“What’s going on?” the ESU head asked. “Is it the perp?”

“That’s a good question,” she replied, holstering her pistol.

With this latest twist in the case, a new person was present in front of the Midtown office building where Detective Dennis Baker had apparently just attempted to kill Amelia Sachs and Ron Pulaski.

Using the touch-pad controller, Lincoln Rhyme maneuvered the red Storm Arrow wheelchair along the sidewalk to the building’s entrance. Baker sat in the back of a nearby squad car, cuffed and shackled. His face was white. He stared straight ahead.

At first he’d claimed that Sachs was targeting him because of the Nick Carelli situation. Then Rhyme decided to check with the brass. He asked the senior NYPD official who’d sent the email about it. It turned out that it was Baker who’d brought up a concern about Sachs’s possible connection with a crooked cop and the brass had never sent the email at all; Baker’d written it himself. He’d created the whole thing as cover in case Sachs caught him following or checking up on her.

Using the touch pad, Rhyme eased closer to the building, where Sellitto and Haumann had set up their command post. He parked and Sellitto explained what had happened upstairs. But added, “I don’t get it. Just don’t get it.” The heavy detective rubbed his bare hands together. He glanced up at the clear, windy sky as if he’d just realized it was one of the chilliest months on record. When he was on a case, hot and cold didn’t really register.

“You find anything on him?” Rhyme asked.

“Just the thirty-two and latex gloves,” Pulaski said. “And some personal effects.”

A moment later Amelia Sachs joined them, holding a carton containing a dozen plastic evidence bags. She’d been searching Baker’s car. “It’s getting better by the minute, Rhyme. Check this out.” She showed Rhyme and Sellitto the bags one by one. They contained cocaine, fifty thousand in cash, some old clothing, receipts from clubs and bars in Manhattan, including the St. James. She lifted one bag that seemed to contain nothing. On closer examination, though, he could see fine fibers.

“Carpeting?” he asked.

“Yep. Brown.”

“Bet they match the Explorer’s.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

Another link to the Watchmaker.

Rhyme nodded, staring at the plastic bag, which rippled in the chill wind. He felt that burst of satisfaction that occurred when the pieces of the puzzle started to come together. He turned to the squad car where Baker sat and called through the half-open window. “When were you assigned to the One One Eight?”

The man stared back at the criminalist. “Fuck you. You think I’m saying anything to you pricks? This is bullshit. Somebody planted all that on me.”

Rhyme said to Sellitto, “Call Personnel. I want to know his prior assignments.”

Sellitto did and, after a brief conversation, looked up and said, “Bingo. He was at the One One Eight for two years. Narcotics and Homicide. Promoted out to the Big Building three years ago.”