fetid air. Wilde looked around. “Hasn’t changed a bit since I was in here three years ago.” He pointed to Pippa’s footprints, clear in the dust. “Okay, Cinelli, lead me through what happened.”
“I was standing here when I heard a low, muffled voice that sounded like a man in pain. ‘I’m here. Back here. Help me.’ Because I’m an idiot, I didn’t think, didn’t even pause. I jumped on my steed and went off to find him.”
He tapped her on the shoulder. “I don’t want to hear that idiot crap. You’re a cop, of course you acted. Did he have an accent you could make out?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t hear anything distinctive, so mid-Atlantic, I’d say.” She gave him a crooked grin. “As in right here. Easy to say, I know, since we’re here and not in Texas.” She stared around the dilapidated space, breathed in the mold. “Over there is where he struck me down.”
Wilde pulled out his cell, punched on the light, went down on his haunches, and studied the area. “That was where he was hiding,” she said, “behind one of the storage racks.” Wilde saw Pippa’s footprints clearly, and others, larger prints more smeared.
“When I got my brain back together, I heard him talking on his cell, and that’s when I got a glimpse of him. He hit me again. See this clear path through all the dust? That’s me. When I woke up the second time, I inched my way across the floor on my butt, since my hands were tied behind my back and my ankles were wrapped tight.”
Wilde rose, followed her progress through the dust, and saw the long hook attached to a wooden pole with her blood on the sharp tip. He said, “Show me your hands.”
Pippa arched a brow, then carefully eased off her gloves to show her hands, still partly covered with gauze bandages. He cupped one at a time in his palm but saw no sign of blood. He looked down at her. She was wearing no makeup and a red ski cap over her long French braid. He raised his hand, but then lowered it and shook his head. “I gotta say, Cinelli, scooting across the floor on your butt, your hands tied behind your back, sawing away on that hook, that took grit. You did good, really good. I’d still like to have the doctor check out your hands.”
“My hands are fine. They don’t hurt, not after the three aspirin I took this morning. Let’s see if we can follow Black Hoodie’s footprints.”
“He stayed on the outside perimeter,” Wilde said, pointing, “then he moved inward behind the racks, stopped where he could hide and wait for you to come in.”
Pippa touched her fingertips to the back of her head. “Do you know, I nearly didn’t come in here. He couldn’t have known, either. But he took the chance, and it paid off for him. I suppose he would have tried to take me down someplace else if he’d had to.”
Wilde said, “Probably. With all the dirt and dust, it isn’t hard to see where he was hiding. Here, hold my cell and aim the light down here.” Wilde set his boot next to one of the prints behind a storage rack. “I wear a twelve. This print is no more than a size nine. Goes with your description of him being slight. He went down on his haunches when he heard you. I’ll bet he leaned forward, probably steadied himself with a hand on this rack. Let’s see what we can see.” He pulled a small black plastic carry case out of his pocket. “This, Agent Cinelli, is my own personal portable latent fingerprint kit, given to me by my dad when I made detective. I always carried it in Philadelphia.” He opened it to show a stack of two-by-three black cards, a jar of latent powder, a roll of lifting tape, and a fiberglass fingerprint brush.
Pippa said, “A fingerprint kit? Wow, I’m impressed you thought to bring it with you today.” She stepped back, out of his way.
“Keep the light right here.” Wilde dipped the brush into the latent powder. “No doubt a gazillion people have handled these storage racks over the decades, but it’s worth a shot.” She watched him carefully dust on the powder.
She craned her neck to look over his shoulder. “Well, that’s not a surprise—nothing but smudges.”
“Have faith, Cinelli.” Then Wilde whistled. “Look at that, a clear thumbprint, higher than