Finally Lon Sellitto rubbed his hands together. “Listen, glad for the happy news,” he grumbled. “But how ’bout we get the hell out of here and go over to Manny’s. I could use some lunch. And, guess what? I’ll bet they pay their heating bill.”

“I’d love to,” Rhyme said, with a sincerity that he believed masked his absolute lack of desire to be outside, negotiating the icy streets in his wheelchair. “But I’m writing an op ed piece for the Times.” He nodded at his computer. “Besides, I have to wait here for the repairman.” He shook his head. “One to five.”

Thom started to say something—undoubtedly to urge Rhyme to go anyway—but it was Sachs who said, “Sorry. Other plans.”

Rhyme said, “If it involves ice and snow, I’m not interested.” He supposed she and the girl, Pammy Willoughby, were planning another outing with the girl’s adoptee, Jackson the Havanese.

But Amelia Sachs apparently had a different agenda. “It does,” she said. “Involve snow and ice, I mean.” She laughed and kissed him on the mouth. “But what it doesn’t involve is you.”

“Thank God,” Lincoln Rhyme said, blowing a stream of wispy breath toward the ceiling and turning back to the computer screen.

“You.”

“Hey, Detective, how you doing?” Amelia Sachs asked.

Art Snyder gazed at her from the doorway of his bungalow. He looked better than when she’d seen him last—when he was lying in the backseat of his van. He wasn’t any less angry, though. His red eyes were fixed on hers.

But when your profession involves getting shot at from time to time, a few glares mean nothing. Sachs gave a smile. “I just came by to say thanks.”

“Yeah, for what?” He held a coffee mug that clearly didn’t contain coffee. She saw that a number of bottles had reappeared on the sideboard. She noted too that none of the Home Depot projects had progressed.

“We closed the St. James case.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Kind of cold out here, Detective,” she said.

“Honey?” A stocky woman with short brown hair and a cheerful, resilient face called from the kitchen doorway.

“Just somebody from department.”

“Well, invite her in. I’ll make coffee.”

“She’s a busy lady,” Snyder said sourly. “Running all over town, doing all kinds of things, asking questions. She probably can’t stay.”

“I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

“Art! Let her in.”

He sighed, turned and walked inside, leaving Sachs to follow him and close the door herself. She dropped her coat on a chair.

Snyder’s wife joined them. The women shook hands. “Give her the comfy chair, Art,” she scolded.

Sachs sat in the well-worn Barcalounger, Snyder on the couch, which sighed under his weight. He left the volume up on the TV, which displayed a frantic, high-definition basketball game.

His wife brought two cups of coffee.