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family.”
    “All the other students were in different practice rooms today and none of them heard anything or saw anybody they didn’t know.”
    “Why wasn’t Svetlana in a practice room?” Sachs asked.
    “Her friend said Svetlana liked the acoustics better in the hall.”
    “Husband, boyfriend, girlfriend?” Sachs asked, thinking of rule number one in homicide investigations: the doer usually knows the doee.
    “None that the other students knew.”
    “How’d he get into the building?” Rhyme asked and Sachs relayed the question.
    The guard said, “Only door’s open is the front one. We got fire doors, course. But you can’t open them from the outside.”
    “And he’d have to walk past you, right?”
    “And sign in. And get his picture took by the camera.”
    Sachs glanced up. “There’s a security camera, Rhyme, but it looks like the lens hasn’t been cleaned in months.”
    They gathered behind the desk. The guard punched buttons and played the tape. Bedding and Saul had vetted seven of the people. But they agreed that one person—a brown-haired, bearded older man in jeans and bulky jacket—hadn’t been among those they’d talked to.
    “That’s him,” Franciscovich said. “That’s the killer.” Nancy Ausonio nodded.
    On the fuzzy tape he was signing the register book then walking inside. The guard glanced at the book, but not at the man’s face, as he signed it.
    “Did you get a look at him?” Sachs asked.
    “Didn’t pay no attention,” he said defensively. “If they sign I let them in. That’s all I gotta do. That’s my job. I’m here mostly to keep folk from walking out with our stuff.”
    “We’ve got his signature at least, Rhyme. And a name. They’ll be fake but at least it’s a handwriting sample. Which line did he sign on?” Sachs asked, picking up the sign-in book with latex-clad fingers.
    They ran the tape, fast-forward, from the beginning. The killer was the fourth person to sign the book. But in the fourth slot was a woman’s name.
    Rhyme called, “Count all the people who signed.”
    Sachs told the guard to do so and they watched nine people fill in their names—eight students, including the victim, and her killer.
    “Nine people signed, Rhyme. But there are only eight names on the list.”
    “How’d that happen?” Sellitto asked.
    Rhyme: “Ask the guard if he’s sure the perp signed. Maybe he faked it.”
    She put the question to the placid man.
    “Yeah, he did. I saw it. I don’t always look at their faces but I make sure they sign.”
    That’s all I gotta do. That’s my job.
    Sachs shook her head and dug into the cuticle of her thumb with another nail.
    “Well, bring me the sign-in book with everything else and we’ll have a look at it here,” Rhyme said.
    In the corner of the room a young Asian woman stood hugging herself and looking out the uneven leaded glass. She turned and looked at Sachs. “I heard you talking. You said, I mean, it sounded like you didn’t know if he got out of the building after he . . . afterward. You think he’s still here?”
    “No, I don’t,” Sachs said. “I just meant we’re not sure how he escaped.”
    “But if you don’t know that, then it means he could still be hiding here, somewhere. Waiting for somebody else. And you don’t have any idea where he is.”
    Sachs gave her a reassuring smile. “We’ll have plenty of officers around until we get to the bottom of what happened. You don’t have to worry.”
    Though she was thinking: The girl was absolutely right. Yes, he could be here, waiting for somebody else.
    And, no, we don’t have a clue who or where he is.

Chapter Four
    And now, Revered Audience, we’ll take a short intermission.
    Enjoy the memory of the Lazy Hangman . . . and relish the anticipation of what’s coming up soon.
    Relax.
    Our next act will begin shortly. . . .
    The man walked along Broadway on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. When he reached one street corner he stopped,