Weir said nothing but that had to be the answer. They'd stationed officers in the alley between the Lanham and Grady's building and on the roofs of both structures too. But it had never occurred to them he'd walk along the ledge and leap over the air shaft.

Bell asked the officers, "And no sign of anybody else?"

"Nope. Looks like he was solo."

Sellitto donned latex gloves and patted him down. The search yielded burglary tools and various props and magic supplies. The oddest were the fake fingertips, glued on tightly. Sellitto pulled them off and deposited them in a plastic evidence bag. If the situation weren't so unnerving—that a hired killer had actually gotten into the apartment of the family they were protecting—the image of the ten finger pads in a bag would've been comical.

They looked over their prey as Sellitto continued to search him. Weir was muscular and in excellent shape, despite the fact that the fire had caused some serious damage—the scarring was quite extensive.

"Any ID?" Bell asked.

Sellitto shook his head. "F.A.O. Schwarz." Meaning low-quality fake NYPD badge and ID card. Not much better than toys.

Weir glanced toward the kitchen, which he could see was empty. He frowned.

"Oh, the Gradys aren't here," Bell said, as if it were obvious.

The man closed his eyes and rested his head on the threadbare carpet. "How? How did you figure it out?"

Sellitto supplied an answer of sorts. "Well, guess what? There's somebody who'd love to answer that question for you. Come on, we're going for a ride."

———«»———«»———«»———

Looking over the shackled killer standing in the doorway of the lab, Lincoln Rhyme said, "Welcome back."

"But . . . the fire." Dismayed, the man looked toward the stairway that led up to the bedroom.

"Sorry we ruined your performance," Rhyme said coldly. "I guess you couldn't quite escape from me after all, could you, Weir?"

He turned his gaze back to the criminalist and hissed, "That's not my name anymore."

"You changed it?"

Weir shook his head. "Not legally. But Weir's who I used to be. I go by something else now."

Rhyme recalled psychologist Terry Dobyns's observation that the fire had "murdered" Weir's old persona and he'd become somebody else.

The killer now looked over Rhyme's body. "You understand that, don't you? You'd like to forget the past and become somebody else too, I'd imagine."

"What are you calling yourself?"

"That's between me and my audience."

Ah, yes, his revered audience.

Double-handcuffed, looking bewildered and diminished, Weir wore a gray businessman's suit. The wig he'd worn last night was gone; his real hair was thick, long and dark blond. In the daylight Rhyme could better see the scarring above his collar; it looked quite severe.

"How'd you find me?" the man asked in his wheezing voice. "I led you to . . ."