“Pretty deserted. That’s like being fairly unique or kind of pregnant. Are there cars nearby or not?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Six, sir. They range from ten to twenty feet away from the subject vehicle.”
“Don’t need the ‘sir.’ Save your breath for the important things.”
“Right.”
“Are the cars empty? Anybody hiding in them?”
“ESU cleared them.”
“Are the hoods hot?”
“Uhm, I don’t know. I’ll check.” Should’ve thought of that.
He touched them all—with the back of his hand, in case fingerprints might become an issue. “No. They’re all cold. Been here for a while.”
“Okay, so no witnesses. Any sign of recent tread marks heading toward the exit?”
“Nothing looks fresh, no. Other than the Explorer’s.”
Rhyme said, “So they probably didn’t have backup wheels. Which means they took off on foot. That’s better for us. . . . Now, Ron, take in the totality of the scene.”
“Chapter Three.”
“I wrote the fucking book. I don’t need to hear it again.”
“Okay, the totality—the car’s parked carelessly, across two lines.”
“They bailed out fast, of course,” Rhyme said. “They knew they were being followed. Any obvious footprints?”
“No. The floor’s dry.”
“Where’s the closest door?”
“A stairwell exit, twenty-five feet away.”
“Which’s been cleared by ESU?”
“That’s right.”
“What else about the totality?”
Pulaski stared, looking around him, three-sixty. It’s a garage. That’s all it is. . . . He squinted, willing himself to see something helpful. But there was nothing. Reluctantly he said, “I don’t know.”
“We never know in this business,” Rhyme said in an even voice, momentarily a gentle professor. “It’s all about the odds. What strikes you? Impressions. Just throw some out.”
Pulaski could think of nothing for a moment. But then something occurred to him. “Why’d they park here?”
“What?”
“You asked what struck me. Well, it’s weird they parked here, this far from the exit. Why not drive right to it? And why not try to hide the Explorer better?”
“Good point, Ron. I should’ve asked the question myself. What do you think? Why would they park there?”
“Maybe he panicked.”
“Could be. Good for us—nothing like fear to make somebody careless. We’ll think about it. Okay, now walk the grid to and from the exit and then around the car. Look underneath and on the roof. You know the grid?”
“Yes.” Swallowing the “sir.”
For the next twenty minutes Pulaski walked back and forth, examining the garage floor and ceiling around the car. He didn’t miss a millimeter. He smelled the air—and drew no conclusion from the exhaust/oil/disinfectant aroma of the garage. Troubled again, he told Rhyme that he hadn’t found anything. The criminalist gave no reaction and told Pulaski to search the Explorer itself.
They’d run the VIN and the tag numbers on the SUV and found that it actually had belonged to one of the men Sellitto had identified earlier but who’d been dismissed as a suspect because he was serving a year on Rikers Island for possession of cocaine. The Explorer had been confiscated because of the drugs, which meant that the Watchmaker had stolen it from a lot where it was awaiting sheriff’s auction—a clever idea, Rhyme reflected, since it often took weeks to log seizures into DMV and several months before vehicles actually went up for sale. The license plates themselves had been stolen from another tan Explorer parked at Newark Airport.
Now, with a curious, low tone in his voice, Rhyme said, “I love cars, Ron. They tell us so much. They’re like books.”
Pulaski remembered the pages of Rhyme’s text that echoed his comments. He didn’t quote them but said, “Sure, the VIN, the tags, bumper stickers, dealer stickers, inspection—”
A laugh. “If the owner’s the perp. But ours was stolen, so the Jiffy Lube location where he changed the oil or the fact he has an honor student at John Adams Middle School aren’t really helpful, now, are they?”
“Guess not.”
“Guess not,” Rhyme repeated. “What information can a stolen car tell us?”
“Well, fingerprints.”
“Very good. There’re so many things to touch in a car—the steering wheel, gearshift, heater, radio, hand grips, hundreds of them. And they’re such shiny surfaces. Thank you, Detroit. . . . Well, Tokyo or Hamburg or wherever. And another point: Most people consider cars their attaché cases and utility drawers—you know, those kitchen drawers that you throw everything into? Effluvia of personal effects. Almost like a diary where no one thinks to lie. Search for that first. The PE.”
Physical evidence, Pulaski recalled.
As the young cop bent forward he heard a scrape of metal from somewhere behind him. He jumped back and looked around, into the gloom of the garage. He knew Rhyme’s rule about searching crime scenes alone and so he’d sent all the backup away. The noise was just from a rat, maybe. Ice melting and falling. Then he heard a click. It reminded him of a ticking clock.
Get on with it, Pulaski told himself. Probably just the hot spotlights. Don’t be such a wuss. You wanted the job, remember?
He studied the front seats. “We’ve got crumbs. Lots of them.”
“Crumbs?”
“Junk food, mostly, I’d guess. Look like cookie crumbs, corn chips, potato chips, bits of chocolate. Some sticky stains. Soda, I’d say. Oh, wait, here’s something, under the backseat. . . . This’s good. A box of bullets.”
“What kind?”
“Remington. Thirty-two caliber.”
“What’s inside the box?”
“Uhm, well, bullets?”
“You sure?”
“I didn’t open it. Should I?”
The silence said yes.
“Yep. Bullets. Thirty-twos. But it’s not full.”
“How many’re missing?”
“Seven.”
“Ah. That’s helpful.”
“Why?”
“Later.”
“And get this—”
“Get what?” Rhyme snapped.
“Sorry. Something else. A book on interrogation. But it looks more like it’s about torture.”
“Torture?”
“That’s right.”
“Purchased? Library?”
“No sticker on it, no receipt inside, no library marks. And whosever it is, he’s been reading it a lot.”
“Well said, Ron. You’re not assuming it’s the perps’. Keep an open mind. Always keep an open mind.”
It wasn’t much praise but the young man enjoyed it.
Pulaski then rolled up trace from the floor and vacuumed it out from the space between and underneath the seats.
“I think I’ve got everything.”
“Glove compartment.”
“Checked it. Empty.”
“Pedals?”
“Scraped them. Not much trace.”
Rhyme asked, “Headrests?”
“Oh, didn’t get those.”
“Could be hair or lotion transfer.”
“People wear hats,” Pulaski pointed out.
Rhyme shot back, “On the remote chance that the Watchmaker isn’t a Sikh, nun, astronaut, sponge diver or somebody else with a head completely covered, humor me and check the headrests.”
“Will do.”
A moment later Pulaski found himself looking at a strand of gray-and-black hair. He confessed this to Rhyme. The criminalist didn’t play I-told-you-so. “Good,” he said. “Seal it in plastic. Now fingerprints. I’m dying to find out who our Watchmaker really is.”
Pulaski, sweating even in the freezing, damp air, labored for ten minutes with a Magna Brush, powders and sprays, alternative light sources and goggles.
“You mean no whole prints. That’s okay. Partials’ll do.”
“No, I mean there’re none, sir. Anywhere. In the entire car.”
“Impossible.”
From Rhyme’s book Pulaski remembered that there were three types of prints—plastic, which are three-dimensional impressions, such as those in mud or clay; visible, which you can see with the naked eye; and latent, visible only with special equipment. You rarely find plastic prints, and visible are rare, but latents are common everywhere.
Except in the Watchmaker’s Explorer.
“Smears?”
“No.”
“This is crazy. They wouldn’t’ve had time to clean-wipe an entire car in five minutes. Do the outside, everything. Especially near the doors and the gas tank lid.”
With unsteady hands, Pulaski kept searching. Had he handled the Magna Brush clumsily? Had he sprayed the chemicals on the wrong way? Was he wearing the wrong goggles?
The terrible head injury he’d suffered not long ago was having lingering effects, including post-traumatic stress and panic attacks. He also suffered from a condition he’d explained to Jenny as “this real complicated, technical medical thing—fuzzy thinking.” It haunted him that, after the accident, he just wasn’t the same, that he was somehow damaged goods, no longer as smart as his brother, though they’d once had the same IQ. He particularly worried that he wasn’t as smart as the perps he was going up against in his jobs for Lincoln Rhyme.
But then he thought to himself: Time-out. You’re thinking it’s your screwup. Goddamn, you were top 5 percent at the academy. You know what you’re doing. You work twice as hard as most cops. He said, “I’m positive, Detective. Somehow they’ve managed not to leave any prints. . . . Wait, hold on.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Ron.”
Pulaski put on magnifying goggles. “Okay, got something. I’m looking at cotton fibers. Beige ones. Sort of flesh-colored.”
“Sort of,” Rhyme chided.
“Flesh-colored. From gloves, I’m betting.”
“So he and his assistant are careful and smart.” There was an uneasiness in Rhyme’s voice that troubled Pulaski. He didn’t like the idea that Lincoln Rhyme was uncomfortable. A chill trickled down his spine. He remembered the scraping sound. The clicking.
Tick, tock . . .
“Anything in the tire treads and the grille? On the sideview mirror?”
He searched there. “Mostly slush and soil.”
“Take samples.”
After he’d done this, Pulaski said, “Finished.”
“Snapshots and video—you know how?”
He did. Pulaski had been the photographer at his brother’s wedding.
“Then process the probable escape routes.”
Pulaski looked around him again. Was that another scraping, a footstep? Water was dripping. It too sounded like the ticking of a clock, which set him even more on edge. He started on the grid again, back and forth as he made his way toward the exit, looking up as well as down, the way Rhyme had written in his book.
A crime scene is three-dimensional. . . .
“Nothing so far.”
Another grunt from Rhyme.
Pulaski heard what sounded like a footstep.
His hand strayed to his hip. It was then that he realized his Glock was inside his Tyvek overalls, out of reach. Stupid. Should he unzip and strap it around the outside of the suit?
But if he did that, it could contaminate the scene.
Ron Pulaski decided to leave the gun where it was.
It’s just an old garage; of course there’re going to be noises. Relax.
The inscrutable moon faces on the front of the Watchmaker’s calling cards stared at Lincoln Rhyme.
The eerie eyes, giving nothing away.
The ticking was all that he heard; from the radio there was only silence. Then some curious sounds. Scrapes, a clatter. Or was it just static?
“Ron? You copy?”
Nothing but the tick . . . tick . . . tick.
“Ron?”
Then a crash, loud. Metal.
Rhyme’s head tilted. “Ron? What’s going on?”
Still no response.
He was about to order the unit to change frequency to tell Haumann to check on the rookie when the radio finally crackled to life.
He heard Ron Pulaski’s panicked voice. “ . . . needs assistance! Ten-thirteen, ten . . . I—”
A 10-13 was the most urgent of all radio codes, an officer in distress call.
Rhyme, shouting, “Answer me, Ron! Are you there?”
“I can’t—”
A grunt.
The radio went dead.
Jesus.
“Mel, call Haumann for me!”
The tech hit some buttons. “You’re on,” Cooper shouted, pointed to Rhyme’s headset.
“Bo, Rhyme. Pulaski’s in trouble. Called in a ten-thirteen on my line. Did you hear?”
“Negative. But we’ll move on it.”
“He was going to run the stairwell closest to the Explorer.”
“Roger.”
Now that he was on the main frequency, Rhyme could hear all the transmissions. Haumann was directing several tactical support teams and calling for a medical unit. He ordered his men to spread out in the garage and cover the exits.
Rhyme pressed his head back into the headrest of his chair, furious.
He was mad at Sachs for abandoning His Case for the Other Case and forcing Pulaski to take the assignment. He was mad at himself for letting an inexperienced rookie search a potentially hot scene alone.
“Linc, we’re on the way. We can’t see him.” It was Sellitto’s voice.
“Well, don’t goddamn tell me what you haven’t found.”
More voices.
“Nothing on this level.”
“There’s the SUV.”
“Where is he?”
“Somebody over there, our nine o’clock?”
“Negative. That’s a friendly.”
“More lights! We need more lights!”
Moment of silence passed. Hours, it felt.
What was going on?
Goddamn it, somebody let me know!
But there was no response to this tacit demand. He went back to Pulaski’s frequency.
“Ron?”
All he heard was a series of clicks, as if somebody whose throat had been cut was trying to communicate, though he no longer had a voice.
Chapter 18
“Hey, Amie. Gotta talk.”
“Sure.”
Sachs was driving to Hell’s Kitchen in Midtown Manhattan, on her quest for the Frank Sarkowski homicide file. But she wasn’t thinking about that. She was thinking of the clocks at the crime scenes. Thinking of time moving forward and time standing still. Thinking of the periods when we want time to race ahead and save us from the pain we’re experiencing. But it never does. It’s at these moments that time slows interminably, sometimes even stops like the heart of a death-row prisoner at the moment of execution.
“Gotta talk.”
Amelia Sachs was recalling a conversation from years earlier.
Nick says, “It’s pretty serious.” The two lovers are in Sachs’s Brooklyn apartment. She’s a rookie, in her uniform, her shoes polished to black mirrors. (Her father’s advice: “Shined shoes get you more respect than an ironed uniform, honey. Remember that.” And she had.)
Dark-haired, handsome, bulging-muscle Nick (he too could’ve been a model) is also a cop. More senior. Even more of a cowboy than Sachs is now. She sits on the coffee table, a nice one, teak, bought a year ago with the last of the fashion modeling money.
Nick was on an undercover assignment tonight. He’s in a sleeveless T-shirt and jeans and wearing his little gun—a revolver—on his hip. He needs a shave, though Sachs likes him scruffy. The plans for this evening were: He’d come home and t
hey’d have a late supper. She’s got wine, candles, salad and salmon, all laid out, all homey.
On the other hand, Nick hasn’t been home nights for a while. So maybe they’ll eat dinner later.
Maybe they won’t eat at all.
But now something’s wrong. Something pretty serious.
Well, he’s standing in front of her, he’s not dead or wounded, shot down on an undercover set—the most dangerous assignment in copdom. He was going after crews jacking trucks. A lot of money was involved and that meant a lot of guns. Three of Nick’s close buddies have been with him tonight. She wonders, her heart sinking, if one of them was killed. She knows them all.
Or is it something else?
Is he breaking up with me?
Lousy, lousy . . . but at least it’s better than somebody getting capped in a shootout with a crew from East New York.
“Go on,” she says.
“Look, Amie.” It’s her father’s nickname for her. They are the only two men in the world she lets call her by the name. “The thing is—”
“Just tell me,” she says. Amelia Sachs delivers news straight. She expects the same.
“You’re going to hear it soon. I wanted to tell you first. I’m in trouble.”
She believes she understands. Nick’s a cowboy, always ready to pull out his MP-5 machine gun and exchange lead with a perp. Sachs, a better shot, at least with a pistol, is slow to squeeze the trigger. (Her father again: “You can’t take back bullets.”) She supposes that there’s been a firefight and that Nick has killed someone—maybe even an innocent. Okay. He’ll be suspended until the shooting review board meets to decide if it was justifiable.
Her heart goes out to him and she’s about to say that she’d be there for him, no matter what, we’ll get through it, when he adds, “I got busted.”
“You—”
“Sammy and me . . . Frank R too . . . the heists—the truck-jackings. We got nailed. In a big way.” His voice is shaking. She’s never known him to cry but it sounds like he’s a few seconds away from bawling his eyes out.
“You’re on the bag?” she gasps.
He stares at her green carpet. Finally a whisper: “Yeah . . .” Though now he’s started the confession, he doesn’t need to pull back. “But it’s worse.”
Worse? What could possibly be worse?
“We were the doers. We jacked the trucks ourselves.”
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 107