But there was nothing wrong with taking things slowly.

She kissed him back even harder.

“I’m back in two days,” he whispered. “See you then?”

“You’re on.” Another kiss sealed the deal.

“I’ll walk you up,” he said, nodding at her townhouse.

But she had to pick up some milk and a few things at the deli up the street, so they kissed a while more.

She whispered, “ ‘Night, James. Call me if you can.”

“Oh, you’ll hear from me,” he said softly, nuzzling her ear. She climbed out of the sports car and he sped off.

Ten minutes later, plastic bags in hand, she returned to her townhouse, a real find she’d been in for some years. She’d lucked into a duplex on the top floors of the four-story building and scraped together enough money to buy it instantly. The living space was a refuge from the chaos and demands of Wall Street law.

Up the stairs to the second floor, then the third.

Hm, the hallway light was out here. Odd, the maintenance in the building was great. Odd. It seemed the light bulb had fallen out and shattered. As she walked up to the fourth floor, where the entrance to her unit was, she fished in her pocket for her phone, thinking about calling him.

No, she’d wait. Get inside, take a shower, have a final glass of wine. She left the phone where it was and got her keys. Maybe—

Then the world went black and an explosion of pain soared through her head and as she pitched forward she felt the keys being lifted from her fingers.

7

“I think I’ve got it,” Rhyme said, looking over the list of book sales.

Lon Sellitto had joined them and had an arrest team ready to go, if Rhyme’s textbook theory panned out.

The criminalist continued, “A week after the special aired, somebody named James Ferguson, 734 East Sixty-eighth Street, bought a copy of my book. He’s not law enforcement. He ticked the box that said it was for professional research.”

“Ferguson,” Sachs said, “sounds familiar.”

Sellitto said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah! I interviewed him. He’s Simone Randall’s—the second vic’s—boss. He dropped her off in a cab about a half hour before she was attacked.”

“Data mine him, Mel. I want to know if he belongs to a health club. And, Sachs, find out the club that first victim belonged to.”

Sellitto nodded. “Right, good call. The vic’s boyfriend said she dated somebody from the club once, I think.”

In five minutes they had the answer. Both Ferguson and Jane Levine belonged to Lower Manhattan Health and Tennis.

“So, he’s our boy. Classic serial doer. Let’s find him, pick him up,” Sellitto said and reached for his phone.

“Hold on, Lon,” Rhyme said. “It’s not as simple as that.”

And Rhyme did something he never thought he’d ever do: started reading the witness statements, ignoring the evidence charts completely.

# # #

I’m dying, Vicki Sellick thought.