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just as Ron Pulaski returned from his press push-back duty. He led Sachs and the Crime Scene officers into the building. They got off the elevator on the fifth floor and walked to the right, to double doors below a sign that said, Booker T. Washington Room.
    “That’s the scene in there.”
    Sachs and the techs opened the suitcases, started removing equipment. Pulaski continued, “I’m pretty sure he came through these doors. The only other exit is the fire stairwell and you can’t enter from the outside, and it wasn’t jimmied. So, he comes through this door, locks it and then goes after the girl. She escaped through the fire door.”
    “Who unlocked the front one for you?” Sachs asked.
    “Guy named Don Barry, head librarian.”
    “He go in with you?”
    “No.”
    “Where is he now?”
    “His office—third floor. I wondered if maybe it was an inside job, you know? So I asked him for a list of all his white male employees and where they were when she was attacked.”
    “Good.” Sachs had been planning to do the same.
    “He said he’d bring the list down to us as soon as he was done.”
    “Now, tell me what I’ll find inside.”
    “The girl was at the microfiche reader. It’s around the corner to the right. You’ll see it easy.” Pulaski pointed to the end of a large room filled with tall rows of bookshelves, beyond which was an open area where Sachs could see mannequins dressed in period clothing, paintings, cases of antique jewelry, purses, shoes, accessories—your typical dusty museum displays, the sort of stuff you look at while you’re really wondering what restaurant to eat at after you’ve had enough culture.
    “What’s security like around here?” Sachs was looking for surveillance cameras on the ceiling.
    “Zip. No cameras. No guards, no sign-in sheets. You just walk in.”
    “Never easy, is it?”
    “No, ma’ . . . No, Detective.”
    She thought about telling him that “ma’am” was okay, not like “lady,” but didn’t know how to explain the distinction. “One question. Did you close the fire door downstairs?”
    “No, I left it just the way I found it. Open.”
    “So the scene could be hot.”
    “Hot?”
    “The perp could’ve come back.”
    “I . . . ”
    “You didn’t do anything wrong, Pulaski. I just want to know.”
    “Well, I guess he could’ve, yeah.”
    “All right, you stay in the doorway here. I want you to listen.”
    “For what?”
    “Well, the guy shooting at me, for instance. Butprobably better if you heard footsteps or somebody racking a shotgun first.”
    “Watch your back, you’re saying?”
    She winked. And started forward to the scene.
    *   *   *
    So, she’s Crime Scene, thought Thompson Boyd, watching the woman walk back and forth in the library, studying the floor, looking for fingerprints and clues and whatever it was they looked for. He wasn’t concerned about what she might find. He’d been careful, as always.
    Thompson was standing in the sixth-floor window of the building across Fifty-fifth Street from the museum. After the girl got away, he’d circled around two blocks and made his way into this building, then climbed the stairs to the hallway from which he was now looking over the street.
    He’d had a second chance to kill the girl a few minutes ago; she’d been on the street for a moment, talking to officers, in front of the museum. But there were way too many police around for him to shoot her and get away. Still he’d been able to take a picture of her with the camera in his mobile phone before she and her friend had been hustled off to a squad car, which sped west. Besides, Thompson still had more to do here, and so he’d taken up this vantage point.
    From his prison days Thompson knew a lot about law enforcers. He could easily spot the lazy ones, the scared ones, the ones who were stupid and gullible. He could also spot the talented cops, the smart ones, the ones who were a threat.
    Like the woman he was