On Sunday morning? Rhyme thought. Uh-uh. “We’re not releasing them,” he said. “Do what you have to do.”

Eliopolos smiled a smile in his round bureaucratic face. “I should tell you that if this perp dies in any attempt to collar him I will personally be reviewing the shooting committee report, and it is a distinct possibility that I’ll conclude that proper orders on the use of deadly force in an arrest situation were not given by supervisory personnel.” He looked at Rhyme. “There could also be issues of interference by civilians with federal law enforcement activity. That could lead to major civil litigation. I just want you to be forewarned.”

“Thanks,” Rhyme said breezily. “’Preciate it.”

When he was gone, Sellitto crossed himself. “Jesus, Linc, you hear him. He said major civil litigation.”

“My my my . . . Speaking for myself, minor litigation woulda scared this boy plenty,” Dellray chimed in.

They laughed.

Then Dellray stretched and said, “A pisser what’s going round. You hear ’bout it, Lincoln? That bug?”

“What’s that?”

“Been infecting a lotta folk lately. My SWAT boys and me’re out on some operation or other and what happens but they come down with this nasty twitch in their trigger fingers.”

Sellitto, a much worse actor than the agent, said broadly, “You too? I thought it was just our folks at ESU.”

“But listen,” said Fred Dellray, the Alec Guinness of street cops. “I got a cure. All you gotta do is kill yourself a mean asshole, like this Dancer fella, he so much as looks cross-eyed at you. That always works.” He flipped open his phone. “Think I’ll call in and make sure my boys and girls remember ’bout that medicine. I’m gonna do that right now.”

. . . Chapter Eighteen

Hour 22 of 45

Waking in the gloomy safe house at dawn, Percey Clay rose from her bed and walked to the window. She drew aside the curtain and looked out at the gray monotonous sky. A slight mist was in the air.

Close to minimums, she estimated. Wind 090 at five knots. Quarter mile visibility. She hoped the weather cleared for the flight tonight. Oh, she could fly in any weather—and had. Anyone with an IFR ticket—instrument flight rules rating—could take off, fly, and land in dense overcast. (In fact, with their computers, transponders, radar, and collision avoidance systems, most commercial airliners could fly themselves—even setting down for a perfect, hands-free landing.) But Percey liked to fly in clear weather. She liked to see the ground pass by beneath her. The lights at night. The clouds. And above her the stars.

All the stars of evening . . .

She thought again of Ed and her call to his mother in New Jersey last night. They’d made plans for his memorial service. She wanted to think some more about it, work on the guest list, plan the reception.

But she couldn’t. Her mind was preoccupied with Lincoln Rhyme.

Recalling the conversation they’d had yesterday behind closed doors in his bedroom—after the fight with that officer Amelia Sachs.