Deceased, declared dead at scene. The official pronouncement by the city’s medical examiner that got the crime scene clock running and started all kinds of procedures. Once DCDS was called, there was no reason for anybody to remain on the scene; Rhyme insisted that responders get the hell out to avoid contamination. ‘Good,’ he told Sellitto. He realized he was fully in View of Death Number One mode.

‘All right, Sachs. Where are we with the city worker?’ A glance at the City Hall report.

‘I’d say it’s done. Still awaiting customer records about people who bought that brand of knife. But I’m betting the perp didn’t use his credit card or fill out a questionnaire about customer service. Not much else to do.’

‘Agreed. Okay, Lon, we’ll take it. Though I can’t help but note you didn’t really ask. You just drew a straw on my behalf and stomped slush in here, assuming I’d get on board.’

‘What the fuck else’d you be doing, Linc? Cross-country skiing through Central Park?’

Rhyme liked it when people didn’t shrink from his condition, when they weren’t afraid to make jokes like Sellitto’s. He grew furious when people treated him like a broken doll.

There, there, poor you …

Sellitto said, ‘I’ve called Crime Scene in Queens. There’s an RRV en route. They’ll let you take the lead, Amelia.’

‘On my way.’ She pulled on a wool scarf and gloves. She picked another leather jacket from the hook, longer, mid-thigh. In all their years together Rhyme had never seen her wear a full overcoat. Leather jackets or sport, that was about it. Rarely a windbreaker, either, unless she was undercover or on a tac op.

The wind again blasted the ancient windows, rattling the frames, and Rhyme nearly told Sachs to drive carefully – she piloted a classic rear-wheel-drive muscle car that behaved badly on ice – but telling Sachs to be cautious was like telling Rhyme to be patient; it just wasn’t going to happen.

‘You want help?’ Pulaski asked.

Rhyme debated. He asked Sachs, ‘You need him?’

‘Don’t know. Probably not. Single victim, confined area.’

‘For the time being, rookie, you’ll be our undercover mourner. Stay here. We’ll think about your cover story.’

‘Sure, Lincoln.’

‘I’ll call in from the scene,’ Sachs said, grabbing the black canvas bag that contained the com unit she used to talk with Rhyme from the field, and hurried out the door. There was a brief howl of wind, then silence after the creak and slam.

Rhyme noticed that Sellitto was rubbing his eyes. His face was gray and he radiated exhaustion.

The detective saw that Rhyme was looking his way. He said, ‘That fucking Met case. Not getting any sleep. Who breaks into someplace where you got a billion dollars’ worth of art, pokes around and walks out empty-handed? Doesn’t make sense.’