“I can take the van to class.”

Thom Reston, Rhyme’s aide, piloted him about town on the rare occasions when he needed or wanted to be out in a Mercedes Sprinter, tricked out to handle the wheelchair.

Sachs said, “It’s a bad idea, Rhyme. Five minutes to get into the van, five minutes to get out. You’d be totally exposed. And all the buildings on CPW and around the school? Two, three dozen perfect sniper nests.”

The Upper West Side of Manhattan bristled with high-rises and hotels. A shooter could get into, or on top of, any of them without a soul paying attention.

As Rhyme hesitated, Sellitto said, “Fred and I’ll call in some markers—CIs with international connections. See what’s what. We find something, we can rethink it. But for now, take the week off, Professor.”

“Christ,” Rhyme muttered under his breath. Then he thought: Person Y. Who are you? How’re you coming at me? And when?

As a man whose purpose in life was to solve questions, he did not do at all well when confronted with inquiries he couldn’t answer.

Monday, October 3

Valentin Renard pulled the white CLS-Class Mercedes into the parking garage on 9th Street in Greenwich Village, mindful of the side of his hundred-thousand-dollar vehicle; the entrance was quite narrow. The building had been constructed in the ’70s, when small cars were the rage—that oil shortage thing.

The garage was in the basement of an apartment building and it featured an attendant, so that when he left he could pay cash. Many of the garage and parking facilities in New York accepted only debit and credit cards. Not a sign of the high-tech times, a measure to avoid stickups at gunpoint.

He climbed from the car. The thirty-three-year-old was blond and trim and appeared trimmer yet by the sleek, dark gray Ferragamo suit he wore. The narrow black tie, contrasting with the off-white high-thread-count shirt, added to his linear image. He removed a duffel bag from the trunk, slung it over his shoulder and beeped the car to sleep. He climbed the ramp to the street, past the security camera that was there for show only; he knew the model. This was another reason he’d selected this garage.

He began walking east.

When he was in Alphabet City—where the north-south avenues began with letters—he noted the conditions deteriorated as the letters progressed. Finally he came to a two-story building, 522 East St. Marks. It was red brick and dark with soot and whatever other particulates settled on buildings in Manhattan.

He climbed to the front and, using a knuckle, not fingertip, rang a buzzer. A large man, hairy everywhere, opened the door. He wore a white T-shirt over baggy—and gamy—gray slacks. The scent of cigarette smoke orbited.

“I’m Davis,” Renard said. “I called about that basement room.”

“Well,” the man offered hesitantly in an accented voice, “you were going to call back with the credit card.” The soft pronunciation of the g told Renard the man was Ukrainian, not Russian.