She decided to walk east, the opposite direction, and loop around to Broadway on Prince Street. It was more deserted that way, but at least she wouldn’t have to walk past any alleys. She pulled her coat tighter around her and hurried up the street, head down. Soon the image of the fat man had slipped from her mind and she was thinking once again about Kevin.

Dennis Baker went downtown to report on their progress, and the rest of the team continued to examine the evidence.

The fax phone rang and Rhyme looked at the unit eagerly in hopes it was something helpful. But the pages were for Amelia Sachs. Rhyme was watching her face closely as she read them. He knew the look. Like a dog after a fox.

“What, Sachs?”

She shook her head. “The analysis of the evidence from Ben Creeley’s place in Westchester. No IAFIS hits on the prints but there were leather texture marks on some of the fireplace tools and on Creeley’s desk. Who opens desk drawers wearing gloves?”

There was, of course, no database of glove marks but if Sachs could find a pair in a suspect’s possession that matched this pattern, that would be solid circumstantial evidence placing him at the scene, nearly as good as a clear friction-ridge print.

She continued to read. “And the mud I found in front of the fireplace? It doesn’t match the soil in Creeley’s yard. Higher acid content and some pollutants. Like from an industrial site.” Sachs continued. “There were also some traces of burned cocaine in the fireplace.” She looked at Rhyme and gave a wry smile. “A bummer if my first murder vic turns out to be not so innocent.”

Rhyme shrugged. “Nun or dope dealer, Sachs, murder’s still murder. What else do you have?”

“The ash I found in the fireplace—the lab couldn’t recover much but they found these.” She held up a photo of financial records, like a spreadsheet or ledger, which seemed to show entries totaling millions of dollars. “They found part of a logo or something on it. The techs’re still checking it out. And they’ll send the entries to a forensic accountant, see if he can make any sense of it. And they also found part of his calendar. Stuff about getting his car oil changed, a haircut appointment—hardly the agenda for the week you’re going to kill yourself, by the way. . . . Then the day before he died he went to the St. James Tavern.” She tapped a sheet—the recovered page from his calendar.

A note from Nancy Simpson explained about the place. “Bar on East Ninth Street. Sleazy neighborhood. Why’d a rich accountant go there? Seems funny.”

“Not necessarily.”

She glanced Rhyme’s way then walked to the corner of the room. He got the message and followed in the red Storm Arrow wheelchair.

Sachs crouched down beside him. He wondered if she’d take his hand (since some sensation had returned to his right fingers and wrist, holding hands had taken on great importance to them both). But there was a very thin line between their personal and their business lives and she now remained purely professional.