He left the path when it was safe to do so, racing between trees until he rejoined another path at the top of a rise. Confident he had left both DeRosier and Patton well behind, he downshifted so as not to attract attention, jogging steadily past dozens of New Yorkers and energetic tourists out walking.

The loop around the reservoir provided not only exercise but some of the most magnificent views in the city, especially at night. The bursts of colored light above the trees to the southwest told him the fireworks display had begun. Pedestrians stopped to watch, lovers holding hands.

Jenssen kept on. Ahead of him, the lawns of the park gave way to the skyscrapers of midtown Manhattan. The illuminated monolith of the Empire State Building rose from their midst. Since the fall of the Twin Towers, it had resumed the role of the tallest building in New York City. Come tomorrow morning, when One World Trade Center was officially opened for business, the Empire State Building would slip back to second place.

For Jenssen, these spectacular views served only as geographic landmarks as he circled the body of water. This reservoir no longer fed drinking water to the inhabitants of Manhattan Island. It had been decommissioned in 1997 because of its vulnerability to terrorist attack. Now its one billion gallons fed other ponds in the park through a glittering schist and granite pump house located at its south end.

He ran for another quarter mile before again veering off the gravel path, this time onto an unlit trail to his left. The trail took him down a grassy slope to a bridle path covered with pine needles under overhanging trees. Jenssen followed it for two hundred yards, turning right at the southern end of the reservoir, near the rear loading docks of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

To his left were the former stables now used as sheds for gardeners’ equipment. Jenssen tucked himself into the shadows between two adjoining sheds. His vantage point gave him a full view of the front of the pump house, topped by a large clock face.

Jenssen saw her right away, in silhouette. He made out the messenger bag on her shoulder, tucked close to her body beneath her elbow. He saw the outline of her skirt. Even from that distance, he could see that she was anxious. As she should have been—she had waited for some time. She looked from the clock to the bright explosions in the western sky.

Jenssen walked to the bottom of the broad cement stairs leading up from the bridle path. She was overweight, but otherwise extraordinarily plain. He waited until her scanning eyes passed over him.

Her head panned right, past him, then back again. She had seen him. Jenssen nodded. She looked around, for the moment a caricature of furtiveness. Jenssen winced and motioned to her with his hand.

She made her way down the stairs self-consciously, like a woman gripping her handbag in a bad neighborhood. He waited until he was certain she was coming his way, and then drifted back toward the gardeners’ sheds, waiting for her to follow.

He was waiting for her when she rounded the corner into the dim light behind the shed. Here, they were completely hidden from the reservoir path and the bridle trail.

She came to him like a sinner, hesitant, seeking release.

“Assalamu alaikum,” she said, in a meek voice.

“Walaikum assalam,” he said in reply.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I was so nervous, waiting this long. And the fireworks . . .”

“You are indeed blessed,” Jenssen said, then quickly spun her around and clamped his wrist cast against her throat.

Jenssen was a big man, his grip seeming to envelop her completely. Her body shook, her hands coming to his cast. She pulled at his fractured wrist, his pain hot, severe. When he did not relent, her grip came away from his arm, her hands reaching out in front of her. In that way, she gave herself to him. He imagined she was looking to the colored bursts in the otherwise dark night sky.

She understood what had to happen, and released herself to God.

Gurgling sounds came involuntarily. Her hands fell to her sides. Her legs sagged, her body listing beneath his grip.

He held on until he was sure of her death, then set her down on the ground. He pulled the bag from her shoulder and dragged her into the shadowed recess between the two sheds, all the way to the rear.

He gripped his cast, having rotated his wrist in the strangling. With great effort and pain, he twisted it back into place. The pain flared and then—slowly—passed. He felt a bit of the woman’s saliva on his cast, but nothing more.

He picked up her bag by its handle and started away into the trees.

Chapter 54

Jenssen pulled a plastic Duane Reade bag from a trash can before hailing a cab on Fifth Avenue. He wanted to run the full forty blocks back, but he needed to preserve his energy. He dismissed the cab before Rockefeller Center, jogging the last ten blocks back to the Hyatt.

He went around to the service entrance, the one The Six’s motorcade had been using. A pair of young garage workers looked up casually, one of them recognizing Jenssen as one of the group of heroes, admitting him with a wave. Jenssen shook their hands, apologizing for the sweat. His entry was not questioned. He went up the stairs they had taken before, stepping into a service elevator that rode up the same shaft as the guest cars but opened on the side of the elevator bank.

Jenssen strode out onto the twenty-sixth floor, drugstore bag in hand, and nodded to the officer sitting on a chair before the hallway.

The corridor was empty. He had succeeded in beating the two detectives back to the hotel. Jenssen moved swiftly past the hospitality suite so he would not be drawn inside. Only the journalist, Frank, was inside, clicking away at his laptop.

The hallway was empty. Jenssen plucked the room key from his sweaty sock and fed it into his door. He was waiting for the green light and the click.

A door at the far end of the hall opened. Jenssen froze a moment, then had to turn.

It was Detective Gersten, rolling out a room service tray.

She was three pairs of doors away. Jenssen had no alternative but to acknowledge her. He waved his key card.

“How was your run?” she asked.

“Good, good.”

“How did DeRosier do?”

“I will ask him when he comes back.”

She laughed, and Jenssen pushed inside on the joking remark—but not before the female detective’s eyes fell upon the white plastic bag hanging from his wrist cast.

Jenssen pushed inside his room, closing the door behind him. His face showed fury, but he allowed no further demonstration of that emotion. He quickly stowed the bag in his hotel safe, then eased back out into the hallway—quiet, empty again—eager to resume his cooperative presence.

He was drinking his second bottle of water and stretching a bit at the waist when Detectives DeRosier and Patton entered the hospitality suite. DeRosier was still sweating, and Patton looked angry. Jenssen wondered if Gersten had phoned them after her exchange with Jenssen in the hallway.

“What happened?” asked DeRosier.

“Nothing,” said Jenssen, feigning confusion.

“Why didn’t you wait?”

“I was supposed to wait? Why didn’t you keep up?”

DeRosier reached for a bottle of water. “Because I couldn’t.”

“Beautiful night, no?” said Jenssen.

“No,” said DeRosier, between gulps.

Perhaps Gersten had not called them after all. Perhaps she had thought nothing of the bag, or its contents. Jenssen would remain attentive to her in order to make sure.

Chapter 55

Fisk awoke suddenly, hearing his alarm clock.

Only, he wasn’t in bed. He had drifted off at his desk.

Shit.