The warning that had precipitated his rapid escape from the Belvedere parking garage had not been the squeal of brakes from the Emergency Service trucks or the quiet footfalls of the cops. He’d known a few moments before that that he was in danger. The police dispatcher had reported the address and mentioned the name Belvedere, as Billy had heard through the earbud, connected to his police scanner.

He’d then taken some measures to make sure the location – and the victim – would be useless to the police.

Thou shalt cleanse the crime scene of all that can incriminate.

Then he was back through the utility access port in the Belvedere parking garage’s wall.

And underground once more.

Finally it was safe, Billy figured, to get to the surface. Chest aching, coughing shallowly, he climbed through another access door into the basement of a Midtown office building. It was one of those scuffed limestone functionaries of architecture, three-quarters of a century old, possibly more. Ten, twelve stories high, with dimly lit, jerky elevators that prompted you to bless yourself before you stepped inside.

Billy, though, took the stairs from the basement and, after checking, eased into the first-floor hallway, the professional home of ambulance chasers, accountants and some import-export operations whose names in English appeared under Cyrillic letters or Asian pictograms. He stripped off the coveralls, stuffed them into a trash bin and pulled on a different stocking cap, beige for a change. Shoes back on.

At the greasy glass door leading onto the street Billy paused and looked for police. None. This made sense; he was far enough away from the site of the attack at the Belvedere. The officers would have their hands full for some time there. It amused him to think of what was going on in the garage.

Stepping out onto the street he moved quickly east.

How had the great anticipator anticipated this? Yes, he’d been to the Belvedere several times to scope out the place. Maybe he’d picked up some trace there that had been discovered. That seemed unlikely but, with Rhyme, anything was possible.

Walking through the sleet, he kept his head down and thought back to any mistakes he might’ve made. Then: Yes, yes … he remembered. A week or so ago he’d called directory assistance to get the number for the Belvedere to check on the hours of the parking garage. He’d been in the tattoo supply store, buying extra needles for the American Eagle machine. That’s how they’d found him.

This raised a question: The only reason the owner would have mentioned the Belvedere was because the police wanted to know who’d bought an American Eagle or needles for it. But how had they learned that this was his murder weapon?

He’d have to do some more thinking about that.