt his teeth clamp down on her skin, she slipped the switchblade from her pocket and shoved the blade between his ribs. There was a yelp, a high sound, and he rolled off her, kept moving, speeding straight for the doorway.

Sachs snagged her pistol and was after him in an instant, scrabbling through the tunnel. She burst out to see the wounded animal sprinting straight toward Pammy and the medic, who stood frozen as the Doberman leapt into the air.

Sachs dropped into a crouch and squeezed off two rounds. One hit the back of the animal’s head and the other streaked into the brick wall. The dog collapsed in a quivering pile at the medic’s feet.

“Shots fired,” she heard in her radio and a half-dozen troopers rushed down the stairs, pulled the dog away and deployed around the girl.

“It’s all right!” Sachs shouted. “It was me!”

The team rose from their defensive positions.

Pammy was screaming, “Doggie dead ... She made the doggie dead!”

Sachs holstered her weapon and hefted the girl onto her hip.

“Mommy!”

“You’ll see your mommy soon,” Sachs said. “We’re going to call her right now.”

Upstairs she set Pammy on the floor and turned to a young ESU officer standing nearby, “I lost my cuff key. Could you take those off her please? Open them over a piece of clean newspaper, wrap ’em up in the paper and put the whole thing in a plastic bag.”

The officer rolled his eyes. “Listen, beautiful, go find yourself a rookie to order around.” He started to walk away.

“Trooper,” Bo Haumann barked, “you’ll do what she says.”

“Sir,” he protested, “I’m ESU.”

“Got news,” Sachs muttered, “you’re Crime Scene now.”

Carole Ganz was lying on her back in a very beige bedroom, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the time a few weeks ago when she and Pammy and a bunch of friends were sitting around a campfire in Wisconsin at Kate and Eddie’s place, talking, telling stories, singing songs.

Kate’s voice wasn’t so hot but Eddie could’ve been a pro. He could even play barre chords. He sang Carole King’s “Tapestry” just for her and Carole sang along softly through her tears. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, she really was putting Ron’s death behind her and getting on with her life.

She remembered Kate’s voice from that night: “When you’re angry, the only way to deal with it is to wrap up that anger and give it away. Give it to somebody else. Do you hear me? Don’t keep it inside you. Give it away.”

Well, she was angry now. Furious.

Some young kid—a mindless little shit—had taken her husband away, shot him in the back. And now some crazy man had taken her daughter. She wanted to explode. And it took all her willpower not to start flinging things against the wall and howling like a coyote.

She lay back on the bed and gingerly placed her shattered wrist on her belly. She’d taken a Demerol, which had eased the pain, but she hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d done nothing but stay inside all day long, trying to get in touch with Kate and Eddie and waiting for news about Pammy.

She kept picturing Ron, kept picturing her anger, actually imagining herself packing it up in a box, wrapping it carefully, sealing it up ...

And then the phone rang. She stared for a moment then yanked it off the cradle.

“Hello?”

Carole listened to the policewoman tell her that they’d found Pammy, that she was in the hospital but that she was okay. A moment later Pammy herself came on the phone and they were both crying and laughing at the same time.

Ten minutes later she was on her way to Manhattan Hospital, in the back seat of a black police sedan.

Carole practically sprinted down the corridor to Pammy’s room and was surprised to be stopped by the police guard. So they hadn’t caught the fucker yet? But as soon as she saw her daughter she forgot about him, forgot the terror in the taxi and the fiery basement. She threw her arms around her little girl.

“Oh, honey, I missed you! Are you okay? Really okay?”

“That lady, she killed a doggie—”

Carole turned and saw the tall, red-haired policewoman standing nearby, the one who’d saved her from the church basement.

“—but it was all right because he was going to eat me.”

Carole hugged Sachs. “I don’t know what to say. ... I just ... Thank you, thank you.”

“Pammy’s fine,” Sachs assured her. “Some scratches—nothing serious—and she’s got a little cough.”

“Mrs. Ganz?” A young man walked into the room, carrying her suitcase and yellow knapsack. “I’m Detective Banks. We’ve got your things here.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“Is anything missing?” he asked her.

She looked through the knapsack carefully. It was all there. The money, Pammy’s doll, the package of clay, the Mr. Potato Head, the CDs, the clock radio ... He hadn’t taken anything. Wait ...”You know, I think there’s a picture missing. I’m not sure. I thought I had more than these. But everything important’s here.”

The detective gave her a receipt to sign.

A young resident stepped into the room. He joked with Pammy about her Pooh bear as he took her blood pressure.

Carole asked him, “When can she leave?”

“Well, we’d like to keep her in for a few days. Just to make sure—”

“A few days? But she’s fine.”

“She’s got a bit of bronchitis I want to keep an eye on. And ...” He lowered his voice. “We’re also going to bring in an abuse specialist. Just to make sure.”

“But she was going to go with me tomorrow. To the UN ceremonies. I promised her.”

The policewoman added, “It’s easier to keep her guarded here. We don’t know where the unsub—the kidnapper—is. We’ll have an officer babysitting you too.”

“Well, I guess. Can I stay with her for a while?”

“You bet,” the resident said. “You can stay the night. We’ll have a cot brought in.”

Then Carole was alone with her daughter once more. She sat down on the bed and put her arm around the child’s narrow shoulders. She had a bad moment remembering how he, that crazy man, had touched Pammy. How his eyes had looked when he’d asked if he could cut her own skin off ... Carole shivered and began to cry.

It was Pammy who brought her back. “Mommy, tell me a story. ... No, no, sing me something. Sing me the friend song. Pleeeeease?”

Calming down, Carole asked, “You want to hear that one, hm?”

“Yes!”

Carole hoisted the girl onto her lap and, in a reedy voice, started to sing “You’ve Got a Friend.” Pammy sang snatches of it along with her.

It had been one of Ron’s favorites and, in the past couple years, after he was gone, she hadn’t been able to listen to more than a few bars without breaking into tears.

Today, she and Pammy finished it together, pretty much on key, dry-eyed and laughing.

THIRTY-THREE

AMELIA SACHS FINALLY WENT HOME to her apartment in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.

Exactly six blocks from her parents’ house, where her mother still lived. As soon as she walked in she hit the first speed-dial button on the kitchen phone.

“Mom. Me. I’m taking you to brunch at the Plaza. Wednesday. That’s my day off.”

“What for? To celebrate your new assignment? How is Public Affairs? You didn’t call.”

A fast laugh. Sachs realized her mother had no idea what she’d been doing for the past day and a half.

“You been following the news, Mom?”

“Me? I’m Brokaw’s secret admirer, you know that.”

“You hear about this kidnapper the last few days?”

“Who hasn’t? ... What’re you telling me, honey?”

“I’ve got the inside scoop.”

And she told her astonished mother the story—about saving the vics and about Lincoln Rhyme and, with some editing, about the crime scenes.

“Amie, your father’d be so proud.”

“So, call in sick on Wednesday. The Plaza. OK?”

“Forget it, sweetheart. Save your money. I’ve got waffles and Bob Evans in the freezer. You can come here.”

“It’s not that expensive, Mom.”

“Not that much? It’s a fortune.”

“Well, hey,” Sachs said, trying to sound spontaneous, “you like the Pink Teacup, don’t you?”

A little place in the West Village that served up platters of the best pancakes and eggs on the East Coast for next to nothing.

A pause.

“That might be nice.”

This was a strategy Sachs had used successfully over the years.

“I’ve gotta get some rest, Mom. I’ll call tomorrow.”

“You work too hard. Amie, this case of yours ... it wasn’t dangerous, was it?”

“I was just doing the technical stuff, Mom. Crime scene. It doesn’t get any safer than that.”

“And they asked for you especially!” the woman said. Then repeated, “Your father’d be so proud.”

They hung up and Sachs wandered into the bedroom, flopped down on the bed.

After she’d left Pammy’s room Sachs had paid visits to the other two surviving victims of Unsub 823. Monelle Gerger, dotted with bandages and pumped full of anti-rabies serum, had been released and was returning to her family in Frankfurt “but just for rest of summer,” she explained adamantly. “Not, you know, for good.” And she’d pointed to her stereo and CD collection in the decrepit apartment in the Deutsche Haus by way of proving that no New World psycho was driving her permanently out of town.

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 770