Sellitto and Cooper were gone and Rhyme and Pulaski were alone in the downstairs lab, parked in front of an examination table, organizing evidence in the 118th Precinct scandal cases. Finally confronted with the evidence—and the fact they’d unwittingly hired a domestic terrorist—Baker, Wallace and Henson copped pleas and were diming out everybody involved at the 118th. (Though nobody would say a word about who’d hooked the Watchmaker up with Baker. Understandable. You simply don’t give up the name of a senior member of an OC crew when you’re headed off to the same prison he might end up in, thanks to your testimony.)

Preparing himself for Sachs’s departure, Rhyme had concluded that Ron Pulaski would eventually be a fine crime scene cop. He had ingenuity and intelligence and was as dogged as Lon Sellitto. Rhyme could wear the rough edges off him in eight months or a year. Together, he and the rookie would run scenes, analyze evidence and find perps, who’d go to jail or die trying not to. The system would keep going. The process of policing was bigger than just one man or woman; it had to be.

Yes, the system would keep going. . . . But it was impossibly hard to imagine that system without Amelia Sachs.

Well, fuck the goddamn sentiment, Rhyme said to himself, and get back to work. He glanced at the evidence board. The Watchmaker’s out there somewhere; I’m going to find him. He is . . . not . . . getting . . . away.

“What?” Pulaski asked.

“I didn’t say anything,” Rhyme snapped.

“Yeah, you did. I just . . . “He fell silent under Rhyme’s withering glare.

Returning to his tasks, Pulaski asked, “The notes I found in Baker’s office? They’re on cheap paper. Should I use ninhydrin to raise the latents?”

Rhyme started to respond.

A woman’s voice said, “No. First you try iodine fuming. Then ninhydrin, then silver nitrate. You have to do it in that order.”

Rhyme looked up to see Sachs in the doorway. He slapped a benign look on his face. Putting on a good front, he praised himself. Being generous. Being mature.

She continued, “If not, the chemicals can react and you can ruin the prints.”

Well, this is awkward, the criminalist thought angrily. He stared at the evidence boards as the silence between them roared like the December wind outside.

She said, “I’m sorry.”

Unusual to hear those words from her; the woman apologized about as often as Lincoln Rhyme did. Which was close to never.

Rhyme didn’t respond. He kept his eyes on the charts.

“Really, I’m sorry.”

Irritated at the greeting card sentiment, he glanced sideways, frowning, barely able to control his anger.

But he saw that she wasn’t speaking to him.

Her eyes were fixed on Pulaski. “I’ll make it up to you somehow. You can run the next scene. I’ll be copilot. Or the next couple of scenes.”