Healy was silent, looking back at the revolving lights. Though he wasn't as calm as Homicide had been, not at all. He'd seen her, Nicole, and it shook him. It occurred to Rune that one of the advantages of bomb detail was that you dealt with machines and chemicals more than people.

In a soft voice Rune said, “I was supposed to be there tonight. He wanted me to come too.”

“You?”

“He said he was making a film. A legitimate film. Christ, Sam, why did he do it? I just don't understand.”

"Guy blows up a dozen people just to cover up killing his girlfriend, then slaughters somebody like that... I don't have any answers for what makes him tick.

When did he leave, do they think?

There was no postmortem lividity. No rigor mortis. Probably twenty minutes, a half hour before we got here.

So he's still in town."

“Doubt it. People know him, people can place them together. My bet is he got a car and'll drive to some small airport, then grab a connecting flight to California. Hartford, Albany, White Plains.”

“You've got to call them. Get a description —”

“We can't lock up every airport in the Northeast, Rune. They've got a citywide out on him now but he'll probably make it out of the area. They'll get him when he gets home — where is it? Monterey? The MPs'll be after him too. And theft of government property and interstate flight'll bring in the FBI.”

“Oh, Sam.” She pressed her head against his chest. He held her, which made her feel good, but what made her feel even better was that they were standing in front of a half dozen of the guys he worked with and he was still hugging her, not glancing around or making it look like she was just an upset witness. He held her tight and she felt some of the horror shift away to him and she let it go. He knew what to do; he could dispose of it. That was his job.

They walked.

South, into the Theater District, then through the geometric shapes of cold neon in Times Square. Down Broadway. Past a wolf pack of four black kids wearing throwaways, with round heads and shaver-cut streaks in their hair, looking innocent and sour. Past businessmen and businesswomen in running shoes. Past hawkers, past a couple — German or Scandinavian tourists — dressed in nylon running suits, carrying Nikons. Their heads, covered with stringy blond hair, looked around them, their expressions asking, This is New York?

Past the billboards on which the fifty-foot models, reclining sexily, sold liquor and jeans and VCRs, past a porn theater that gave off the smell of Lysol (maybe Shelly or Nicole was performing on screen at that moment). There was no way of knowing what the movies were; the marquee promised only that there were three superhot hits showing.