He’d followed her downtown, where she’d had a meeting on Chambers Street, and he’d looked for a chance to shoot. But there had been too many people down there. Always a problem in Manhattan. Now she was back, aggressively parallel parking in an illegal spot near the cul-de-sac once again.

He looked up and down the shadowy avenue. Deserted at last. Yes, this would be the place and the time. In his latex-gloved hand Swann gripped the SIG Sauer, adjusted it to be able to draw quickly.

He wasn’t going to kill her. He’d decided that would create too much of a stir—too many police, too intense a manhunt, too much press. Instead he’d shoot into her back or legs.

Once she stepped out, he’d double-park, climb out, shoot her and then drive off, pausing a few blocks away to swap plates again.

Sachs got out of the Torino, looking around carefully again, hand near her hip. This keen gaze kept Swann in the front seat of his Nissan, head down. When she started up the street he opened the door of the car but paused. Sachs didn’t head for the cul-de-sac leading to Rhyme’s town house or toward Central Park West but rather walked across the street—to a Chinese restaurant.

He saw her step inside, laughing as she spoke with the woman at the register. Sachs examined the menu. She was getting an order to go. A glance up and then she was waving at one of the busboys. He smiled back.

Swann pulled the Nissan forward, noted a space a few car lengths away. He parked and shut the engine off. His hand slipped inside his jacket and made sure once again he knew just where the pistol was. The receiver was more cumbersome than a Glock’s, with safeties and slide catches, but the gun itself was heavy, which guaranteed the subsequent shots after the first would be particularly accurate; light weapons need more recentering on target than heavy ones do.

He studied Sachs through the streaked glass.

Such an attractive woman.

Long, red hair.

Tall.

Slim too. So slim. Did she not like to eat? She didn’t seem the cooking type. This made Swann dislike her. And takeout from a place like this, salt and overused grease? Shame on you, Amelia. You’ll be right at home for the next few months, eating Jell-O and pudding while you recuperate.

In ten minutes she was out the door, take-out food in one hand, and playing the cooperative target: walking straight into the cul-de-sac.

She paused at the entrance, looking into the bag, apparently making sure the restaurant had included the extra rice or fortune cookies or chopsticks. Still fiddling with the bag, she continued toward Rhyme’s town house.