She wants to ask why he did it. What reason could he possibly have? Nick’d grown up in Brooklyn, a typical good-looking, street-smart neighborhood kid. He’d run with a bad crowd for a while but had some sense smacked into him by his father and gave that up. Why had he slipped back? Was it the thrill? Was it the money? (That was something else he’d hidden from her, she realized now; where’d he been socking it away?)

Why?

But she doesn’t have the chance.

“I’ve got to go now. I’ll call you later. I love you.”

He kissed the top of her motionless head. Then out the door.

Thinking back to those endless moments, the endless night, time stopped, as she sat staring at the candles burning down to pools of maroon wax.

I’ll call you later. . . .

But no call ever came.

The double hit—his crime and the death of their relationship—took its toll; she decided to quit Patrol completely. Give it up for a desk job. It was only the chance meeting with Lincoln Rhyme that pulled her back from that decision and kept her in uniform. But the incident sealed within her an abiding repulsion for crooked police. It was something that was more horrific to her than lying politicians and cheating spouses and ruthless perps.

This was why nothing would stop her from finding out if the St. James crew was in fact a circle of bad cops from the 118th Precinct. And if so, nothing would stop her from bringing down the crooked officers and the OC crews working with them.

Her Camaro now skidded to the curb. Sachs tossed the NYPD parking identification card onto the Chevy’s dash and climbed out, slamming the door fiercely as if she were trying to close a hole that had opened between the present and this hard, hard past.

“Hell, that’s gross.”

In the upper floor of the parking garage where the Watchmaker’s SUV was found, the patrol officer who made this comment to his colleagues was looking down at the figure, lying on his belly.

“Man, you got that one right,” one of his buddies replied. “Jesus.”

Another offered the uncoplike declaration, “Yuck.”

Sellitto and Bo Haumann jogged up to the scene.

“Are you all right? Are you all right?” Sellitto shouted.

He was speaking to Ron Pulaski, who stood over the man on the ground, who was covered with pungent trash. The rookie, decorated with garbage himself, was gasping. Pulaski nodded. “Scared the hell out of me. But I’m fine. Man, he was pretty strong for a homeless guy.”

A medic ran up and rolled the attacker over on his back. Pulaski’d cuffed him and the metal bracelets jingled on his wrists. His eyes danced madly and his clothing was torn and filthy. The body stench was overwhelming. He’d recently urinated in his pants. (Hence, “gross” and “yuck.”)

“What happened?” Haumann asked Pulaski.