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"But--"
"I don't have a silencer on the gun. But the muzzle is close enough to your body that nobody will know where the sound came from and I'll be gone before you hit the ground. And the bullet will go through you and with these crowds I'm sure it will hit somebody else. You don't want that."
"Who are you?"
"You know who I am."
Joseph Malloy had made a lifelong career in law enforcement, and after his wife was killed by a drug-crazed burglar the profession became more than a career; it was an obsession. Maybe he was brass, an administrator now, but he still had the instincts he'd honed on the streets of Midtown South precinct years ago. He understood instantly. "Five Twenty-Two."
"What?"
Calm. Stay calm. If you're calm you're in control. "You're the man who killed that woman on Sunday and the groundskeeper in the cemetery last night."
"What do you mean, 'Five Twenty-Two'?"
"What the department's calling you internally. An unknown subject, UNSUB, number Five Twenty-Two." Give him some facts. Make him relax too. Carry on a conversation.
The killer gave a brief laugh. "A number? That's interesting. Now, turn to the right."
Well, if he wanted you dead, you'd be dead. He just needs to know something, or he's kidnapping you for leverage. Relax. He's obviously not going to kill you--he doesn't want you to see his face. Okay, Lon Sellitto said they were calling him the man who knew everything? Well, get some information about him that you can use.
Maybe you can talk your way out.
Maybe you can lower his guard and get close enough to kill him with your bare hands.
Joe Malloy was perfectly capable of this, both mentally and physically.
After a brief walk 522 ordered him to stop in the alley. He put a stocking cap over Malloy's head and pulled it down over his eyes. Good. A huge relief. As long as I don't see him, I'll live. Then his hands were taped and he was frisked. A firm hand on his shoulder, he was led forward and eased into a car trunk.
A drive in the stifling heat, the uncomfortable space, legs tucked up. A compact car. Okay, noted. No burning oil. And good suspension. Noted. No smell of leather. Noted. Malloy tried to keep track of the directions they turned but that was impossible. He paid attention to the sounds: traffic noises, a jackhammer. Nothing unique there. And seagulls and a boat horn. Well, how's that going to help pinpoint where you are? Manhattan is an island. Get something useful! . . . Wait--the car has a noisy power-steering belt. That's helpful. Tuck it away.
Twenty minutes later they came to a stop. He heard the rumble of a garage door closing, a big one, squeaky joints or wheels. Malloy gave a brief cry as the trunk popped, startling him. Musty but cool air embraced him. He gasped hard, sucking oxygen into his lungs through the damp wool of the cap.
"Out we go."
"There are some things I'd like to talk to you about. I'm a captain--"
"I know who you are."
"I have a lot of power in the department." Malloy was pleased. His voice was steady. He was sounding reasonable. "We can work something out."
"Come on over here." Five Twenty-Two helped him over the smooth floor.
Then he was seated.
"I'm sure you have grievances. But I can help you. Tell me why you're doing this, committing these crimes."
Silence. What would happen next? Would he have a chance to fight physically? Malloy wondered. Or would he have to continue to work his way into the man's mind? By now he'd be missed. Sellitto and Rhyme might have figured out what happened.
Then he heard a noise.
What was it?
Several clicks, followed by a tinny electronic voice. The killer was testing a tape recorder, it seemed.
Then another: the clink of metal against metal, like tools being gathered up.
And finally the disturbing screech of metal on concrete as the killer scooted his chair so close to Malloy's that their knees touched.
