He laughed. “Since when has this ever been about money? . . . Give it some time, Sachs. What’s the hurry?”

She shook her head. “I’m going to close the St. James case. And I’ll do whatever you need to nail the Watchmaker. But after that . . .”

“You know, if you quit, a lot of buttons get pushed. It’ll affect you for a long time, if you ever wanted to come back.” He looked away, blood pounding in his temple.

“Rhyme.” She pulled a chair up, sat and closed her hand around his—the right one, the fingers of which had some sensation and movement. She squeezed. “Whatever I do, it won’t affect us, our life.” She smiled.

You and me, Rhyme . . .

You and me, Sachs . . .

He looked off. Lincoln Rhyme was a scientist, a man of the brain, not the heart. Some years ago Rhyme and Sachs had met on a hard case—a series of kidnappings by a killer obsessed with human bones. No one could stop him, except these two misfits—Rhyme, the quadriplegic in retirement, and Sachs, the disillusioned rookie betrayed by her cop lover. Yet, somehow, together, they had forged a wholeness, filling the ragged gaps within each of them, and they’d stopped the killer.

Deny it as much as he wanted to, those words, you and me, had been his compass in the precarious world they’d created together. He wasn’t at all convinced that she was right that they wouldn’t be altered by her decision. Would removing their common purpose change them?

Was he witnessing the transition from Before to After?

“Have you already quit?”

“No.” She pulled a white envelope from her jacket pocket. “I wrote the resignation letter. But I wanted to tell you first.”

“Give it a couple of days before you decide. You don’t owe it to me. But I’m asking. A couple of days.”

She stared at the envelope for a long moment. Finally she said, “Okay.”

Rhyme was thinking: Here we are working on a case involving a man obsessed with clocks and watches, and the most important thing to me at this moment is buying a little time from Sachs. “Thanks.” Then: “Now, let’s get to work.”

“I want you to understand. . . .”

“There’s nothing to understand,” he said with what he felt was miraculous detachment. “There’s a killer to catch. That’s all we should be thinking about.”

He left her alone in the bedroom and took the tiny elevator downstairs to the lab, where Mel Cooper was at work.

“Blood on the jacket’s AB positive. Matches what was on the pier.”

Rhyme nodded. Then he had the tech call the NASA Jet Propulsion Lab about the ASTER information—the thermal scans to find possible locations of roof tarring.

It was early in California but the tech managed to track down somebody and put some pressure on him to find and upload the images. The pictures arrived soon after. They were striking but not particularly helpful. There were, as Sellitto had suggested, hundreds, possibly thousands of buildings that showed indications of elevated heat, and the system couldn’t discriminate between locations that were being reroofed, under construction, being heated with Consolidated Edison steam or simply had particularly hot chimneys.