“What?”

“Reverse chronological order. It’s a good way to jump-start memories. Start with the last event first and go back in time from there. The suspect—he’s going through the doorway of that old building in the alley. . . . Let’s begin with some specifics. The color of the door.”

Vincent shifted in his chair, frowned. After a moment he gave his account, starting with the man pushing through the doorway (he couldn’t remember the color). Vincent then explained what happened just before that—the man running down the alley. Then entering it. And before that he was running down the street. Finally Vincent told them about spotting a man on Barrow, looking around uneasily, then breaking into a run.

“Okay,” Dance said, jotting notes. “Thank you, Vincent.” She gave a faint frown. “But why did you tell me your name was Tony Parsons?”

“Because I was scared. I did a good deed, I told you what I saw, but I was afraid the killer would murder me if he found out my name.” His jaw trembled. “I wished I hadn’t said anything about what I’d seen. But I did and got scared. I told you I was afraid.”

The man’s whining irritated Rhyme. Grill him, he silently urged Kathryn Dance.

But she asked pleasantly, “Tell me about the knife.”

“Okay, I shouldn’t’ve had it. But I was mugged a few years ago. It was terrible. I’m so stupid. I should’ve just left it at home. I usually do that. I just don’t think. And then it gets me in trouble.”

Then she slipped her jacket off and set it on the chair next to her.

He continued. “Everybody else is smart enough not to get involved. I say something and look what happens.” Gazing at the floor, disgust twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Dance asked details of how he learned about the Watchmaker’s killings and where he was at the times of the other attacks.

The questions were curious to Rhyme. Superficial. She wasn’t probing the way he would have, demanding alibis and pulling apart his story. What seemed to be some good leads, she let drop. Dance never once asked if there was another reason he’d been leading her into the alley, which they all suspected was to murder her—perhaps even to torture her into telling what the police might know about the Watchmaker.

The agent gave no reaction to his answers but merely jotted notes. Finally the agent looked behind Vincent at Sachs. “Amelia, could you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Could you show Vincent the footprint we found?”

Sachs rose and got the electrostatic image. She held it up for Vincent to look at.

“What about it?” he asked.

“That’s your size shoe, isn’t it?”

“About.”

She continued to stare at him, saying nothing. Rhyme sensed she was setting up a brilliant trap. He watched them both closely. . . .

“Thanks,” Dance said to Sachs, who sat down again.

The agent eased forward, slightly more into the suspect’s personal space. “Vincent, I’m curious. Where’d you get the groceries?”