“I can tell by your expression what you’re thinking,” Tyndale said quickly. “Why didn’t the bloody man just use the 70 millimeter lens at F/2.8? The other lens was in his kit, after all. Fair point, indeed. But, if you’ll allow me, I think I can make a case for the 300 at F/5.6. I was anticipating the lighter sky behind the hill and above the trees—”

Coyle held one of the photos in front of Tyndale. “Mr. Tyndale, did you, in fact, see these individuals in the park?”

“No, no, Inspector. You misunderstand. The motor on the Nikon D4 shoots eleven frames per second, on a wireless remote shutter release. I assure you, my attentions were on the position of the stand and preparing my lens case. I was otherwise employed.”

“And they didn’t see you?”

“Good Lord, I hope not. What a diabolical idea.”

“Did you post these images online? Have you shared them with the press?”

“No and no. I came directly here.”

Coyle pushed back his chair and stood. “We’ll need the original memory card.”

“Quite right. Time is, as they say, of the essence.” Tyndale reached into the envelope and handed Coyle the memory card. “Perhaps your lab boys can find something I missed in the images.”

“Thanks for your help,” Coyle said as he ran out of the room.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Tyndale called after him, “might I ask that you put in a good word with the Parks Department on my behalf? First offense. Best intentions. The quality of mercy. That sort of thing—”

(ii)

(THURSDAY, 1:00 P.M.)

Mahler stood by bracing himself against the side of the toilet stall. His throat ached from vomiting. He kicked the flusher and leaned against the metal wall. The upstairs men’s restroom at the police station was silent, and he knew he was alone. He breathed deeply, eyes closed. His equilibrium stopped swimming. For now, he was done being sick.

This was a predictable stage in his headache: high dosages of pain medication, leading to nausea and vomiting.

Mahler pushed open the stall door and walked slowly to the sink. He found the can of Coca-Cola he’d left on the counter. He took a mouthful, rinsed, and spat it out. Then he drank the rest of the can.

In the mirror he saw his ghostly, pale skin and, under his eyes, the black circles that Kate noticed. Dilated blood vessels just beneath the skin caused the darkness. “Raccoon eyes,” migraine sufferers called them.