“God don’t give out certain,” she said, their eyes locked on each other’s. Then she stood and walked across the room to the light switch.

“Wait,” he said.

She paused, looked back. Her red hair fell over her face, obscuring one eye.

Into the microphone hanging on the bed frame Rhyme commanded, “Lights out.”

The room went dark.

SIMON & SCHUSTER PROUDLY PRESENTS

GARDEN OF BEASTS

JEFFERY DEAVER

Now available in hardcover from Simon & Schuster

Turn the page for a preview of Garden of Beasts . . . .

Chapter One

As soon as he stepped into the dim apartment he knew he was dead.

He wiped sweat off his palm, looking around the place, which was quiet as a morgue, except for the faint sounds of Hell’s Kitchen traffic late at night and the ripple of the greasy shade when the swiveling Monkey Ward fan turned its hot breath toward the window.

The whole scene was off.

Out of kilter . . .

Malone was supposed to be here, smoked on booze, sleeping off a binge. But he wasn’t. No bottles of corn anywhere, not even the smell of bourbon, the punk’s only drink. And it looked like he hadn’t been around for a while. The New York Sun on the table was two days old. It sat next to a cold ashtray and a glass with a blue halo of dried milk halfway up the side.

He clicked the light on.

Well, there was a side door, like he’d noted yesterday from the hallway, looking over the place. But it was nailed shut. And the window that led onto the fire escape? Brother, sealed nice and tight with chicken wire he hadn’t been able to see from the alley. The other window was open but was also forty feet above cobblestones.

No way out . . .

And where was Malone? Paul Schumann wondered.

Malone was on the lam, Malone was drinking beer in Jersey, Malone was a statue on a concrete base underneath a Red Hook pier.

Didn’t matter.

Whatever’d happened to the boozehound, Paul realized, the punk had been nothing more than bait, and the wire that he’d be here tonight was pure bunk.

In the hallway outside, a scuffle of feet. A clink of metal.

Out of kilter . . .

Paul set his pistol on the room’s one table, took out his handkerchief and mopped his face. The searing air from the deadly Midwest heat wave had made its way to New York. But a man can’t walk around without a jacket when he’s carrying a 1911 Colt .45 in his back waistband and so Paul was condemned to wear a suit. It was his single-button, single-breasted gray linen. The white-cotton, collar-attached shirt was drenched.

Another shuffle from outside in the hallway, where they’d be getting ready for him. A whisper, another clink.

Paul thought about looking out the window but was afraid he’d get shot in the face. He wanted an open casket at his wake and he didn’t know any morticians good enough to fix bullet or bird-shot damage.