"You understand, don't you, Amelia?" Rhyme whispered.
"Last names only," she said, smiling, walking close to the bed.
She bent down and kissed him on the mouth. He pressed back into his pillow for a moment then returned the kiss.
"No, no," he persisted. But he kissed her hard once again.
Her purse dropped to the floor. Her jacket and watch went on the bedside table, followed by the last of the fashion accessories to come off--her Glock 9.
They kissed again.
But he pulled away. "Sachs . . . It's too risky!"
"God don't give out certain," she said, their eyes locked on each other's. Then she stood and walked across the room to the light switch.
"Wait," he said.
She paused, looked back. Her red hair fell over her face, obscuring one eye.
Into the microphone hanging on the bed frame Rhyme commanded, "Lights out."
The room went dark.
SIMON & SCHUSTER PROUDLY PRESENTS
GARDEN OF BEASTS
JEFFERY DEAVER
Now available in hardcover from Simon & Schuster
Turn the page for a preview of Garden of Beasts . . . .
Chapter One
As soon as he stepped into the dim apartment he knew he was dead.
He wiped sweat off his palm, looking around the place, which was quiet as a morgue, except for the faint sounds of Hell's Kitchen traffic late at night and the ripple of the greasy shade when the swiveling Monkey Ward fan turned its hot breath to
ward the window.
The whole scene was off.
Out of kilter . . .
Malone was supposed to be here, smoked on booze, sleeping off a binge. But he wasn't. No bottles of corn anywhere, not even the smell of bourbon, the punk's only drink. And it looked like he hadn't been around for a while. The New York Sun on the table was two days old. It sat next to a cold ashtray and a glass with a blue halo of dried milk halfway up the side.
He clicked the light on.
Well, there was a side door, like he'd noted yesterday from the hallway, looking over the place. But it was nailed shut. And the window that led onto the fire escape? Brother, sealed nice and tight with chicken wire he hadn't been able to see from the alley. The other window was open but was also forty feet above cobblestones.
No way out . . .
And where was Malone? Paul Schumann wondered.
Malone was on the lam, Malone was drinking beer in Jersey, Malone was a statue on a concrete base underneath a Red Hook pier.
Didn't matter.