Sellitto said, “We’re lucky, we’ll get Velasquez’s prints or DNA on the happy powder bag.”

Rhyme asked, “What was the substance?”

“Haven’t tested it yet. Coke or smack. About a half key.”

There was enough white powder in the baggie to put its owner away for thirty years. Rhyme wondered if it could be traced to Velasquez. He would do everything he could to find out.

“It was hidden under some towels and newspapers.”

This was disappointing. Cloth was not the most helpful of substances in forensic analysis—you couldn’t lift prints from most types, and certainly not from terry cloth. But there was always the chance that trace substances were embedded in the fibers that might link the drugs to Velasquez. Perhaps they could get fingerprints off the paper bag and maybe even a DNA hit. Maybe the baggie would reveal something helpful but perps tended to be very careful when handling product.

Sellitto announced that the evidence wasn’t a danger, and Sachs replaced everything in the evidence bags.

She started toward the sterile portion of the lab, outside of which Mel Cooper, no longer playing the role of bodyguard, was once again dressing in protective gear. She was halfway to the glass door when a phone dinged with an incoming text alert.

It was the mobile that the drug runner had ditched outside of Velasquez’s social club.

Sellitto extracted the unit from the evidence bag.

He read, “Says: ‘I’m at Del’s, Atlantic Ave. Where are you?’ ” He gave a laugh. “Must be a buddy of the runner. He doesn’t know what happened at Velasquez’s. We gotta work this. Keep him in play.”

Sachs said, “Tell him . . .” She thought for a moment. “Say, ‘Meet me at the Irving Grill. Twenty-Second Street. We can celebrate.’ ”

“Good,” Sellitto said and slowly typed in the message. When he finished he looked up. “We’ll get a team there. Nothing to collar him for . . . yet. Maybe he’s got a weapon or some product. If it’s in plain view, we got probable cause.”

The detective, Sachs and Rhyme stared at the screen, which revealed only the three pulsing dots, telling them that the other party was typing.

It was then that the phone itself rang with an incoming call from an unknown number.

“I pick up?” Sellitto asked the others. Then he frowned. “Wait. What the hell?”

Rhyme too had heard what sounded like a soft pop from the phone. He was watching a faint white cloud puff from the side of the unit, which stopped ringing.

“The hell . . . ?” Sellitto looked down at the screen, “Another text . . . Jesus.”

Rhyme was close enough to read the message himself.

The powder’s botulinum toxin, Mr. Rhyme. In sixty seconds, everyone in the room will be either dead or in a coma from which they won’t recover. Goodbye.

—

In his dive of a safe house, Valentin Renard broke in half the phone he’d used to send Lincoln Rhyme the text about the poison. The pieces went into a bag for later disposal.