Rhyme said slowly, “Okay. Let’s say the diver was Person Y—the hit man hired by Person X. What would he be after? He wants me dead. He doesn’t want to steal my identity.”

His eyes turned to Thom. He whispered, “Receipts! He could find out where you shop for groceries and what you buy.”

The aide whispered, “Evans Market. Where I just was.”

Sellitto asked, “Did you use a cart when you shopped?”

“Yes.”

Rhyme said, “And at some point you must’ve left it unattended.”

“Never for more than a minute or so, but I did, yes.”

Rhyme said, “The drone was a distraction. We concentrate on that and he slips something into my food. Injection. What did you buy?”

“Apples, lemons, tomatoes, asparagus, steaks, chicken. Jars of pasta sauce, cheese. Wine.”

Rhyme said, “He’d target fresh fruits or vegetables. Meat you might freeze. We’d have to eat the produce now. Eliminate the lemons—I wouldn’t ingest enough toxin to cause much harm. Asparagus? No. Too thin to hold much poison. Apples would be too dense. Tomatoes’d be perfect. Mel, full protective gear and go get them. I want every centimeter of the skin examined. The compound scope. Four power.”

Cooper did as instructed and was soon rotating the large red sphere slowly under the microscope’s lens.

In the non-sterile portion of the parlor, Rhyme, Sellitto and Thom were staring at the high-definition monitor.

Suddenly, Cooper stopped the orbit. “There, upper left.”

“That’s it, right.” Rhyme was nodding.

They were looking at a pinprick in the skin.

“Put it in a protective container, seal it.”

The tech did so.

“Go over the others too.”

Ten minutes of further examination revealed that it was only the one tomato that had been tainted.

“Clever son of a bitch,” Sellitto muttered. “Had us focused on the drone and he slipped poison in right under our noses.”

Rhyme first heard then, on the monitor, saw Sachs’s red Ford Torino pull up in front of the house. She climbed from the sleek car, decades-old, and went to the trunk, from which she collected a box of evidence.

She carried the carton to the front door, which Thom opened for her.

“Looks impressive,” she said, eyeing the security scanners. “Are they doing any good?”

Rhyme laughed. “Actually, no. Didn’t stop the attempted poisoning or the aerial bomb attack.”

“I’m sorry?” She was frowning.

Rhyme explained about the drone and the injected tomato.

“Not your average criminal mind.”

Sellitto nodded to the sensors. “We’ll have to run everything through.”

“You think Velasquez’s involved? One of his crew is Person Y?”

“Ninety-nine percent no,” Sellitto said. “And our boy’s had his shot. He missed and I’ll bet he’s headed out of town. But”—a nod at the scanners—“let’s just stay on the safe side until we know for sure.”

After donning gloves, Sellitto opened each evidence bag and ran them through the machines.

Rhyme asked Sachs what had happened in Spanish Harlem.

“A blue-and-white was responding to a possible drug deal. The uniforms roll up and spot this guy looking suspicious, walking away from Velasquez’s club. He’s carrying a paper grocery bag. He sees the blue-and-white, panics. Tosses the bag and ditches his burner. He took off. Still haven’t found him.”