Two had been unsuccessful. Would the third one be the answer? Driving around town like this was a sort of macabre scavenger hunt, she reflected.
It was evening now and Sachs checked the address under a streetlight, found the town house and walked up the few steps to the front door. She was reaching for the bell when something began to nag.
She paused.
Was it the paranoia she'd been feeling all day? A sense of being watched?
Sachs glanced around fast--at the few men and women on the street; at the windows of the residences and small shops nearby. . . . But nobody seemed threatening. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to her.
She began to press the buzzer again but lowered her hand.
Something was off. . . .
What?
Then she understood. It wasn't that she was being watched; it was a scent that troubled her. And with a jolt she knew what it was: mold. She was smelling mold, the scent coming from the very town house where she now stood.
Just a coincidence?
Sachs silently walked down the stairs and around to the side of the place into the cobblestoned alley. The building was very large--narrow from the front but quite deep. She moved farther into the alley and eased up to a window. Which was covered with newspaper. Scanning the side of the building; yes, they were all covered over. She recalled Terry Dobyns's words: And the windows will be painted black or taped over. He has to keep the outside world away. . . .
She'd come here merely to get information--this couldn't be 522's place; the clues didn't add up. But she knew now that they'd been wrong; there was no doubt this was the killer's home.
She reached for her phone but suddenly heard a scuttling on the alley cobblestones behind her. Eyes wide, forsaking the phone for the gun, she turned fast. But before her hand made it to the Glock's grip, she was tackled hard. She slammed into the side of the town house. Stunned, she dropped to her knees.
Glancing up, gasping, she saw the
hard dots of eyes in the killer's face, saw the stained blade of the razor he held as it began its journey to her throat.
Chapter Forty-three "Command, call Sachs."
But the phone went to voice mail.
"Damnit, where is she? Find her. . . . Pulaski?" Rhyme wheeled his chair around to face the young man, who was on the phone. "What's the story with Carpenter?"
He held up a hand. Then hung up. "I finally got his assistant. Carpenter left work early, had some errands. He should be home by now."
"I want somebody over there. Now."
Mel Cooper tried paging Sachs and, when there was no response, said, "Nothing." He made a few other calls and reported, "Nope. No luck."
"Did Five Twenty-Two get her service dropped, like the electricity?"
"No, they say the accounts're active. It's just that the devices are disabled--broken or the batteries removed."
"What? Are they sure?" The dread within him began to expand.
The doorbell rang and Thom went to answer it.
Lon Sellitto, his shirt half untucked and face sweaty, strode into the room. "They can't do anything about the suspension. It's automatic. Even if I take another test they have to keep it active until IA investigates. Fucking computers. I had somebody call PublicSure. They're quote 'looking into it,' which you know what that means." He glanced at Pulaski. "What happened with your wife?"
"Still in detention."
"Jesus."
"And it gets worse." Rhyme told Sellitto about Brockton, Whitcomb and Glenn and the Compliance Division of Homeland Security.
"Shit. Never heard of it."