‘I …’ The patrolman’s face relaxed. ‘You’re fucking with me, aren’t you, Lincoln?’

Rhyme smiled. ‘You’ll do great.’

Pulaski chuckled and disappeared into the hallway. His exit was announced a moment later by a blast of wind through the open door. The latch clicked; then silence.

Rhyme turned to look at the containers of evidence that Detective Edwards had collected at Pam’s apartment, following the unsub’s attack on Seth. But he focused past the bags.

Well, what was this?

A miracle had occurred.

He was looking at the shelves that contained forensic books, a stack of professional journals, a density gradient instrument and … his single-malt scotch. The bottle of Glenmorangie had been placed within reach. Thom usually stashed it higher on the shelf – out of Rhyme’s grasp, the way you’d keep candy away from a child, which pissed Rhyme off to no end.

But apparently the old mother hen had been distracted and screwed up.

He resisted temptation for the time being and maneuvered back to the evidence from Pam’s apartment and the storeroom in the basement and Seth’s clothing laid out on an examination table. For a half hour he and Cooper went through the finds – which weren’t many. No friction ridges, of course, a few fibers, a hair or two, though they might have been Pam’s or they might have come from a friend of hers. Or even from Amelia Sachs, who had been a frequent visitor. There was trace, but it was mostly trace identical to that of the earlier scenes. Only one new substance was discovered: some fibers on Seth’s shirt, where the unsub had grabbed him. They were from an architectural or engineering blueprint. They had to come from 11-5, since Seth wouldn’t use such diagrams in his work as an ad agency freelancer. And Pam would have no reason to come in contact with such plans either.

Mel Cooper filled a new evidence chart, which included the trace, the syringe, the pictures of the scene, the booty footprints.

Rhyme glanced at the sparse info, displeased. No insights.

He circled away and headed for the shelf, thinking of the peaty smell and taste of the whisky, tangy but not too smoky.

With another glance toward the kitchen, where Thom was laboring away, and toward Cooper, securing evidence from the scene. Rhyme easily picked the bottle off the shelf and deposited it between his legs. He was clumsier with the crystal glass, lifting that – careful, careful – and setting it on the shelf within pouring distance.

Then he returned to the bottle and, with careful manipulation, he eased out the cork and poured into the glass.

One finger, two fingers, all right, three.

It had been a difficult day.

The bottle landed safely where it had been and he turned the chair around and returned to the center of the lab.

‘I didn’t see a thing,’ Cooper said, his back to Rhyme.