“Tell him I’ll take a look.”

Fifteen minutes later the detective arrived. Gilligan, a slim, balding man, shook Sellitto’s hand then, as instructed, ran the two evidence bags through the security systems. Sellitto looked the readouts over and said, “All clear.”

Gilligan seemed reverential in Rhyme’s presence. “Honor to meet you, sir. I’ve followed your work for years.”

The criminalist greeted the awe as he usually did—that is, by ignoring it. He was looking at a half-dozen plastic evidence bags Gilligan carried in a carton. Inside were tools, a knife, several pieces of paper containing printed and handwritten numbers and words that Rhyme could not make out.

“Thanks for doing this, Captain Rhyme. The mayor’s beside himself. You can imagine. Every building in the city’s vulnerable.”

Sellitto asked, “Any threats from known risk elements?”

“No.”

“We’ll run it today,” Rhyme told him.

Gilligan handed off the evidence to Mel Cooper who set the bags on another workstation in the sterile portion of the lab.

The detective thanked the men again. “See you back at the office, Lon. We’re taking Mannie out after work. Birthday.”

“Think I’ll have to pass,” Sellitto muttered. “Got this thing we need to handle here.”

“Okay. Take it easy.”

A few minutes after Gilligan was gone, the door opened and Thom arrived from a trip to the grocery store. He started past the men in the parlor but Sellitto eyed his two grocery totes, frowned and said, “Uh-uh.”

“How’s that?” the aide asked.

Rhyme chuckled. “He thinks somebody might’ve snuck a hand grenade in with the avocados.”

Once the groceries passed the security check, Thom continued toward the kitchen, saying, “Don’t see them very much in the city.”

“See what?” Sellitto asked absently. On a large whiteboard, devoted to the DSE break-in, he was itemizing the evidence Andy Gilligan had delivered.

“Drones.”

“Because,” Mel Cooper called, “they’re illegal in Manhattan. A lot of other parts of the city too. I have one, but I go out to Long Island to fly it.”

“Well,” came the voice from the kitchen, “there’s one outside now.”

Rhyme shot a glance to Sellitto, who muttered, “Shit. Where?”

Thom appeared, his face troubled. He nodded. “Over the town house south of us.”

“What’s it look like?”

“Silver frame, four motors. Small, about a foot square. Foot and a half maybe.”

Sellitto’s phone was in his hand. He placed a call to NYPD Dispatch, gave his name and badge number and reported a possible 243 at Rhyme’s address.

It meant, in police codes, a threat involving a dangerous weapon.

“All the doors and windows locked?”

Thom assured, “They are.”

Rhyme said, “First floor windows’re bulletproof. But there’re a half-dozen in the back that aren’t.”

“Mel, you armed?”

“I am.”

Sellitto ordered, “Get out here and hang with Lincoln.”

Cooper did, stepping from the lab, pulling off the protective gear and checking his pistol, which he probably hadn’t fired in a year or two.

Sellitto was out the door, just as two RMPs—marked squad cars—screeched up in front of the house.