So far, nothing. And even if one of the many security agencies in the UK wanted to take up the case, it appeared that X had tipped to the intrusion. The frequencies he’d been using had gone silent. He undoubtedly had picked a new means to contact his killer in New York, otherwise known as Person Y.

Rhyme now said to Sellitto and Sachs, “Lot of people want me dead. The question is: Is it somebody getting even, or somebody who wants me out of the way because they’re planning a move in the future and don’t want me involved in the investigation?”

Sachs’s ponytail swayed as she shook her head. “That’s a lot of forethought—your second option, I mean. Doesn’t seem likely. Why target you now when there’s no guarantee you’d be the one running the case?”

“Yeah, I agree,” Sellitto said. “Somebody’s pissed you put them away and wants to get even.”

Rhyme sighed. “Ah, revenge is so tiresome. Such a waste of time . . .” He frowned. “England. You know what that puts me in mind of?”

“The expat case,” Sachs said.

Rhyme had assisted in the investigation into the poisoning death of a Russian oligarch and ex-patriot in London a few years back. The criminalist had made enemies among a number of British nationals, other Russian oligarchs and the Russian security agencies, all of whom had agents in the UK.

Sachs placed a call to Dellray and told him about the case. When she disconnected, she said, “He’ll bring it up with MI5 and 6.” She gave a brief smile. “That man has connections everywhere.”

Looking around the town house parlor and front hall, Sellitto said, “We gotta beef up security here. I’ll get some bodies from Personal Protection Div.”

Rhyme sighed once more. “By ‘div,’ I assume you mean ‘division.’ So far, the only victim in this case seems to be the English language.”

The detective continued, unfazed. “They’ll put in more cameras, some other gadgets. Oh, and you gotta stay inside until we find out exactly what’s going on.”

Rhyme, a quadriplegic physically and an introvert psychologically, rarely left his town house on Central Park West, where he was perfectly comfortable in near isolation. But once a week he traveled a few blocks to a college where he taught graduate level students in the art of forensic science and a seminar called the Philosophy of Criminal Apprehension. He enjoyed the classes immensely, especially the latter, where he would verbally joust with the more outspoken and intelligent students.

“I’m not missing my classes,” he told Sellitto.

The detective cast a glance at the elaborate chair, which featured a large center wheel on each side of the device and smaller ones in the front and rear. “Don’t be crazy. You’re a sitting duck.”

One of the reasons Rhyme remained friends with his former partner after all these years was that he didn’t go gentle on the topic of the disability. The criminalist grew furious when people treated him like a china doll.