‘I think so! Jesus! Please. Send somebody.’

‘Describe him.’

‘Dark-skinned. Thirties.’

‘What’s your name—?’

Click.

It was sixty seconds later that he heard the sirens. He knew the 20th Precinct, located in Central Park, was nearby.

More sirens.

Dozens of squad cars, he guessed.

He waited until the sirens grew louder; they’d have to be drawing the attention of everyone in the town house. Gambling that no one could see the security monitor, Billy walked matter-of-factly to Rhyme’s back door. Paused again. He looked around. Nobody. He turned to the lock.

Later, the police might look at the security tape – if it was recorded at all – and see the intruder. But all they’d see would be a vague form, head down.

And by then it would be too late.

CHAPTER 45

‘The hell is going on?’ Rhyme barked.

The criminalist and Mel Cooper were in the front hallway of the town house, the door open. Ron Pulaski joined them. They were peering out into the street, which was filled with police cars, two ESU vans and two ambulances.

Blue lights, white, red. Flashing urgently.

Cooper’s and Pulaski’s hands were near their sidearms.

Thom was upstairs, probably observing from a bedroom window.

Five minutes ago Rhyme had heard frantic wails grow loud as emergency vehicles streaked along the street outside. He’d expected them to continue on Central Park West, but they didn’t. The vehicles braked to a stop just one door north. The piercing howls remained at peak pitch for a moment then one by one shut off.

Peering outside, Rhyme said, ‘Call downtown, Mel. Find out.’

He’d assumed at first that the incident had something to do with him – maybe the unsub had been making a frontal assault on the town house – but then he noted that the attention was focused on the park itself and that none of the officers who were part of the operation approached his place.

Cooper had a conversation with someone at Dispatch and then disconnected.

‘Assault in the park. Dark-skinned male, thirties. Maybe attempted rape.’

‘Ah.’ They continued to watch for another three or four minutes. Rhyme examined the park. It was hard to see anything through the mist and reinvigorated sleet. A rape? The urge for sex is more impulsive than that for money and more intense, he knew, but in this weather?

He wondered if he’d draw the crime scene side of the case and was thinking that given the icy rain the evidence would be a challenge.

But that put in mind Lon Sellitto, who would normally be the NYPD representative who’d contact him about potential jobs. The detective was still in the most intensive of intensive care wards, nowhere near consciousness.