And this was good news. Cracking the encryption and listening to her conversations were harder than with phones running GPRS—general packet radio service, or 2G—but, at least, it was feasible because 3G featured good old-fashioned A5/1 voice encryption.

Not that his tech department was allowed to do such a thing, of course.

Yet there must have been a screwup somewhere, because just ten minutes after discussing the matter casually—and, of course, purely theoretically—with the director of Technical Services and Support, Swann found himself enraptured by Sachs’s low, and rather sexy, voice, coming to him over the airwaves.

He already had a lot of interesting facts. Some specific to the Moreno investigation. Some more general, though equally helpful: for instance, that this Detective Amelia Sachs had some physical problems. He’d filed that away for future reference.

He’d also learned some troubling information: that the other investigator on the case, Lincoln Rhyme, was in the Bahamas. Now, this was potentially a real problem. Upon learning it, Swann had immediately called contacts down there—a few of the Sands and Kalik drinkers on the dock—and made arrangements.

But he couldn’t concentrate on that at the moment. He was occupied. Crouching in an unpleasantly aromatic alleyway, picking the lock of the service door to a Starbucks wannabe. A place called Java Hut. He was wearing thin latex gloves—flesh-colored so that at fast glance his hands would appear unclad.

The morning was warm and the gloves and concealing windbreaker made him warmer yet. He was sweating. Not as bad as with Annette in the Bahamas. But still…

And that god-awful stench. New York City alleys. Couldn’t somebody blast them with bleach from time to time?

Finally the lock clicked. Swann cracked the door a bit and looked inside. From here he could see an office, which was empty, a kitchen in which a skinny Latino labored away with dishes and, beyond that, part of the restaurant itself. The place wasn’t very crowded and he guessed that since this was a tourist area—what was left of Little Italy—most of the business would be on weekends.

He now slipped inside, eased the door mostly closed and stepped into the office, pulling aside his jacket and making sure his knife was easily accessible.

Ah, there was the computer monitor, showing what the security camera was seeing on the restaurant floor at the moment. The camera scanned slowly back and forth, in hypnotic black and white. He’d have a good image of the leaker, the whistleblower, when he scrolled back to May 11, the date the prick had uploaded the STO kill order to the District Attorney’s Office.

He then noticed a switch on the side of the monitor: 1–2–3–4.

He clicked the last and the screen divided into quadrants.

Oh, hell…