‘The only question,’ Rhyme said, ‘is where’s he going to strike next?’ He wheeled to the board. ‘The answer’s there. Maybe.’

Upper Manhattan Medical Center

• Victim: Harriet Stanton, 53

  – Tourist

  – Not hurt

• Unsub 11-5

  – See details, prior scene

  – Red tattoo on left arm

  – Russian or Slavic in appearance

  – Light blue eyes

  – No accent

  – Size 11 Bass shoes

  – No friction ridges

  – Spent time in Specimens Room at hospital (‘skin museum’)

• Trace

  – No toxin found

  – Dimethicone

  But probably from makeup worn by Harriet Stanton

CHAPTER 27

Provence2 was crowded.

As soon as the Times had bestowed its stars, this hole-in-the-wall in Hell’s Kitchen had been inundated with folks desperate to cram into the loud, frantic rooms and to sample dishes that were a fusion of two southern cuisines, American and French.

Fried chicken with capers and ratatouille.

Les escargots avec grits.

Improbable. But the dish works …

Straddled by a warehouse to the south and a chic steel-and-glass office building to the north, the restaurant was housed in a structure typical of those on the west side of Midtown: a century old, angled floors that snapped and creaked underfoot, and ceilings of hammered tin. Low archways led from one cramped dining room to the next and the walls were sandblasted brick, which did nothing to dim the din.

Lighting was low, courtesy of yellow bulbs in what seemed to be lamp fixtures as old as the structure itself (though they’d come not from a Victorian-era ironworks on the Hudson but a factory outside Seoul).

At one of the tables in the back, the conversation ricocheted like an air-hockey puck.

‘He doesn’t have a chance. It’s ridiculous.’

‘Did you hear about his girlfriend?’

‘She’s not his girlfriend.’

‘She is his girlfriend, it was on Facebook.’

‘Anyway I don’t even think she’s a girl.’

‘Ooo. That’s sweet.’

‘When the press finds out, he’s toast. Let’s get another bottle. The Chablis.’

Samantha Levine listened to her companions’ banter but not with her full attention. For one thing, she wasn’t much concerned about local politics. The candidate they were speaking of probably wouldn’t win the next election but not because of girlfriends who might or might not pass the physical but because he was bland and petty. You needed the quality of more to be mayor of the city of New York.

You needed that je ne sais quoi, y’all.