A Textbook Case

attacker left, closing the door.
    The icy water continued to rise.
    # # #
    This time Amelia Sachs was first on the scene.
    And she was momentarily alone. Backup would be here soon but Rhyme had decided there was no time to wait; the perp—no longer an unsub at this point—had gone over a borderline and was moving faster. Rhyme said they had to assume another victim was about to die.
    She skidded to a stop up the street from Vicki Sellick’s townhouse and sprinted to the front door fast, not even feeling the twinges of arthritis. There was no question of warrants or fair warning. Time was too critical. With the butt of her Glock she shattered the window of the front door, opened it and charged inside.
    The weapon before her, she ran to the top-floor apartment and kicked the door in, searching quickly. She found the victim in the bathtub—like the Prius, an innocent object rigged to kill.
    She looked down. The water was nearly at Vicki’s face and her frantic thrashing was making it worse; waves splashing up her nose. She was choking and coughing, her face bright red.
    Sachs grabbed the woman’s blouse and pulled up hard from the water, then ripped the tape from her mouth.
    “Thank you, thank you!” she sputtered. “But be careful! He might be here.”
    Out came the switchblade again and after a few seconds of careful surgery the woman’s feet and hands were free. Sachs wrapped a towel around her shoulders.
    “Where?”
    “I heard him two minutes ago, downstairs! I didn’t get a look. He hit me from behind.”
    Then a crash of glass from the hallway, near the rear of the building, a window breaking. “What’s back there?”
    “Fire escape to the alley.”
    Sachs ran to the window and saw the shadow of a figure, standing uncertainly looking left and right. She told Vicki to lock the bathroom door, the backup would be there any minute—she heard the sirens approaching. Then she sped down the stairs to the second floor. She, too, went through the shattered window, after checking fast for presenting threats.
    The shadow was gone.
    She clambered fast down the stairs. Then stopped. A brief sigh. Like most of them in the city, the fire escape didn’t go all the way to the ground and she had to drop four or so feet to the cobblestoned alley, wincing in pain as she landed.
    But she stayed upright and turned toward the darker part of the alley.
    She got ten feet before the shadow reemerged—behind her.
    She froze.
    The young crime scene officer, Marko, was squinting her way. His weapon was in his hand.
    He lifted it toward Sachs, shaking his crew-cut head. On his face was a faint but definite smile—though a cold one. Of victory. Probably the expression on the face of sniper just before he takes his shot to kill an enemy general.

8
    Surprisingly silently for such a stocky man, Marko moved closer and pointed to his lips, shaking his head, meaning that she keep still.
    Sachs didn’t move a muscle.
    Then he pointed behind her. And suddenly he shouted, “You! Under the blankets. There’re two police officers here. We’re armed. Let me see your hands.”
    Sachs looked to her left. She noted a homeless nest—blankets, piles of clothing, food cartons, grocery cart, empties, books and magazines. At first she didn’t see anyone. But then she spotted a human form huddling in a gamy bedspread. A woman. She glanced at Marko, who nodded, and she, too, trained her weapon on the person, though she didn’t have any idea what was going on.
    “Let me see your hands!” he shouted.
    And slowly the middle-aged figure rose, a look of fury and hatred on her face. Sachs moved forward and cuffed the suspect, who raged, “You don’t understand. You don’t have any idea what he did to me. He ruined my life!”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Marko said and glanced at Sachs, who read the woman her rights. Then eased her to a sitting position as she continued her rant, while the two officers searched the nest.
    “How’d you make her?” Sachs asked. “The profile Rhyme had for the perp was middle-class, lived in a nice place on the Upper West Side.”
    Marko nodded. “Homeless lady clothes, but not homeless lady shoes.”
    Sachs looked. True, a torn and dirty dress. But nice Joan and David’s on her feet. Also, her face was clean and she wore makeup.
    “Good catch.”
    “Thank you, ma’am.”
    “ ‘Amelia’ is fine.”
    “Sure.”
    They collected the woman’s purse—and a few other items. Notably, a pistol, with which she