Now, with a curious, low tone in his voice, Rhyme said, “I love cars, Ron. They tell us so much. They’re like books.”

Pulaski remembered the pages of Rhyme’s text that echoed his comments. He didn’t quote them but said, “Sure, the VIN, the tags, bumper stickers, dealer stickers, inspection—”

A laugh. “If the owner’s the perp. But ours was stolen, so the Jiffy Lube location where he changed the oil or the fact he has an honor student at John Adams Middle School aren’t really helpful, now, are they?”

“Guess not.”

“Guess not,” Rhyme repeated. “What information can a stolen car tell us?”

“Well, fingerprints.”

“Very good. There’re so many things to touch in a car—the steering wheel, gearshift, heater, radio, hand grips, hundreds of them. And they’re such shiny surfaces. Thank you, Detroit. . . . Well, Tokyo or Hamburg or wherever. And another point: Most people consider cars their attaché cases and utility drawers—you know, those kitchen drawers that you throw everything into? Effluvia of personal effects. Almost like a diary where no one thinks to lie. Search for that first. The PE.”

Physical evidence, Pulaski recalled.

As the young cop bent forward he heard a scrape of metal from somewhere behind him. He jumped back and looked around, into the gloom of the garage. He knew Rhyme’s rule about searching crime scenes alone and so he’d sent all the backup away. The noise was just from a rat, maybe. Ice melting and falling. Then he heard a click. It reminded him of a ticking clock.

Get on with it, Pulaski told himself. Probably just the hot spotlights. Don’t be such a wuss. You wanted the job, remember?

He studied the front seats. “We’ve got crumbs. Lots of them.”

“Crumbs?”

“Junk food, mostly, I’d guess. Look like cookie crumbs, corn chips, potato chips, bits of chocolate. Some sticky stains. Soda, I’d say. Oh, wait, here’s something, under the backseat. . . . This’s good. A box of bullets.”

“What kind?”

“Remington. Thirty-two caliber.”

“What’s inside the box?”

“Uhm, well, bullets?”

“You sure?”

“I didn’t open it. Should I?”

The silence said yes.

“Yep. Bullets. Thirty-twos. But it’s not full.”

“How many’re missing?”

“Seven.”

“Ah. That’s helpful.”

“Why?”

“Later.”

“And get this—”

“Get what?” Rhyme snapped.

“Sorry. Something else. A book on interrogation. But it looks more like it’s about torture.”

“Torture?”

“That’s right.”

“Purchased? Library?”

“No sticker on it, no receipt inside, no library marks. And whosever it is, he’s been reading it a lot.”

“Well said, Ron. You’re not assuming it’s the perps’. Keep an open mind. Always keep an open mind.”

It wasn’t much praise but the young man enjoyed it.

Pulaski then rolled up trace from the floor and vacuumed it out from the space between and underneath the seats.

“I think I’ve got everything.”

“Glove compartment.”

“Checked it. Empty.”

“Pedals?”

“Scraped them. Not much trace.”

Rhyme asked, “Headrests?”

“Oh, didn’t get those.”

“Could be hair or lotion transfer.”

“People wear hats,” Pulaski pointed out.