Joanne wheeled the vases to the side and glanced outside again. No sign of the man. Still, she gave in to the temptation to leave and go to the retail store, check the morning’s receipts and chat with her clerks until Kevin arrived. She put on her coat, hesitated and left via the service door. She looked up the street. No sign of him. She started toward Broadway, west, the direction the big man had gone. She stepped into a thick beam of perfectly clear sunlight, which seemed nearly hot. The brilliance blinded her and she squinted, alarmed that she couldn’t see clearly. Joanne paused, not wanting to walk past the alley up the street. Had the man gone in there? Was he hiding, waiting for her?
She decided to walk east, the opposite direction, and loop around to Broadway on Prince Street. It was more deserted that way, but at least she wouldn’t have to walk past any alleys. She pulled her coat tighter around her and hurried up the street, head down. Soon the image of the fat man had slipped from her mind and she was thinking once again about Kevin.
Dennis Baker went downtown to report on their progress, and the rest of the team continued to examine the evidence.
The fax phone rang and Rhyme looked at the unit eagerly in hopes it was something helpful. But the pages were for Amelia Sachs. Rhyme was watching her face closely as she read them. He knew the look. Like a dog after a fox.
“What, Sachs?”
She shook her head. “The analysis of the evidence from Ben Creeley’s place in Westchester. No IAFIS hits on the prints but there were leather texture marks on some of the fireplace tools and on Creeley’s desk. Who opens desk drawers wearing gloves?”
There was, of course, no database of glove marks but if Sachs could find a pair in a suspect’s possession that matched this pattern, that would be solid circumstantial evidence placing him at the scene, nearly as good as a clear friction-ridge print.
She continued to read. “And the mud I found in front of the fireplace? It doesn’t match the soil in Creeley’s yard. Higher acid content and some pollutants. Like from an industrial site.” Sachs continued. “There were also some traces of burned cocaine in the fireplace.” She looked at Rhyme and gave a wry smile. “A bummer if my first murder vic turns out to be not so innocent.”
Rhyme shrugged. “Nun or dope dealer, Sachs, murder’s still murder. What else do you have?”
“The ash I found in the fireplace—the lab couldn’t recover much but they found these.” She held up a photo of financial records, like a spreadsheet or ledger, which seemed to show entries totaling millions of dollars. “They found part of a logo or something on it. The techs’re still checking it out. And they’ll send the entries to a forensic accountant, see if he can make any sense of it. And they also found part of his calendar. Stuff about getting his car oil changed, a haircut appointment—hardly the agenda for the week you’re going to kill yourself, by the way. . . . Then the day before he died he went to the St. James Tavern.” She tapped a sheet—the recovered page from his calendar.
A note from Nancy Simpson explained about the place. “Bar on East Ninth Street. Sleazy neighborhood. Why’d a rich accountant go there? Seems funny.”
“Not necessarily.”
She glanced Rhyme’s way then walked to the corner of the room. He got the message and followed in the red Storm Arrow wheelchair.
Sachs crouched down beside him. He wondered if she’d take his hand (since some sensation had returned to his right fingers and wrist, holding hands had taken on great importance to them both). But there was a very thin line between their personal and their business lives and she now remained purely professional.
“Rhyme,” she whispered.
“I know what—”
“Let me finish.”
He grunted.
“I have to follow up on this.”
“Priorities. Your case is colder than the Watchmaker, Sachs. Whatever happened to Creeley, even if he was murdered, the perp’s probably not a multiple doer. The Watchmaker is. He has to be our priority. Whatever evidence there is about Creeley’ll still be there after we nail our boy.”
She was shaking her head. “I don’t think so, Rhyme. I’ve pushed the button. I’ve started asking questions. You know how that works. Word’s starting to spread about the case. Evidence and suspects could be disappearing right now.”
“And the Watchmaker’s probably targeting somebody else right now too. He could be killing somebody else right now. . . . And, believe me, if there’s another murder and we drop the ball there’ll be hell to pay. Baker told me the request for us came from the top floor.”
Insisted . . .
“I won’t drop the ball. You get another scene, I’ll run it. If Bo Haumann stages a tactical op, I’ll be there.”
Rhyme gave an exaggerated frown. “Tactical? You don’t get dessert until you finish your vegetables.”
She laughed, and now he felt the pressure of her hand. “Come on, Rhyme, we’re in cop land. Nobody runs just one case at a time. Most Major Cases desks’re littered with a dozen files. I can handle two.”
Troubled by a foreboding he couldn’t articulate, Rhyme hesitated then said, “Let’s hope, Sachs. Let’s hope.”
It was the best blessing he could give.
Chapter 8
He came here?
Amelia Sachs, standing beside a planter that smelled of urine and sported a dead yellow stalk, glanced through the grimy window.
She suspected the place would be bad, knowing the address, but not this bad. Sachs was standing outside the St. James Tavern, on a wedge of broken concrete rising from the sidewalk. The bar was on East Ninth Street, in Alphabet City, the nickname referring to the north-south avenues that ran through it: A, B, C and D. The place had been a terror some years ago, a remnant of the gang wastelands on the Lower East Side. It had improved somewhat (crack houses were morphing into expensive fix-’em-uppers w/ vu) but it was still a rough-and-tumble ’hood; sitting in the snow at Sachs’s feet was a discarded hypodermic needle, and a spent 9-millimeter shell casing rested on the window ledge six inches from her face.
What the hell had accountant/venture capitalist, two-home-owning, Beemer-driving Benjamin Creeley been doing in a place like this the day before he died?
At the moment, the large, shabby tavern wasn’t too crowded. Through the greasy window she spotted aging locals at the bar or tables: spongy women and scrawny men who’d get a lot, or most, of their daily calories from the bottle. In a small room in the back were some white men in jeans, dungarees, work shirts. Four of them, all loud—even through the window she could hear their crude voices and laughter. She thought immediately of the punks who’d spend hour after hour in the Mafia social clubs, some slow, some lazy—but all of them dangerous. One glance told her these were men who’d hurt people.
Entering the place, Sachs found a stool at the small end of the bar’s L, where she was less visible. The bartender was a woman of around fifty, with a narrow face, red fingers, hair teased up like a country-western singer’s. There was a weariness about her. Sachs thought, It’s not that she’s seen it all; it’s that everything she has seen has been in places just like this.
The detective ordered a Diet Coke.
“Hey, Sonja,” called a voice from the back room. In the filthy mirror behind the bar Sachs could see it belonged to a blond man in extremely tight blue jeans and a leather jacket. He had a weasely face and appeared to have been drinking for some time. “Dickey here wants you. He’s a shy boy. Come on over here. Come on and visit the shy boy.”
“Fuck you,” somebody else shouted. Presumably Dickey.
“Come ’ere, Sonja, sweetheart! Sit on shy boy’s lap. It’ll be comfy. Real smooth. No bumps.”
Some guffaws.
Sonja knew that she too was the butt of their mean humor but she called back gamely, “Dickey? He’s younger’n my son.”
“That’s okay—everybody knows he’s a motherfucker!”
Huge laughter.
Sonja’s eyes met Sachs’s and then looked away qui
ckly, as if she’d been caught aiding and abetting the enemy. But one advantage of drunks is that they can’t sustain anything—cruelty or euphoria—for very long and soon they were on to sports and rude jokes. Sachs sipped her soda, asked Sonja, “So. How’s it going?”
The woman offered an unbreakable smile. “Just fine.” She had no interest in sympathy, especially from a woman who was younger and prettier and didn’t tend bar in a place like this.
Fair enough. Sachs got down to business. She flashed her badge, subtly, and then showed her a picture of Benjamin Creeley. “Do you remember seeing him in here?”
“Him? Yeah, a few times. What’s this about?”
“Did you know him?”
“Not really. Just sold him some drinks. Wine, I remember. He wanted red wine. We got shitty wine but he drank it. He was pretty decent. Not like some people.” No need to glance into the back room to indicate whom she meant. “But I haven’t seen him for a while. Maybe a month. Last time he came in he got into a big argument. So I figured he wouldn’t be coming back.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. Just heard some shouting and then he was storming out the door.”
“Who was he arguing with?”
“I didn’t see it. I just heard.”
“He ever do drugs that you saw?”
“No.”
“Were you aware that he killed himself?”
Sonja blinked. “No shit.”
“We’re following up on his death. . . . I’d appreciate keeping it to yourself, my asking you about it.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Can you tell me anything about him?”
“God, I don’t even know his name. I guess he was in here maybe three times. He have a family?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Oh, that’s tough. That’s harsh.”
“Wife and a teenage boy.”
Sonja shook her head. Then she said, “Gerte might’ve known him better. She’s the other bartender. She works more’n me.”
“Is she here now?”
“Naw, should be here in a while. You want I should have her call you?”
“Give me her number.”
The woman jotted it down. Sachs leaned forward and nodded toward the picture of Creeley and said, “Did he meet anybody in particular here that you can remember?”
“All I know is it was in there. Where they usually hang.” She nodded at the back room.
A millionaire businessman and that crowd? Had two of them been the ones who’d broken into the Creeleys’ Westchester house and had the marshmallow roast in his fireplace?
Sachs looked into the mirror, studying the men’s table, littered with beer bottles, ashtrays and gnawed chicken wing bones. These guys had to be in a crew. Maybe young capos in an organized crime outfit. There were a lot of Sopranos franchises around the city. They were usually petty criminals but often it was the smaller crews who were more dangerous than the traditional Mafia, which avoided hurting civilians and steered clear of crack and meth and the seamier side of the underworld. She tried to get her head around a Benjamin Creeley–gang connection. It was tough.
“You see them with pot, coke—any drugs?”
Sonja shook her head. “Nope.”
Sachs leaned forward and whispered to Sonja, “You know what crew’re they connected with?”
“Crew?”
“A gang. Who’s their boss, who they report to? Anything?”
Sonja didn’t speak for a moment. She glanced at Sachs to see if she was serious and then gave a laugh. “They’re not in a gang. I thought you knew. They’re cops.”
At last the clocks—the Watchmaker’s calling cards—arrived from the bomb squad with a clean bill of health.
“Oh, you mean they didn’t find any really tiny weapons of mass destruction inside?” Rhyme asked caustically. He was irritated that they’d been out of his possession—more risk of contamination—and at the delay in their arrival.
Pulaski signed the chain-of-custody cards and the patrolman who’d delivered the clocks left.
“Let’s see what we’ve got.” Rhyme moved his wheelchair to the examination table as Cooper unpacked the clocks from plastic bags.
They were identical, the only difference being the blood crusted on the base of the clock that had been left on the pier. They seemed old—they weren’t electric; you wound them by hand. But the components were modern. The works inside were in a sealed box, which had been opened by the bomb squad, but both clocks were still running and showed the correct time. The housing was wood, painted black, and the face was antiqued white metal. The numbers were Roman numerals, and the hour and minute hands, also black, ended in sharp arrows. There was no second hand but the clocks clicked loudly every second.
The most unusual feature was a large window in the top half of the face that displayed a disk on which were painted the phases of the moon. Centered in the window now was the full moon, depicted with an eerie human face, staring outward with ominous eyes and thin lips.
The full Cold Moon is in the sky . . .
Cooper went over the clocks with his usual precision and reported that there were no friction ridge prints and only minimal trace evidence, all of which matched samples that Sachs had collected around both scenes, meaning that none of it had been picked up in the Watchmaker’s car or residence.
“Who makes them?”
“Arnold Products. Framingham, Massachusetts.” Cooper did a Google search and read from the website. “They sell clocks, leather goods, office decorations, gifts. Upscale. The stuff’s not cheap. A dozen different models of clocks. This is the Victorian. Genuine brass mechanism, oak, modeled after a British clock sold in the eighteen hundreds. Costs fifty-four dollars wholesale. They don’t sell to the public. Have to go through the dealer.”
“Serial numbers?”
“Only on the mechanisms. Not the clocks themselves.”
“Okay,” Rhyme ordered, “make the call.”
“Me?” Pulaski asked, blinking.
“Yup. You.”
“I’m supposed to—”
“Call the manufacturer and give them the serial numbers of the mechanism.”
Pulaski nodded. “Then see if they can tell us which store it was shipped to.”
“One hundred percent,” Rhyme said.
The rookie took out his phone, got the number from Cooper and dialed.
Of course, the killer might not have been the purchaser. He could’ve stolen them from a store. He could’ve stolen them from a residence. He could’ve bought them used at a garage sale.
But “could’ve” is a word that goes with the territory of crime scene work, Rhyme reflected.
You have to start somewhere.
THE WATCHMAKER
* * *
CRIME SCENE ONE
Location:
• Repair pier in Hudson River, 22nd Street.
Victim:
• Identity unknown.
• Male.
• Possibly middle-aged or older, and may have coronary condition (presence of anticoagulants in blood).
• No other drugs, infection or disease in blood.
• Coast Guard and ESU divers checking for body and evidence in New York Harbor.
• Checking missing persons reports.
Perp:
• See below.
M.O.:
• Perp forced victim to hold on to deck, over water, cut fingers or wrists until he fell.
• Time of attack: between 6 P.M. Monday and 6 A.M. Tuesday.
Evidence:
• Blood type AB positive.
• Fingernail torn, unpolished, wide.
• Portion of chain-link fence cut with common wire cutters, untraceable.
• Clock. See below.
• Poem. See below.
• Fingernail markings on deck.
• No discernible trace, no fingerprints, no footprints, no tire tread marks.
CRIME SCENE TWO
• Alley off Cedar Street, near Broadway, behind three commercial buildings (back doors closed at 8:30 to 10 P.M.) and one government administration building (back door closed at 6 P.M.).
• Alley is a cul-de-sac. Fifteen feet wide by one hundred and four feet long, surfaced in cobblestones, body was fifteen feet from Cedar Street.
Victim:
• Theodore Adams.
• Lived in Battery Park.
• Freelance copywriter.
• No known enemies.
• No warrants, state or federal.
• Checking for a connection with buildings around alley. None found.
Perp:
• The Watchmaker.
• Male.
• No database entries for the Watchmaker.
M.O.:
• Dragged from vehicle to alley, where iron bar was suspended over him. Eventually crushed throat.
• Awaiting medical examiner’s report to confirm.
• No evidence of sexual activity.
• Time of death: approximately 10:15 P.M. to 11 P.M. Monday night. Medical examiner to confirm.
Evidence:
• Clock.
• No explosives, chemical- or bioagents.
• Identical to clock at pier.
• No fingerprints, minimal trace.
• Arnold Products, Framingham, MA. Calling to find distributors and retailers.
• Poem left by perp at both scenes.
• Computer printer, generic paper, HP LaserJet ink.
• Text:
The full Cold Moon is in the sky,
shining on the corpse of earth,
signifying the hour to die
and end the journey begun at birth.
—The Watchmaker
• Not in any poetry databases; probably his own.
• Cold Moon is lunar month, the month of death.
• $60 in pocket, no serial number leads; prints negative.
• Fine sand used as “obscuring agent.” Sand was generic. Because he’s returning to the scene?
• Metal bar, 81 pounds, is needle-eye span. Not being used in construction across from the alleyway. No other source found.
• Duct tape, generic, but cut precisely, unusual. Exactly the same lengths.
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 97