On Rhyme’s instruction, Pulaski was cross-referencing Baker’s phone calls and poring over his records and Palm Pilot, trying to find out whom he spent the most time with at the 118th and elsewhere but wasn’t coming up with anything helpful. Mel Cooper and Sachs were analyzing evidence from Baker’s car, house on Long Island and office at One Police Plaza, as well as the houses or apartments of several girlfriends he’d been dating recently (none of whom knew about the others, it turned out). Sachs had searched with her typical diligence and had returned to Rhyme’s with cartons of clothes, tools, checkbooks, documents, photos, weapons and trace from his tire treads.

After an hour of looking over all of this, Cooper announced, “Ah. Got something.”

“What?” Rhyme asked.

Sachs told him, “Found some ash in the clothes that were in the trunk of Baker’s car.”

“And?” Sellitto asked.

Cooper added, “Identical to the ash found in the fireplace at Creeley’s. Places him at that scene.”

They also found a fiber from Baker’s garage that matched the rope used in Benjamin Creeley’s “suicide.”

“I want to link Baker to Sarkowski’s death too,” Rhyme said. “Get Nancy Simpson and Frank Rettig out to Queens, that place where his body was found. Take some soil samples. We might be able to place Baker or one of his buddies there too.”

“The soil I found at Creeley’s, in front of the fireplace,” Sachs pointed out, “had chemicals in it—like from a factory site. It might match.”

“Good.”

Sellitto called Crime Scene in Queens and ordered the collection.

Sachs and Cooper also found samples of sand and some vegetation that turned out to be seaweed. These substances were found in Baker’s car. And there were similar samples in his garage at home.

“Sand and seaweed,” Rhyme commented. “Could be a summer house—Maryland, again. Maybe Baker’s got one, or a girlfriend of his.”

But a check of the real estate databases showed that this wasn’t the case.

Sachs wheeled in the other whiteboard from Rhyme’s exercise room and she jotted the latest evidence. Clearly frustrated, she stood back and stared at the notations.

“The Maryland connection,” she said. “We’ve got to find it. If they killed two people, and nearly Ron and me, they’re willing to kill more. They know we’re closing them up and they won’t want any witnesses. And they’re probably destroying evidence right now.”

Sachs was silent. She looked flustered.

It’s hard when your lover is also your professional partner. But Lincoln Rhyme couldn’t hold back, even—especially—with Amelia Sachs. He said in a low, even voice, “This’s your case, Sachs. You’ve been living it. I haven’t. Where does it all point?”

“I don’t know.” She dug a thumbnail into her finger. Her mouth tight, she shook her head, staring at the evidence chart. Loose ends. “There’s not enough evidence.”

“There’s never enough evidence,” Rhyme reminded. “But that’s not an excuse. That’s what we’re here for, Sachs. We’re the ones who examine a few dirty bricks and figure out what the entire castle looked like.”