Besides, Rhyme was needed on other cases. Earlier he’d gotten a call about another incident—FBI Agent Fred Dellray (temporarily sprung from financial crimes hell) explained that there’d been a break-in and arson at the federal National Institute of Standards and Technology operation in Brooklyn. The damage was minor but the perp had breached a very sophisticated security system and, with terrorism on everyone’s mind, any burglary of a government facility got attention; the Feds wanted Rhyme to assist in the forensic side of the investigation. He wanted to help but he needed to get the Baker-Wallace extortion case wrapped up first.

A messenger arrived with the file on the murder of Duncan’s businessman friend, engineered by Baker when the man refused to be extorted. The case was still open—there’s no statute of limitations on murder—but there’d been no entries for a year. Rhyme was hoping to find some leads in the older case that might help them identify perps from the 118th Precinct.

Rhyme first went into the New York Times archive and read the short account of the death of the victim, Andrew Culbert. It reported nothing other than that he was a businessman from Duluth and had been killed during an apparent mugging in Midtown. No suspects were found. There was no follow-up to the story.

Rhyme had Thom mount the investigation report on his page-turning frame and the criminalist read through the sheets. As often, in a cold case, the notes were in several different handwritings, since the investigation had been passed on—with progressively less energy—as time passed. According to the crime scene report, there’d been little trace, no fingerprints or footprints, no shell casings (death was from two shots to the forehead, the slugs ubiquitous .38 Specials; a test of the weapons they’d collected from Baker and the other cops at the 118th revealed no ballistics matches).

“You have the crime scene inventory?” he asked Sachs.

“Let’s see. Right here,” she said, lifting the sheet. “I’ll read it.”

He closed his eyes so he’d have a better image of the items.

“Wallet,” Sachs read, “one hotel room key to the St. Regis, one minibar key, one Cross pen, one PDA, one packet of gum, a small pad of paper with the words ‘Men’s room’ on the top. The second sheet said ‘Chardonnay.’ That’s it. The lead detective from Homicide was John Repetti.”

Rhyme was looking off, his mind stuck on something. He looked at her. “What?”

“I was saying, Repetti, he ran the case out of Midtown North. You want me to call him?”

After a moment Lincoln Rhyme replied, “No, I need you to do something else.”

It’s possessed.

Listening to the scratchy recording of the bluesman Blind Lemon Jefferson singing “See That My Grave Is Kept Clean” through her iPod, Kathryn Dance stared at her suitcase, bulging open, refusing to close.

All I bought was two pairs of shoes, a few Christmas presents . . . okay, three pairs of shoes, but one was pumps. They don’t count. Oh, but then the sweater. The sweater was the problem.