“Go on.” Rhyme turned his wheelchair to more fully face the man. Rhyme frequently hired on as a forensic consultant for PERT, the FBI’s physical evidence response team, but it was unusual to be contacted by the law enforcers before a crime had occurred.

“Wish it was more, but it’s little bitty, just a hint here, a hint there. And, soon as the snoopers got wind and tried to tune in for episode number two, it was gone. Skittering like a scared bird. Or floating off like a ghost.” Dellray clicked his tongue. “Let’cha pick your own figure of speech.”

Dellray’s manner of speaking was as odd as his clothing choices.

Rhyme had missed the agent—one of the Bureau’s top runners of confidential informants, and a great undercover op himself. He’d transferred to DC to concentrate on identifying white supremacist threats by supervising his CIs. Now he was back in New York, assigned to the Southern District.

“Fred.” Rhyme was as impatient as ever.

“Now, our BFFs in the UK—”

“What’s that? A security agency? Never heard of it.”

Dellray blinked. “Right, right, you’re not a pop culture kinda guy. ‘Best friends forever.’ What kids say about themselves.”

“Fred,” Rhyme tried again and put some effort into his sigh.

Dellray continued, “Our best friends at the Brit sneaky spy outfit—GCHQ—just happened to hear a conversation. It was accidental and, missing that li’l thing called a warrant, they couldn’t, as a tech-ni-cality, keep listening. But before they disconnected, there it was, thirty seconds on tape. Sitting there like some uninvited houseguest. They called MI5 and a friend o’ mine over there shot it my way.”

“Could we focus here a bit, Fred?”

“I’m almost there. So, the gist: Person X—my name for him—is somewhere in England. Has an Irish accent. He was having a conversation with Person Y here in New York, who does not have an accent. X is hiring this Y to eliminate Person Z. We all together on that?”

“Imminently together, Fred. Your synopsis, I’m referring to. You are still a little light on the details.”

“Sadly, sadly true. I’m gazing into a veritable void. But I should tell you we have got ourselves one particular little fact. About which you’ll be highly interested.”

“Which is?”

“Person Z? The target? Is you.”

—

“Who is it, you think?” Lon Sellitto asked. “Person X. The guy behind it?”

The bulky man, detective first grade, in a wrinkled brown suit, was standing in the parlor, arms crossed. Also present was Rhyme’s wife and professional partner, Detective Amelia Sachs, tall, her red hair lassoed into a ponytail. She was in jeans and a black blazer, specially cut to make the Glock 17 on her right hip—an efficient but easy-to-spot weapon—less obvious.

Dellray had returned to the Federal Building. He was working through back channels to get more information out of the organization that had accidentally overheard the phone conversation about the hit on Rhyme: the Government Communications Headquarters, the British equivalent of the National Security Agency.