Not that it mattered; the curtains were drawn. Rhyme knew he was the target of an assassination and was in security mode.

The roof was gabled and difficult to scale, given the angle; also, an intruder would be exposed to hundreds of pedestrians, drivers and park strollers. As for the back, Renard knew that Rhyme rarely if ever ventured there. And even if he did, there was no good sniper nest from which to shoot.

Renard noted cameras covering all the approaches to the front door. Nary a blind spot.

But he noted all of these things merely because his nature was to be observant. His plan regarding Lincoln Rhyme did not involve snipers or frontal assaults.

He placed the fruit—his lunch for later—into the backpack, from which he then removed a metal briefcase, eighteen by eighteen inches, and opened it. Inside was a small drone. He thought of the last one he had seen—he’d been on the beach in St. Nevis, in the company of a woman who was a stockbroker and quantitative analyst, as smart as she was beautiful. The resort drone was a moneymaking ploy by the company that operated the beach. It would take pictures of the tourists and then offer framed snapshots to take home as souvenirs. Renard had reached into a backpack, not unlike this one, extracted a powerful green laser and subtly targeted the device’s navigation system. The vehicle ditched at sea in quite the spectacular fashion.

Renard now pulled on clear latex gloves once again and extracted the device.

Again looking around and, making sure he was unobserved, he used a phone app to launch the craft into the air. It flew with silent elegance, smoothly under his practiced commands.

Flying a drone in Manhattan is illegal for nearly everyone. The city is mostly Class B airspace—because there are so many airports nearby—and that means you need FAA permission to fly. Also you must be certified under FAA regulations, Part 107, which Renard was not.

City statutes prohibit the craft too.

One could be charged with both civil and criminal counts, including reckless endangerment. But finding and arresting the operator was another matter, especially with a drone purchased for cash in a different city and launched in the absence of witnesses.

He reflected too that with an explosive charge inside, there would be nothing left—not even DNA—to trace back to a suspect.

—

Lincoln Rhyme did not fret.

He did not worry.

His existence was more precarious than that of most people—given his condition—and he had long ago accepted that his body might betray him. Then too he had indeed made many enemies and it was not unreasonable to posit that a certain percentage were angry, and probably crazy, enough to get even.

But you did what you could.

You followed sound medical advice, you established home security. And you concentrated on your job.

The doorbell sounded and Rhyme instructed the system to unlock. NYPD Detective Mel Cooper, Rhyme’s key lab man, stepped inside and greeted the criminalist. Sellitto too.