The Cold Moon (35 page)

"I'm sorry."

Vincent was disarmed. His anger diminished and he wasn't sure what to say.

"You've been helping me, working hard. And look what's happened. I've let you down."

Here was Vincent's mother, explaining to him, when he was ten, that she'd let him down with Gus, then with her second husband, then with Bart, then with Rachel the experiment, then with her third husband.

And every time, young Vincent had said just what he said now. "It's okay."

"No, it's not... I talk about the great scheme of things. But that doesn't minimize our disappointments. I owe you. And I'll make it up to you."

Which is something his mother
never
said, much less did, leaving Vincent to find what comfort he could in food, TV shows, spying on girls and having his heart-to-hearts.

No, it was clear that his friend, Duncan, meant what he was saying. He was genuinely remorseful that Vincent hadn't been able to have Lucy. Vincent still felt the urge to cry but now for a different reason. Not from the hunger, not from frustration. He felt filled with an odd sensation. People hardly ever said nice things to him like this. People hardly ever worried about him.

"Look," Duncan said, "the one I'm going to do next. You're not going to want her."

"Is she ugly?"

"Not really. It's just the way she's going to die... I'm going to burn her."

"Oh."

"In the book, remember the alcohol torture?"

"Not really."

The pictures in the book were of men being tortured; they hadn't interested Vincent.

"You pour alcohol on the lower half of someone's body and set fire to it. You can put out an alcohol fire quickly if they confess. Of course, I'm not going to be putting it out."

True, Vincent agreed, he wouldn't want her after that.

"But I have another idea."

Duncan then explained what he had in mind, Vincent's spirits improving with every word. Duncan asked, "Don't you think it'll work out for everybody?"

Well, not quite
everybody,
thought Clever Vincent, who was back and in a pretty good mood, all things considered.

Sitting in front of the evidence charts, Rhyme heard Sachs come back on the line.

"Okay, Rhyme. We've found he was hiding in the closet."

"Which one?"

"In Lucy's bedroom."

Rhyme closed his eyes. "Describe it to me."

Sachs gave him the whole scene — the hallway leading to the bedroom, the layout of the bedroom itself then the furniture, pictures on the wall, the Watchmaker's entrance and exit route and other details. Everything was described in precise, objective detail. Her training and experience shone as sharply as her red hair. If she left the force he wondered how long it would take another cop to walk the grid as well as she did.

Forever, he thought cynically.

Anger flared for a moment. Then he forced the emotion away and concentrated again on her words.

Sachs described the closet. "Six feet four inches wide. Filled with clothes. Men's on the left, women's on the right, half and half. Shoes on the floor. Fourteen pair. Four men's, ten women's."

A typical ratio, Rhyme reflected, for a married couple, thinking of his own closet from years ago. "When he was hiding, was he lying on the floor?"

"No. Too many boxes."

He heard her ask a question. Then she came back on the line. "The clothes're ordered now but he must've moved them. I can see some boxes moved on the floor and a few bits of that roofing tar we found earlier."

"What were the clothes he was hiding between?"

"A suit. And Lucy's army uniform."

"Good." Certain garments, like uniforms, are particularly good at collecting evidence, thanks to their prominent epaulettes, buttons and decorations. "Was he against the front or back?"

"Front."

"Perfect. Go over every button, medal, bar, decoration."

"Okay. Give me a few minutes."

Then silence.

His impatience, laced with anger, was back. He stared at the whiteboards.

Finally she said, "I found two hairs and some fibers."

He was about to tell her to check the hairs against samples in the apartment. But of course he didn't need to do this. "I compared the hairs to hers. They don't match." He began to tell her to find a sample of the woman's husband's hair when Sachs said, "But I found her husband's brush. I'm ninety-nine percent sure they're his."

Good, Sachs. Good.

"But the fibers... they don't seem to match anything else here." Sachs paused. "They look like wool, light-colored. Maybe a sweater... but they were caught on a pocket button at about shoulder level for a man of the Watchmaker's height. Could be a shearling collar."

A reasonable deduction, though they'd have to examine the fibers more carefully in the lab.

After a few minutes she said, "That's about it, Rhyme. Not much but it's something."

"Okay, bring everything in. We'll go over it here." He disconnected the line.

Thom wrote down the information Sachs gave them. After the aide left the room Lincoln Rhyme stared again at the charts. He wondered if the notes he was looking at weren't simply clues in a homicide case, but evidence of a different sort of murder: the corpse of the last crime scene he and Amelia Sachs would ever work together.

Lon Sellitto was gone and, inside Lucy Richter's apartment, Sachs was just finishing packing up the evidence. She turned to Kathryn Dance and thanked her.

"Hope it's helpful."

"That's the thing about crime scene work. Only a couple of fibers, but they could be enough for a conviction. We'll just have to see." Sachs added, "I'm heading back to Rhyme's. Listen, I don't know if you'd be willing but could you do some canvassing in the neighborhood? You've sure got the touch when it comes to wits."

"You bet."

Sachs gave her some printouts with the Watchmaker's composite picture and left, to head back to Rhyme's.

Dance nodded at Lucy Richter. "You're doing okay?"

"Fine," the solider replied and offered a stoic smile. She walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. "You want some tea? Or coffee?"

"No. I'm going to be outside looking for witnesses."

Lucy was staring down at the floor, a good semaphore signal to a kinesics expert. Dance said nothing.

The soldier said, "You said you were from California. You going back soon?"

"Tomorrow, probably."

"Just wondering if you'd have time for coffee or something." Lucy played with a potholder. On it were the words
4th Infantry Division. Steadfast and Loyal.

"Sure. We'll work it out." Dance found a card in her purse and wrote her hotel name on it, then circled her mobile on the front.

Lucy took it.

"Call me," Dance said.

"I will."

"Everything okay?"

"Oh, sure. Just fine."

Dance shook the woman's hand, then left the apartment, reminding herself of an important rule in kinesic analysis: Sometimes you don't need to uncover the truth behind every deception you're told.

Chapter 25

Amelia Sachs returned to Rhyme's with a small carton of evidence.

"What do we have?" he asked.

Sachs went over again what she'd found at the scene, then added details on the boards.

According to the NYPD crime scene database on fibers, what Sachs had discovered on Lucy's uniform
was
from a shearling coat, the sort of collar found on leather jackets that used to be worn by pilots — bomber jackets. Sachs had field-tested the clock for nitrates — this one wasn't explosive either — and it was identical to the other three, yielding no trace except a recent stain of what turned out to be wood alcohol, the sort used as an antiseptic and for cleaning. As with the florist, the Watchmaker hadn't had time to leave another poem or had chosen not to.

Rhyme agreed to go public with the announcement about the calling card of the clock, though he predicted that all the announcement would do would be to guarantee that the killer didn't leave a clock until he was sure the victim was unable to call for help.

The trace that Sachs had found along the route where the killer had most likely escaped revealed nothing helpful.

"There wasn't anything else," she explained.

"Nothing?" Rhyme asked. He shook his head.

Locard's principle...

Ron Pulaski arrived, pulling off his coat and hanging it up. Rhyme noticed that Sachs's eyes turned at once to the rookie.

The
Other
Case...

Sachs asked, "Any luck with the Maryland connection?"

The rookie replied, "Three ongoing federal investigations into corruption at the Baltimore waterfront. One of them has a link to the New York metro area but it was only the Jersey docks. And it's not about drugs. They're looking into kickbacks and falsified shipping documents. I'm waiting to hear back from Baltimore PD about state investigations. Neither Creeley or Sarkowski had any property in Maryland and neither of them ever went there on business that I could find. The closest Creeley got was regular business meetings in Pennsylvania to meet some client. And Sarkowski didn't travel at all. Oh, and still no client list from Jordan Kessler. I left a message again but he hasn't returned the call."

He continued. "I found a couple of people assigned to the One One Eight who were born in Maryland but they don't have any connection there now. I ran a roster of names of everybody who's assigned to the house against property tax databases in Maryland —"

"Wait," Sachs said. "You did that?"

"Was that wrong?"

"Uhm, no, Ron. It was right. Good thinking." Sachs shared a smile with Rhyme. He lifted an eyebrow, impressed.

"Maybe. But nothing panned out."

"Well, keep digging."

"Sure thing."

Sachs then walked over to Sellitto and asked, "Got a question. You know Halston Jefferies?"

"Dep inspector at the One Five Eight?"

"Right. What's with him? Got a real short fuse."

Sellitto laughed. "Yeah, yeah, he's a rageaholic."

"So I'm not the only one he acts that way with?"

"Nup. Reams you out for no reason. How'd you cross paths?" He glanced at Rhyme.

"Nope," the criminalist replied cheerfully. "That'd have to be
her
case. Not
my
case."

Her exasperated look didn't faze him. Pettiness could, in some circumstances, be quite exhilarating, Rhyme reflected.

"I needed a file and I went to the source. He thought I should've gotten his okay."

"But you needed to keep the brass in the dark about what's going on at the One One Eight."

"Exactly."

"It's just the way he is. Had some problems in the past. His wife was a socialite —"

"That's a great word," Pulaski interrupted, "'socialite,' like 'socialist.' Only they're opposites. In a way."

When Sellitto shot him a cool look the rookie fell silent.

The detective continued. "I heard they lost some serious money, Jefferies and his wife. I mean
big
money. Money you and me, we can't even find where the decimal point goes. Some business thing his wife was into. He was hoping to run for office — Albany, I think. But you can't go there without big bucks. And she left him after the business fell through. Though with a temper like that, he had to've had issues beforehand."

She was nodding at this information when her phone rang. She answered. "That's right, that's me... Oh, no. Where?... I'll be there in ten minutes."

Her face pale and grave, she hurried out the door, saying, "Problem. I'll be back in a half-hour."

"Sachs," Rhyme began. But he heard only the slamming front door in response.

The Camaro eased up over the curb on West Forty-fourth Street, not far from the West Side Highway.

A big man in an overcoat and a fur hat squinted at Sachs as she climbed out of the car. She didn't know him, or he her, but the all-business parking job and the NYPD placard on the dash made it clear she was the one he was waiting for.

The young man's ears and nose were bright red and steam curled from his nose. He stamped his feet to keep the circulation going. "Whoa, this's cold. I'm sicka winter already. You Detective Sachs?"

"Yeah. You're Coyle?"

They shook hands. He had a powerful grip.

"What's the story?" she asked.

"Come on. I'll show you."

"Where?"

"The van. In the lot up the street."

As they walked, briskly in the cold, Sachs asked, "What house you from?" Coyle had identified himself as a cop when he called.

The traffic was loud. He didn't hear.

She repeated her question. "What house you from? Midtown South?"

He blinked at her. "Yeah." Then blew his nose.

"I was there for a while," Sachs told him.

"Hmm." Coyle said nothing else. He directed her through the large parking lot. At the far end Coyle stopped, next to a Windstar van, the windows dark, the motor running.

He glanced around. Then opened the door.

Canvassing apartments and stores in Greenwich Village, near Lucy Richter's, Kathryn Dance was reflecting on the symbiotic relationship between kinesic and forensic sciences.