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responded. “She said it was gone for a while last night after her husband left for the airport.”
    Sellitto stared at him.
    Rhyme’s head eased forward. “And?”
    “She said it was back this morning for a little while. It’s gone now. She was—”
    “Oh, Jesus,” Rhyme whispered.
    “What?” Banks asked.
    “Central!” the criminalist shouted. “Get on the horn to Central. Now!”

    A taxi pulled up in front of the Wife’s town house.
    An elderly woman got out and walked unsteadily to the door.
    Stephen watching, vigilant.
    Soldier, is this an easy shot?
    Sir, a shooter never thinks of a shot as easy. Every shot requires maximum concentration and effort. But, sir, I can make this shot and inflict lethal wounds, sir. I can turn my targets into jelly, sir.
    The woman climbed up the stairs and disappeared into the lobby. A moment later Stephen saw her appear in the Wife’s living room. There was a flash of white cloth—the Wife’s blouse again. The two of them hugged. Another figure stepped into the room. A man. A cop? He turned around. No, it was the Friend.
    Both targets, Stephen thought excitedly, only thirty yards away.
    The older woman—mother or mother-in-law—remained in front of the Wife as they talked, heads down.
    Stephen’s beloved Model 40 was in the van. But he wouldn’t need the sniper rifle for this shot, only the long-barrel Beretta. It was a wonderful gun. Old, battered, and functional. Unlike many mercenaries and pros, Stephen didn’t make a fetish out of his weapons. If a rock was the best way to kill a particular victim, he’d use a rock.
    He assessed his target, measuring angles of incidence, the window’s potential distortion and deflection. The old woman stepped away from the Wife and stood directly in front of the glass.
    Soldier, what is your strategy?
    He’d shoot through the window and hit the elderly woman high. She’d fall. The Wife would instinctively step forward toward her and bend over her, presenting a fair target. The Friend would run into the room too and would profile just fine.
    And what about the cops?
    A slight risk. But uniformed patrolmen were modest shots at best and had probably never been fired on in the line of duty. They’d be sure to panic.
    The lobby was still empty.
    Stephen pulled back the slide to cock the weapon and give himself the better control of squeezing the trigger in the gun’s single-action mode. He pushed the door open and blocked it with his foot, looked up and down the street.
    No one.
    Breathe, soldier. Breathe, breathe, breathe . . .
    He lowered the gun to his palm, the butt resting heavy in his gloved hand. He began applying imperceptible pressure to the trigger.
    Breathe, breathe.
    He stared at the old woman, and forgot completely about squeezing, forgot about aiming, forgot about the money he was making, forgot everything in the universe. He simply held the gun steady as a rock in his supple, relaxed hands and waited for the weapon to fire itself.

 . . . Chapter Five
    Hour 1 of 45
    T he elderly woman wiping tears, the Wife standing behind her, arms crossed.
    They were dead, they were—
    Soldier!
    Stephen froze. Relaxed his trigger finger.
    Lights!
    Flashing lights, silently zooming along the street. The turret lights on a police cruiser. Then two more cars, then a dozen, and an Emergency Services van bounding over the potholes. Converging on the Wife’s town house from both ends of the street.
    Safety your weapon, Soldier.
    Stephen lowered the gun, stepped back into the dim lobby.
    Police ran from the cars like spilt water. They spread out along the sidewalk, gazing outward andup at the rooftops. They flung open the doors to the Wife’s town house, shattering the glass and pushing inside.
    The five ESU officers, in full tactical gear, deployed along the curb, covering exactly the spots that ought to be covered, eyes vigilant, fingers curled loosely on the black triggers of their black guns. Patrol officers might be