Late, a misty night. The airport deserted and dark. Like the final scene in Casablanca.

Hearing the squeal of brakes and glancing outside.

The man lugging the huge duffle bags out of the car on the tarmac, flinging them inside, and firing up the Beechcraft. The distinctive whine of a piston engine starting.

She remembered Ed saying, incredulous, “What’s he doing? The airport’s closed.”

Fate.

That they happened to be there that night.

That Phillip Hansen had chosen that exact moment to get rid of his damaging evidence.

That Hansen was a man who would kill to keep that flight a secret.

Fate . . .

Then she jumped—at a knocking on the door of the safe house.

Two men stood there. Bell recognized them. They were from the NYPD Witness Protection Division. “We’re here to transport you to the Shoreham facility on Long Island, Mrs. Clay.”

“No, no,” she said. “There’s a mistake. I have to go to Mamaroneck Airport.”

“Percey,” Roland Bell said.

“I have to.”

“I don’t know about that, ma’am,” one of the officers said. “We’ve got orders to take you to Shoreham and keep you in protective confinement until a grand jury appearance on Monday.”

“No, no, no. Call Lincoln Rhyme. He knows about it.”

“Well . . . ” One of the officers looked to the other.

“Please,” she said, “call him. He’ll tell you.”

“Actually, Mrs. Clay, it was Lincoln Rhyme who ordered you moved. If you’ll come with us, please. Don’t you worry. We’ll take good care of you, ma’am.”

. . . Chapter Twenty-seven

Hour 28 of 45

“It’s not pleasant,” Thom told Amelia Sachs.

From behind the bedroom door she heard, “I want that bottle and I want it now.”

“What’s going on?”

The handsome young man grimaced. “Oh, he can be such a prick sometimes. He got one of the patrol officers to pour him some scotch. For the pain, he said. He said he’s got a prescription for single malt. Can you believe it? Oh, he’s insufferable when he drinks.”

A howl of rage from his room.

Sachs knew the only reason he wasn’t throwing things was that he couldn’t.

She reached for the doorknob.

“You might want to wait a little,” Thom warned.

“We can’t wait.”

“Goddamnit!” Rhyme snarled. “I want that fucking bottle!”

She opened the door. Thom whispered, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Inside, Sachs paused in the doorway. Rhyme was a sight. His hair was disheveled, there was spittle on his chin, and his eyes were red.

The Macallan bottle was on the floor. He must have tried to grab it with his teeth and knocked it over.

He noticed Sachs but all he said was a brisk “Pick it up.”

“We’ve got work to do, Rhyme.”

“Pick. Up. That. Bottle.”

She did. And placed it on the shelf.

He raged, “You know what I mean! I want a drink!”

“You’ve had more than enough, sounds like.”

“Pour some whiskey in my goddamn glass. Thom! Get the hell in here . . . Coward.”