There were three plainclothesmen in the lobby. They identified themselves right away. I stood around with them for a few minutes, and then Durkin came in alone. He went into a huddle with one of them, then came over to me.

“We struck out,” he said.

“Looks that way.”

“Shit,” he said. “We didn’t leave many loopholes. Maybe he smelled something but I don’t see how. Or maybe he flew home to fucking Bogotá yesterday and we’re setting a trap for somebody who’s on another continent.”

“It’s possible.”

“You can go get some sleep, anyway. If you’re not too wired to unwind. Have a couple of drinks, knock yourself out for eight hours.”

“Good idea.”

“The guys have had the lobby staked out all night. There’ve been no visitors, no check-ins. I’m gonna keep a guard down here all night.”

“You think it’s necessary?”

“I think it can’t hurt.”

“Whatever you say.”

“We gave it our best shot, Matt. It’s worth it if we can smoke the fucker out because God knows how we could get anyplace combing the city for emerald smugglers. Sometimes you get lucky and sometimes you don’t.”

“I know.”

“We’ll catch the cocksucker sooner or later. You know that.”

“Sure.”

“Well,” he said, and shifted his weight awkwardly. “Well, listen. Get some sleep, huh?”

“Sure.”

I rode up on the elevator. He wasn’t in South America, I thought. I knew damned well he wasn’t in South America. He was here in New York and he was going to kill again because he liked it.

Maybe he’d done it before. Maybe Kim was the first time he found out it felt good to him. But he’d liked it enough to do it again the same way, and the next time he wouldn’t need an excuse. Just a victim and a hotel room and his trusty machete.

Have a couple of drinks, Durkin had suggested.

I didn’t even feel like a drink.

Ten days, I thought. Just go to bed sober and you’ve got ten days.

I took the gun out of my pocket and put it on the dresser. I was still carrying the ivory bracelet in another pocket and I took it out and set it down next to the gun, still wrapped in paper towels from Kim’s kitchen. I got out of my slacks and jacket, hung them in the closet, and took off my shirt. The bulletproof vest was a tricky thing to get out of and a cumbersome thing to wear, and most of the cops I knew hated wearing them. On the other hand, nobody likes getting shot.