The murder he had been imprisoned for was that of the wife of a rich guy in San Antonio. Before that he’d killed the wife of a real estate developer in Seattle. He’d used a twelve-gauge shotgun that time, and there had been several similar killings with similar weapons before that. The FBI were convinced he had been making a business out of killing the wives of men in ugly divorces for some time. It was possible he would be out of money and doing it again. If he’d been paying the rent on a decent apartment in that part of Manhattan for two years, he was doing something lucrative.

She made a visit to the neighborhood near his current address, staying far away from his building so she wouldn’t be picked up on a security camera.

It was a nice place. For a fugitive, it was worth putting out a little extra money to live in a better neighborhood. Being a victim of petty street crime could be dangerous. Even a criminal was better off in a neighborhood where nobody would rob him or pick his pocket or steal his car or start a fight.

Becker was smart, but smartness had its limits. He was up in that apartment today not knowing there was a cop walking around outside his apartment building waiting to kill him. She had found her way to this apartment through no mistake he had made, no miscalculation or rash action. It was just a bad break.

The next question she had was when she should take him. The answer was obvious. One day. No longer. Surprises and advantages were temporary, like ice cream. They had to be enjoyed quickly or they melted away.

The next afternoon at five o’clock, a white van arrived behind the building and parked in an improvised parking space with its blinkers on. A tall, thin figure wearing wraparound sunglasses and the jeans, hard hat, hooded sweatshirt, and green reflective vest of a workman went to the van’s back door, put on gloves, lifted out a stepladder and a black canvas tool kit, and walked into the building carrying them. The new arrival went up the back stairway nearest to the door and climbed to the sixth floor. The sunglasses, hood, and hard hat blocked any cameras’ view of the face beneath them.