His brown eyes squinting at the curbside, Rhyme lost count of the boxes Marko was unloading. He spun around in his chair and steamed back toward the townhouse’s parlor. “Thom! Thom!”

The man he was shouting for was practically in sotto voce distance, ten feet away, though not quite in sight. “I’m right here, you don’t need to—”

“We have to do something with this,” Rhyme said, as his caregiver appeared. The young man was today wearing what he usually did on the job—dress slacks, tan today, and dark blue shirt and a floral tie.

“Hi, Amelia.”

Sachs was coming through the front door.

“Thom.” He took the box from her and she headed out for another shipment.

Rhyme glanced from the carton to Thom Reston’s face. “Look at that! And look outside. We need to find places to organize it. Everything in the den… it has to go!”

“I’ll clear some space.”

“We can’t clear it. We have to empty it. I want everything gone.”

“All right.” The aide took off the yellow kitchen gloves he was wearing and began sliding furniture out of the room.

The den was what served as the living room for the townhouse; the other room that had been intended for social liaisons in the Victorian era, the parlor, Rhyme had converted to a forensics lab, as extensive as those in many medium-sized towns. Rhyme was by no means wealthy, but he’d received a good settlement when he’d been injured and he charged a lot for his forensic consulting activities. Much of the income went right back into his company and he had bought as many forensic “toys” as he could afford (that’s how Amelia Sachs had referred to them, after seeing his eyes light up when there’d been a new acquisition; to Rhyme they were simply tools).

“Mel!” Rhyme was shouting again.

This time he was speaking to his associate, who was at an evidence examination station in the parlor. NYPD Detective Mel Cooper, blond though balding and nerdish, was Rhyme’s number-one lab man.

Cooper had arrived three hours ago from Queens, where he both worked, at the police department’s crime scene headquarters, and lived. He would handle much of the lab work in what was being called the Unsub 26 homicide case, so named because the killer, an unknown subject, had killed the victim on East Twenty-sixth Street. Cooper had ready sheets of sterile examination paper covering work surfaces, friction ridge equipment to find latent prints, microscopes, scales, the density gradient unit and the dozens of other tools of the trade needed for forensic analysis.

He, too, was staring at the increasing piles of collection bags, boxes and jars that Sachs, Marko and now Thom were carting in and trying to find a place for.

“This is from one scene?”

“Apparently,” Rhyme said.

“And it wasn’t a mass disaster?” This was the quantity of evidence that resulted from plane crashes and bomb blasts.

“One unsub, one vic.”

Cooper glanced around the parlor and into hallway in dismay. “You remember that line in Jaws, Lincoln? They’re after the shark.”