A pause. “No first names, Rhyme. It’s bad luck.”

He tried to laugh. Wished he hadn’t used the name, wondered why he had.

“Go ahead.”

“I’m at the front door. They’re going to take it down with a battering ram. The other team reported in. They really don’t think he’s there.”

“You wearing your armor?”

“Stole a feebie’s flak jacket. Looks like I’m wearing black cereal boxes for a bra.”

“On three,” Rhyme heard Dellray’s voice, “all teams, take out door and windows, cover all areas, but hold short of entry. One . . . ”

Rhyme was so torn. How badly he wanted the Dancer—he could taste it. But, oh, how frightened he was for her.

“Two . . . ”

Sachs, damn it, he thought. I don’t want to worry about you . . .

“Three . . . ”

He heard a soft snap, like a teenager cracking his knuckles, and found himself leaning forward. His neck quivered with a huge cramp and he leaned back. Thom appeared and began to massage it.

“It’s all right,” he muttered. “Thank you. Could you just get the sweat? Please.”

Thom looked at him suspiciously—at the word “please”—then wiped his forehead.

What’re you doing, Sachs?

He wanted to ask but wouldn’t think of distracting her just now.

Then he heard a gasp. The hairs on the back of his neck stirred. “Jesus, Rhyme.”

“What? Tell me.”

“The woman . . . the Horowitz woman. The refrigerator door’s open. She’s inside. She’s dead but it looks like . . . Oh, God, her eyes.”

“Sachs . . . ”

“It looks like he put her inside when she was still alive. Why the hell would he—”

“Think past it, Sachs. Come on. You can do it.”

“Jesus.”

Rhyme knew Sachs was claustrophobic. He imagined the terror she’d be feeling, looking at the terrible mode of death.

“Did he tape her or tie her?”

“Tape. Some kind of clear packing tape on her mouth. Her eyes, Rhyme. Her eyes . . . ”

“Don’t get shook, Sachs. The tape’ll be a good surface for prints. What’re the floor surfaces?”

“Carpet in the living room. And linoleum in the kitchen. And—” A scream. “Oh God!”

“What?”

“Just one of the cats. It jumped in front of me. Little shit . . . Rhyme?”

“What?”

“I’m smelling something. Something funny.”

“Good.” He’d taught her always to smell the air at a crime scene. It was the first fact a CS officer should note. “But what does ‘funny’ mean?”

“A sour smell. Chemical. Can’t place it.”

Then he realized that something didn’t make sense.

“Sachs,” he asked abruptly. “Did you open the refrigerator door?”

“No. I found it that way. It’s propped open with a chair, looks like.”

Why? Rhyme wondered. Why’d he do that? He thought furiously.

“That smell, it’s stronger. Smokey.”

The woman’s a distraction! Rhyme thought suddenly. He left the door open to make sure the entry team would focus on it.