Swann eased his car back into the street but had to brake fast, as a bicyclist sped in front of him and stopped, debating for some reason whether to turn around or continue on to Central Park. Swann was angry but didn’t want to draw attention by honking. He waited, face flushed.

The biker headed on—opting for the beautiful green of a spring park—and Swann punched the accelerator to get to the cul-de-sac fast. But the delay had cost him. Walking quickly, Sachs had reached the end of the L-shaped passage and disappeared to the left, toward the back of the town house.

Not a problem. Better actually. He’d park, follow her in and shoot her as she approached the door. The geometry of the cul-de-sac there would mute the gunshots and send the sounds in a hundred different directions. Whoever heard would have no idea where they came from.

He looked around. No cops. Little traffic. A few oblivious passersby, lost in their own worlds.

Swann pulled the car into the mouth of the cul-de-sac, put the transmission in park and stepped out. With the gun drawn, but hidden under his windbreaker, he started over the cobblestones.

He recited to himself: two shots, low in her back, one toward the knee. Although he vastly preferred his knife he was a good marksman. He’d have to—

A voice behind him, a woman’s: “Excuse me. Could you help me?” British accent.

It belonged to a slim, attractive jogger in her early thirties. She stood about eight feet away, between him and the open driver’s door of his car.

“I’m from out of town. I’m trying to find the reservoir. There’s a running path…”

And then she saw it.

His windbreaker had eased away from his body. She saw the gun.

“Oh, God. Look, don’t hurt me. I didn’t see anything! I swear.”

She started to turn but Swann moved fast; he was in front of her in an instant. She took a breath to scream but he struck her in the throat, his open-handed blow. She dropped hard to the concrete, out of sight of a couple across the street, arguing about something.

Swann glanced back up the dim canyon between the nearby buildings. Would Sachs be inside by now?

Maybe not. He didn’t know how far the L of the cul-de-sac extended behind Rhyme’s.

But he had only a matter of seconds to decide. He glanced down at the woman, gasping for breath, just the way Annette had in the Bahamas and Lydia Foster had here.

Uhn, uhn, uhn. Hands to her neck, eyes wide, mouth open.

Yes or no? He debated.

Choose now.

He decided: Yes.

Chapter 53

CHAPTER 53

AMELIA SACHS STOOD IN THE CUL-DE-SAC behind the town house, Glock drawn, aimed toward where the dim canyon made a right turn and eventually joined the crosstown street.