On the wall were some mass-produced prints of Salvador Dali's surreal landscapes, some family portraits and, most prominently, a clumsy water-color of New York City painted by a child (the artist's signature was "Chrissy"). A cheap table sat near the door, its short leg lengthened with a folded yellow square of foolscap legal paper. A single ski, the binding broken, leaned forlornly in the corner of the hallway. The wallpaper was old and stained.

Malerick started down the corridor, toward the sound of the television in the living room, but he detoured momentarily, stepping into a small dark room that was dominated by an ebony Kawai baby grand piano. A book of music, instructions noted in the margin, sat open on the piano. The name "Chrissy" appeared here too—penned on the cover of the book. Malerick only had a rudimentary knowledge of music but as he flipped through the lesson book he observed that the pieces seemed quite difficult.

He decided that the girl might've been a bad artist but she was quite the talented young musician—this Christine Grady, the daughter of New York assistant district attorney Charles Grady.

The man whose apartment this was. The man Malerick was being paid one hundred thousand dollars to kill.

———«»———«»———«»———

Amelia Sachs sat on the grass outside of the Cirque Fantastique tent, wincing from the pain throbbing around her right kidney. She'd helped dozens of people away from the crush and had found a spot here to catch her breath.

Staring down at her from the huge black-and-white banner above her head was the masked Arlecchino, still rippling loudly in the wind. He'd seemed eerie yesterday; now, after the panic inside—which he'd caused—the image was repulsive and grotesque.

She had avoided being trampled to death; the knee and boot that'd clobbered her belonged to a man who'd scrabbled over the heads and shoulders of the audience to beat them out the door. Still, her back, ribs and face throbbed. She'd sat here for nearly fifteen minutes, faint and nauseated, partly from the crush, partly from the horrifying claustrophobia. She could generally tolerate small rooms, even elevators. Being completely restrained, unable to move, though, physically sickened her and racked her with panic.

Around her the injured were being treated. There'd been nothing serious, the EMS chief had reported to her—mostly sprains and cuts. A few dislocations and a broken arm.

Sachs and those around her had been spewed out the south exit of the tent. Once outside, she'd fallen to her knees on the grass, crawling away from the crowd.

No longer trapped in an enclosed space with a potential bomb or an armed terrorist, the audience became better Samaritans and helped those who were woozy or hurt.