"It's the dry cleaner on Harrison Street in Canton Falls. And the one below it's the IGA. The next one's the Baptist church. And those names?" the prisoner continued. "Ed Davis, Brett Samuels, Joe James Watkins?"

"Right," Roth said.

"Jeddy Barnes' associates." Constable gave a chuckle. "Gosh no. They're all made up."

"What?" Roth frowned.

Leaning close to his lawyer, the prisoner stared into the man's confused eyes. "I'm saying that those names and numbers're fake."

"I don't understand."

Constable whispered, "Of course you don't, you pathetic fucking Jew," and slammed his fists into the side of the shocked lawyer's face before Roth could raise his arms to protect himself.

Chapter Forty-one.

Andrew Constable was a strong man, strong from hiking to remote hunting and fishing grounds, from dressing deer and sawing bones, from chopping wood.

Paunchy Joe Roth was no match for him. The lawyer tried to rise and call for help but Constable struck him hard in the throat. The man's shout became a gurgling sound.

The prisoner pulled him to the floor and began pummeling the bleeding man with his cuffed fists. In a moment Roth was unconscious, his face swollen like a melon. Constable dragged him back to the table and propped him up on it, his back to the door. If one of the guards happened to glance in again it would look as if he were reading the papers, head down. Constable bent down, pulled off one of the lawyer's shoes and socks and wiped the blood off the table as best he could and covered the rest with documents and pads of paper. He'd kill the lawyer later. For now, for a few minutes at least, he needed this innocent-looking tableau.

A few minutes-until he was free.

Freedom . . .

Which was the whole point of Erick Weir's plan.

Constable's best friend, Jeddy Barnes, the second in command of the Patriot Assembly, had hired Weir not to kill Grady but to break the prisoner out of the notoriously secure Manhattan Detention Center, transport him to freedom over the Bridge of Sighs and ultimately into the New England wilderness, where the Assembly could resume its mission to wage war against the impure, the unclean, the ignorant. To rid the land of blacks, gays, Jews, Hispanics, foreigners-the "Them" that Constable railed against in his weekly lectures at the Patriot Assembly and in the secret websites subscribed to by the thousands of right-thinking citizens around the country.

Constable now rose, walked to the door, looked out again. The guards had no clue about what had just happened inside the interview room.

It occurred to the prisoner that he ought to have a weapon of some kind and so he lifted a metal mechanical pencil from the lawyer's bloody shirt and then nestled the butt of the pencil in the wadded-up sock to protect his palm. The sharp point would make a fine stabbing implement.

Then he sat back, across from Roth, and waited, thinking about the plan created by Weir, or "Magic Man," as Barnes called him. It was a masterpiece, involving dozens of tricks of the illusionist's trade. Feint and double feint, careful timing, clever diversions. It began with Weir carefully planting the idea with the police that there was a conspiracy to kill Grady. The Reverend Ralph Swensen laid the groundwork for this by making one attempt on the prosecutor's life. The bungled killing would reinforce the cops' belief that there was a plot to kill the prosecutor and they'd stop looking for any other crimes-such as the planned jailbreak.

Weir himself would then intentionally get caught during a second attempt to kill Grady and be taken to detention.

Meanwhile, Constable was supposed to do some misdirection of his own. He'd disarm his captors by being the voice of reason, pleading his innocence and winning sympathy and luring Grady to the courthouse this evening by offering to incriminate Barnes and other conspirators. Constable would even try to help track down the illusionist, further disarming the police and giving him the chance to deliver a coded message about his exact location in the detention center, which Barnes would pass on to Weir.

When Grady arrived, Hobbs Wentworth would try to kill the prosecutor but whether he succeeded or not didn't matter; the important thing was that Hobbs would divert the police from the detention center. Then Weir-who was roaming free in the building after faking his own death-would sneak up here in disguise, kill the guards and break Constable out.

There was one more part to the plan-an aspect that Constable'd been looking forward to for weeks. Just before Weir arrived at the interview room, Jeddy Barnes had told him, Constable was "supposed to take care of your lawyer."

"What's that mean?"

"Weir said it's up to you. He just said you're supposed to take care of Roth so he's not in the way."

Now, watching the blood drip from the lawyer's eyes and mouth, he thought, Well, the Jew's took care of.

Constable was wondering how Weir would kill the guards, what kind of disguises he'd have with him, what their escape route would be, when-right on schedule-he heard the distinctive buzz of the outer door. Ah, his chariot to freedom had arrived.

Constable dragged Roth off the bench and dumped him in the corner of the interview room. He thought about killing him now, stomping on his windpipe. But he supposed Weir had a gun with a silencer. Or a knife. He could use that.

Hearing the click of the key in the lock of the interview room. The door swung open.

For a split second he thought: Amazing! Weir'd managed to turn himself into a woman.

But then he remembered her; this was the redheaded officer who'd been with Detective Bell yesterday.

"Injury here," she shouted as she glanced down at Roth. "Call EMS!" Behind her one guard grabbed a phone and the other hit a red button on the wall, sending a klaxon alarm braying into the hallway.

What was going on? Constable didn't understand. Where was Weir? He glanced back at the woman to see the pepper spray-the only permissible weapon in detention-in her hand. He thought fast and began moaning loud, holding his belly. "Somebody got in here! Another prisoner. He tried to kill us!" Hiding the sharp pencil, he clutched his bloody hands to his belly. "I'm hurt. I've been stabbed!"

A fast glance outside. Still no sign of the Magic Man. The woman frowned and looked around the cell as Constable slumped to the floor. Thinking: When she gets closer he'd stab toward her face with the pencil. Maybe hit her eye. He could get the spray away, blast her in the mouth or eyes with it. Maybe hold the pencil to her back; the guards would think it was a gun and open the door for him. Weir had to be close-maybe he was just outside the security doors.

Come on, honey. A little closer. She might have a bulletproof vest on, he reminded himself; aim for her pretty face.

"Your lawyer?" she asked, leaning over Roth. "Is he stabbed too?"

"Yes! It was some black prisoner. He said I was a racist. He said he wanted to teach me a lesson." His head was down but he could sense her stepping closer.

"Joe's hurt bad. We have to save him!"

Just a few more feet. . . .

Or if he is a white man and looks like a smart man-if he has all his teeth and wears clothes that don't smell like yesterday's piss-well, then, are you going to be just a little slower to pull that trigger?

Constable moaned.

He sensed her very close.

She said, "Let me see how badly you're hurt."

He gripped the pencil firmly. Got ready to spring. He looked up to find his target.

And saw the nozzle of the pepper spray, a foot away from his eyes.

She pushed the button and the stream shot him square in the face. A hundred hot needles pierced his mouth and nose and eyes.

Constable screamed as the policewoman ripped the pen out of his hand and kicked him onto his back.

"Why'd you do that?" he cried, rising up on one elbow. "Why?"

Her answer was to debate for a brief moment then hit him with a second stream of fiery spray.

Chapter Forty-two.

Amelia Sachs put the pepper spray canister away.

The potential sergeant in her was a bit troubled by the gratuitous second blast into Constable's face.

But having noticed the fourteen-karat shiv half concealed in his hand, Sachs the street cop with wire thoroughly enjoyed hearing the vicious bigot squeal like a pig as she sprayed him again. She stepped aside as the two floor guards grabbed the prisoner and dragged him out.

"A doctor! Get me to a doctor. My eyes! I have a right to a doctor!"

"I keep tellin' yo t'shuddup." The guards dragged him down the hall. Constable lashed out with his feet. They stopped, shackled his ankles, and then pulled him around the corner.

Sachs and two more guards looked over Joseph Roth. He was breathing but unconscious and badly hurt. She decided it was best not to move him. Soon a city EMS team arrived and, after Sachs checked their IDs, went to work on the lawyer, clearing his airway and getting a neck brace around him then strapping him onto a backboard, which they placed on a gurney. They took him out of the secure area for the drive to the hospital.

Sachs stood back and surveyed the room and the lobby to make sure that Weir hadn't slipped in unnoticed. No, she was sure he hadn't. She then went outside and it was only when she got her Glock back from the officer at the desk that she began to feel more at ease. She called Rhyme to tell him what had happened.

Then she added, "Constable was expecting him, Rhyme."

"Expecting Weir?"

"I think so. He was surprised when I opened the door. He tried to recover but I could tell he was waiting for somebody."

"So that's what Weir's up to-breaking Constable out?"

"That's what I think."

"Goddamn misdirection," he muttered. "He's had us focused on the plot to kill Grady. I never thought they'd be going for a breakout." Then he added, "Unless the escape is misdirection and Weir's job really is to kill Grady."

She considered this. "That'd work too."

"And no sign of Weir anywhere?"

"None."

"Okay, I'm still going over what you found at Detention, Sachs. Come on back and we'll look over it."

"I can't, Rhyme," she said, studying the hallway in which a dozen onlookers stood gazing at the excitement in the secure portion of the lobby. "He's got to be here someplace. I'm going to keep hunting."

Suzuki piano lessons for children involve working through a series of progressively more difficult music books containing a dozen or so pieces. When a student completes a book successfully the parents often throw a small party for friends, family and the music teacher, during which the student gives a short recital.

Christine Grady's Suzuki Volume Three party was scheduled for a week from tonight and she'd been practicing hard for her mini concert. She was now sitting in the yanno room of the family's apartment, finishing up Schumann's "The Wild Rider."

The yanno room was dark and small but Chrissy loved it here. It contained only a few chairs, shelves of sheet music and a beautiful, shiny baby grand piano-hence her nickname for the place.

With some effort she played the andante movement of Clementi's Sonatina in C and then rewarded herself by playing the Mozart Sonatina, one of her favorites. She didn't think her playing was all that good, though. She was distracted by the police in their apartment. The men and women were all very nice and talked cheerfully about Star Wars or Harry Potter or Xbox games with big smiles on their faces. But Chrissy knew they weren't really smiling at all; they were only doing it to make her feel comfortable. But all the fake grins really did was make her more scared.

Because, even though they didn't say it, the fact that the police were here meant that somebody was trying to hurt her daddy. She wasn't worried about somebody trying to hurt her. What scared her was that some bad man would take her daddy away from her. She wished he'd stop doing the court job he had. Once, she'd worked up her courage and asked him. But he'd said to her, "How much do you like playing the yanno, honey?"

"Lots."

"Well, that's how much I like doing my job."

"Oh. Okay," she'd said. Even though it wasn't okay at all. Because playing music didn't make people hate you and want to kill you. She now squinted harder and concentrated. Flubbed a passage once and then tried again.

And now, she'd learned, they were going to have to go live someplace else for a while. Just a day or two, her mom'd said. But what if it was for longer than that? What if they had to cancel the Suzuki party? Upset, she gave up playing, closed the music book and started to put it in her book bag.

Hey, look at this!

Resting on the music stand was a York peppermint patty. Not a little one but a full-sizer, the kind they sell at the checkout stands at Food Emporium. She wondered who'd left it. Her mother didn't like anybody to eat in the yanno room and Chrissy was never allowed to have candy or anything sticky when she was playing.

Maybe it'd been her daddy. She knew he felt bad for her because of all the policemen around and because she hadn't been able to go to her recital last night at the Neighborhood School.

That was it-this was a secret treat from her father.

Chrissy glanced behind her, through the crack in the door. She saw people walking back and forth. Heard the calm voice of that nice policeman from North Carolina, who had two boys she was going to meet someday. Her mother brought a suitcase out of the bedroom. She had her unhappy face on and was saving, "This is crazy. Why can't you find him? He's one man. There're hundreds of you. I don't understand it."

Chrissy sat back, opened up the foil covering and slowly ate the candy. When she was finished she carefully examined her fingers. Yep, there was chocolate on them. She'd go the bathroom and wash them off. And while she was there she'd flush the wrapper down the toilet so her mother wouldn't find out. That was called "disposing of the evidence," which she'd learned from that CS7 television program her parents wouldn't let her watch, even though she managed to, every once in a while.

Roland Bell had returned safely with Charles Grady to the apartment, where the family was now packing up to go to an NYPD safe house in the Murray Hill area of town. He'd pulled the shades down and told the family to stay away from the windows. He could see that this fueled their uneasiness. But his job wasn't to coddle psyches. It was to keep a very clever killer from taking their lives.

His cell phone rang. It was Rhyme. "Everything secure there?" the criminalist asked.

"Tight as a bed baby," Bell replied.

"Constable's in a secure cell."

"And we know his guards, right?" Bell asked.

"Amelia said Weir might be good but he's not good enough to turn himself into two Shaquille O'Neal look-alikes."

"Got it. How's the lawyer?"

"Roth? He'll live. Was a bad beating though. I'm . . ." Rhyme stopped talking as someone else in the room began speaking. Bell believed he heard the soft voice of Mel Cooper.

He then resumed speaking to Bell. "I'm still going through what Amelia found at the scenes in the detention center. Don't have any specific leads yet. But we've got something else I wanted to mention. Bedding and Saul finally tracked down which room at the Lanham Arms the key card belonged to."

"Who was it registered to?"

"Fake name and address," Rhyme explained. "But the desk clerk said the guest fit Weir's description perfectly. CS didn't get much but they found a discarded syringe behind the dresser. We don't know whether Weir left it or not but I'm going on the assumption he did. Mel found traces of chocolate and sucrose on the needle."

"Sucrose-that's sugar?"