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Then he was back through the utility access port in the Belvedere parking garage's wall.
And underground once more.
Finally it was safe, Billy figured, to get to the surface. Chest aching, coughing shallowly, he climbed through another access door into the basement of a Midtown office building. It was one of those scuffed limestone functionaries of architecture, three-quarters of a century old, possibly more. Ten, twelve stories high, with dimly lit, jerky elevators that prompted you to bless yourself before you stepped inside.
Billy, though, took the stairs from the basement and, after checking, eased into the first-floor hallway, the professional home of ambulance chasers, accountants and some import-export operations whose names in English appeared under Cyrillic letters or Asian pictograms. He stripped off the coveralls, stuffed them into a trash bin and pulled on a different stocking cap, beige for a change. Shoes back on.
At the greasy glass door leading onto the street Billy paused and looked for police. None. This made sense; he was far enough away from the site of the attack at the Belvedere. The officers would have their hands full for some time there. It amused him to think of what was going on in the garage.
Stepping out onto the street he moved quickly east.
How had the great anticipator anticipated this? Yes, he'd been to the Belvedere several times to scope out the place. Maybe he'd picked up some trace there that had been discovered. That seemed unlikely but, with Rhyme, anything was possible.
Walking through the sleet, he kept his head down and thought back to any mista
kes he might've made. Then: Yes, yes ... he remembered. A week or so ago he'd called directory assistance to get the number for the Belvedere to check on the hours of the parking garage. He'd been in the tattoo supply store, buying extra needles for the American Eagle machine. That's how they'd found him.
This raised a question: The only reason the owner would have mentioned the Belvedere was because the police wanted to know who'd bought an American Eagle or needles for it. But how had they learned that this was his murder weapon?
He'd have to do some more thinking about that.
A subway station loomed and he descended the slushy stairs then caught a train south. In twenty minutes Billy was back at his workshop, in the shower, letting the hot water blast his skin as he scrubbed and scrubbed.
Then toweling off, dressing again.
He clicked on the radio. A short time later the news reported another attack by the 'Underground Man', which had struck him as a rather pathetic nickname. Couldn't they come up with anything better?
Still no mention of Amelia Sachs or anybody else falling victim to a strychnine attack. Which meant that by either diligence or luck the crime scene people had missed getting stuck by the needle in Samantha's purse.
Billy had known all along the Modification would be like a battle, with wins and losses on both sides. He'd succeeded with two victims. The police had had some victories too. This was to be expected - in fact, it had been anticipated. Now, he reflected, he had to be a bit more serious about protecting himself.
An idea occurred to him.
Surprisingly simple, surprisingly good.
The applicable Commandment for this situation would be: Know thine enemy. But know the friends and family of thine enemy too.
CHAPTER 38
'Hell, Amelia, how bad is it?' Sellitto asked.
He and Sachs were standing in parallel positions - hands on hips - looking down into the dusky parking garage beneath the Belvedere Apartments.
'Bad,' she muttered. She looked over the city schematic of this scene. She ran her finger over the parking area and the abandoned New York Central train tunnel. 'Ruined. Gone. All of the evidence.'
Sellitto stamped his feet, presumably to warm them against the stabbing chill of the icy muck they stood in. Sachs had stamped too; it didn't work. Just made her toes sting more.
She noted Bo Haumann nearby, on his mobile. The ESU commander disconnected and strode over to them. Nodded.
Sellitto asked, 'Anything?'
The wiry, compact man, wearing a turtleneck under his shirt, strode forward. He rubbed a hand over his gray crew-cut hair. His eyebrows were frosty but he seemed completely unfazed by the cold. 'He's gone. Rabbited. Got a team into the tunnel from a manhole up the street. But even that's useless. All they could say is "No trace of him."'
Sachs gave a grim laugh. 'No trace. In both senses of the word.'
Rhyme's concern had proved warranted. By opening the fire department standpipe, Unsub 11-5 had managed to obliterate the crime scene with calculated efficiency. The perp had then slipped out through the doorway by which he'd gained access to the parking garage, leaving it open. Within minutes, the geyser of water had flooded the ground floor of the garage and cascaded through the door into the tunnel below - which was to have been the killing zone.
When it comes to crime scene contaminants, water can be worse than fire. Much trace can survive flames and, while walls may collapse, the position of objects and architectural elements and even human bodies at the scene remains largely unchanged. A flood, though, is like a big mixing bowl, not only diluting and destroying and blending, but also moving items far from their original positions.
