“I was searching the scene.” He pointed out the stairwell landing. “It appeared that the perpetrators made their exit through this locale. . . .”

Stop it, he reminded himself.

He tried again. “The perps ran up those stairs, I’m pretty sure, and I was searching up here, looking for footprints. Then I heard something and turned around. This guy was coming for me.” He pointed to a pipe the homeless guy had been carrying. “I couldn’t get my weapon out in time but I threw that trash can at him. We fought for a minute or two and I finally got him in a chokehold.”

“We don’t use those,” Haumann reminded.

“I meant to say I was successfully able to restrain him through self-defense methods.”

The tactical chief nodded. “Right.”

Pulaski found the headset and plugged it back in. He winced as a voice blasted into his ears: “For Christ’s sake, are you alive or dead? What’s going on?”

“Sorry, Detective Rhyme.”

Pulaski explained what had happened.

“You’re all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Good,” the criminalist said. “Now, tell me why the fuck your weapon was inside your overalls.”

“An oversight, sir. Won’t happen again, sir.”

“Oh, it better not. What’s the number-one rule on a hot scene?”

“A hot—”

“A hot scene—where the perp might still be around. The rule is: Search well but watch your back. Got it?”

“Yessir.”

“So the escape route’s contaminated,” Rhyme grumbled.

“Well, it’s just covered with garbage.”

“Garbage,” was Rhyme’s exasperated response. “Then I guess you better start cleaning it up. I want all the evidence here in twenty minutes. Every bit. You think you can do that?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll—”

Rhyme disconnected abruptly.

As two ESU officers pulled on latex gloves and carted off the homeless guy, Pulaski bent down and started to remove the trash. He was trying to recall what there was about Rhyme’s tone that sounded familiar. Finally it occurred to him. It was the very same mix of anger and relief when Pulaski’s father had a “discussion” with his twin sons after he’d caught them having a footrace on the elevated train tracks near their home.

Like a spy.

Standing on a street corner in Hell’s Kitchen, retired detective Art Snyder was in a trench coat and old alpine hat with a small feather in it, looking like a has-been foreign agent from a John le Carré novel.

Amelia Sachs walked up to him.

Snyder acknowledged her with only a brief glance and, after looking around the streets, turned and started walking west, away from bustling Times Square.

“Thanks for the call.”

Snyder shrugged.

“Where’re we going?” she asked.

“I’m meeting a buddy of mine. We play pool up the street here every week. I didn’t want to talk on the phone.”

Spies . . .

An emaciated man with slicked-back yellow hair—not blond, but yellow—hit them up for some change. Snyder looked at him closely and then handed over a dollar. The man walked on, saying thanks, but grudgingly, as if he’d been expecting a five.