It was a smart plan.

And, as a God-winked sharp operator, Hobbs would try his best to pull it off.

Sighting on random passersby to get a feel for the killing field, Hobbs reflected that Mr. Weir must put on some damn fine magic shows. He wondered if, after this was all over, he could get the man to come back to Canton Falls and put on a show for the Sunday school.

At the very least, Hobbs decided, he'd make up some stories about Jesus being a magician and using his tricks to make the Romans and heathens disappear.

———«»———«»———«»———

Sweating.

Chills from the cold perspiration trickling down Amelia Sachs's sides and back.

Chills from fear too.

Search well . . .

She turned down another dim corridor of the Criminal Courts building, hand near her weapon.

. . . but watch your back.

Ah, you bet, Rhyme. Love to. But watch out for who? A lean-faced fifty-something who might be wearing a beard or might not? An elderly woman in a cafeteria worker's uniform? A workman, a DOC guard, a janitor cop medic cook fireman nurse? Any one of the dozens of people who were legitimately here on a Sunday. Who, who, who?

Her radio clattered. It was Sellitto. "I'm on the third floor, Amelia. Nothing."

"I'm in the basement. I've seen a dozen people. All their IDs match but, hell, who knows if he's been planning this for weeks and planted a fake badge here."

"I'm going up to four."

They ended the transmission and she resumed the search. Down more corridors. Dozens of doors. All locked.

But of course simple locks like these meant nothing to him. He could open one in seconds and hide inside a dark storage room. He could get into a judge's chambers, hide until Monday. He could slip through one of the padlocked grates that led down to the utility tunnels, which in turn would give him access to half the buildings in downtown Manhattan, as well as the subway.

She turned a corner and plunged down another dark corridor. Testing knobs as she went, she found one door unlocked.

If he was inside the closet he would've heard her—the click of the knob, if not her footsteps—so there was nothing to do but go in fast. Shoving the door inward, flashlight up, ready to jump to her left if she saw a weapon turn her way (recalling that there's a tendency for a right-handed shooter to pull the gun to the left when panic firing, which sends the slug to the target's right).

Arthritic knees screaming at the partial crouch, she swung the halogen beam throughout the room. A few boxes and file cabinets. Nothing else. Though as she turned to leave she recalled that he'd hidden in shadows by using a simple black cloth. She looked around the room again more slowly, probing with the flashlight.

As she did she felt a touch on her neck.