The images, again extracted from video footage, were grainy and of marginal use. Nothing Sanderson would bother to distribute, and probably nothing a prosecutor could ever use in a court of law. The only consolation was that two of the men were already accounted for, one in hospital and one in the morgue. The best image captured was one they did not need—they already had an excellent passport photo of Dr. Christine Palmer, along with a high-resolution image from the website run by her physician’s group. She was an attractive woman with soft features under medium-length auburn hair, and on the website she was presented as doctors invariably were—compassionate smile over the requisite white lab coat. The fact that she was apparently married to a manual laborer registered as a curiosity to Sanderson, but nothing more. He was pondering it all when a young woman from the command center rushed into the room.

“Inspector Sanderson! We’ve just had more trouble on the waterfront, sir!”

“What now?”

“The Renaissance Tea Room. Shots fired, two dead. And one of ours is injured, on his way to the hospital now.”

Sanderson’s stomach knotted. “Do we know who?”

“I believe it’s Elmander.”

*   *   *

Slaton was seated behind a partition on a nearly empty Metro train, the Blue Line bound for Tensta. White shafts from passing floodlights flicked through the windows as the car swayed smooth and quick over the tracks. There were two other passengers in his car, a teenage couple who’d gotten on at the last stop in a rush of laughter and fumbling limbs. A pair so absorbed in each other, Slaton doubted they had even noticed him.

His first order of business was a self-appraisal, and the only damage he saw was a three-inch gash to his upper arm, his shirtsleeve torn to correlate. A bullet? he wondered. A ricochet? Most likely not. As was usually the case, something less dramatic, even mundane—a broken beer bottle or a sharp edge from the scooter he’d tackled. Behind the partition he bandaged the wound with what he’d been able to scavenge from the departure platform, a pile of discarded napkins and a strip of packing tape ripped from a cardboard box. That stopped the bleeding, but it was no use against infection. He rolled up the long sleeve of his shirt to cover the bloodstained section, then did the same with the other side for the sake of symmetry. This turned out to be the most painful part, flexing his injured bicep, but he got the job done.