The Cold Moon

by Jeffery Deaver

  Together, Cooper and Sachs dismantled it but found no trace of any significance.

  No footprints, friction ridge prints, weapons or anything else had been left behind in the florist's shop. Rhyme wondered if there was some special tool the killer had used to cut the florist's wire or some technique that might reveal a past or present career or training. But, no, he'd used Joanne's own clippers. Like the duct tape, though, the wire had been cut in precise lengths. Each one was exactly six feet long. Rhyme wondered whether he was going to bind her with the wire or whether it was the intended murder weapon.

  Joanne Harper had locked the door when she left the shop to meet a friend for coffee. It was clear that the killer had picked the lock to get inside. This didn't surprise Rhyme; a man who knows the mechanics of timepieces could easily learn the skills of lockpicking.

  A search of DMV records revealed 423 owners of tan Explorers in the metropolitan area. They cross-referenced the list against warrants and found only two: a man in his sixties, wanted as a scofflaw for dozens of parking tickets, and a younger man busted for selling coke. He wondered if this was the Watchmaker's assistant but it turned out he was still in jail for the offense. The Watchmaker might well be among the remaining names on the list but there was no way to talk to every one, though Sellitto was going to have someone check those whose addresses were in lower Manhattan. There'd also been a few hits on the Emergency Vehicle Locator but none of the drivers' descriptions fit those of the Watchmaker or his partner.

  Sachs had collected samples of trace from the shop itself and found that, yes, the soil and fish protein, in the form of fertilizer, had indeed come from Joanne's. There was some inside the building but Sachs had also found considerable amounts outside, in and around discarded bags of the fertilizer.

  Rhyme was shaking his head.

  "What's the problem?" Sellitto asked.

  "It's not the protein itself. It's the fact it was on the second victim. Adams."

  "Because?"

  "It means the perp was checking out the workshop earlier--presumably the victim and looking for alarms or security cameras. He's been staking out his locations. Which means there's a reason he's picking these particular victims. But what the hell is it?"

  The man crushed to death in the alley wasn't apparently involved in any criminal activities and had no enemies. The same was true with Joanne Harper. And she'd never heard of Adams--no link between them. Yet they'd both been targeted by the Watchmaker. Why them? Rhyme wondered. An unknown victim at the pier, a young businessman, a florist . . . and seven others to go. What is there about them that's driving him to kill? What's the connection?

  "What else did you find?"

  "Black flakes," Cooper said, holding up a plastic envelope. Inside were dots like dried black ink.

  Sachs said, "They were from where he got the wire spool and where he was probably hiding. Also, I found a few of them outside the front door where he'd stepped on the glass running to the Explorer."

  "Well, run them through the GC."

  Cooper fired up the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer and loaded a sample of the flakes. In a few minutes the results came up on the screen.

  "So, what do we have, Mel?"

  The tech shoved his glasses higher on his nose. He leaned forward. "Organic . . . Looks like about seventy-three percent n-alkanes, then polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons and thiaarenes."

  "Ah, roofing tar." Rhyme squinted.

  Kathryn Dance gave a laugh. "You know that?"

  Sellitto said, "Oh, Lincoln used to wander around the city collecting everything he could find for his evidence databases. . . . Must've been fun going out to dinner with you, Linc. You bring test tubes and bags with you?"

  "My ex could tell you all about it," Rhyme replied with an amused grunt. His attention was on the black spots of tar. "I'll bet he's been checking out another victim from a place that's getting a new roof."

  "Or maybe they're reroofing his place," Cooper offered.

  "Doubt he's spending time enjoying cocktails and the sunset on his own roof in this weather," Rhyme replied. "Let's assume it's somebody else's. I want to find out how many buildings are being reroofed right now."

  "There could be hundreds of them, thousands," Sellitto said.

  "Probably not in this weather."

  "And how the hell do we find them anyway?" the rumpled detective asked.

  "ASTER."

  "What's that?" Dance asked.

  Rhyme recited absently, "Advanced Spaceborne Thermal Emission and Reflection Radiometer. It's an instrument and data package on the Terra satellite--a joint venture between NASA and the Japanese government. It captures thermal images from space. Orbits every . . . what, Mel?"

  "About ninety-eight minutes. But it takes sixteen days to cover the entire Earth."

  "Find out when it was over New York most recently. I want thermal images and see if they can delineate heat over two hundred degrees--I imagine tar's at least that temperature when it's applied. Should narrow down where he's been."

  "The whole city?" Cooper asked.

  "He's hunting in Manhattan, looks like. Let's go with that first."

  Cooper had a lengthy conversation then hung up. "They're on it. They'll do their best."

  Thom showed Dennis Baker into the town house. "No other witnesses around the florist's workshop," the lieutenant reported, pulling off his coat and gratefully accepting a cup of coffee. "We searched for an hour. Either nobody saw anything or has the guts to admit they did. This guy's got everybody spooked."

  "We need more." Rhyme looked at the diagram that Sachs had sketched of the scene. "Where was the SUV parked?" he asked.

  "Across the street from the workshop," Sachs replied.

  "And you searched the spot where it was parked." It wasn't a question. Rhyme knew she would have. "Any cars in front or behind it?"

  "No."

  "Okay, he runs to the car, his partner drives to the closest intersection and turns, hoping to get lost in the traffic. He won't break any laws so he'll make a nice, careful--and sharp--turn, staying in his lane." Like speed bumps and sudden braking, sharp, slow turns often dislodge important trace from treads of tires. "If the street's still sealed off, I want a team from Crime Scene to sweep up everything at the intersection. It's a long shot but I think we have to try." He turned to Baker. "You just left the scene, right? About ten, fifteen minutes ago?"

  "About that," Baker replied, sitting and stretching as he downed his coffee. He looked exhausted.

  "Was the street still sealed?"

  "Wasn't paying much attention. I think it was."

  "Find out," Rhyme said to Sellitto, "and if so, send a team."

  But the detective's call revealed that the street was now open to traffic. Any trace left by the killer's Explorer would have been obliterated by the first or second vehicle making the same turn.

  "Damn," Rhyme muttered, his eyes returning once again to the evidence chart, thinking it had been a long time since a case had presented so much difficulty.

  Thom rapped on the doorjamb and led someone else into the room, a middle-aged woman in an expensive black coat. She was familiar to Rhyme but he couldn't recall the name.

  "Hello, Lincoln."

  Then he remembered. "Inspector."

  Marilyn Flaherty was older than Rhyme but they'd both been captains at the same time and had worked together on a few special commissions. He remembered her as being smart and ambitious--and, out of necessity, just a little bit flintier and more driven than her male counterparts. They spoke for a few minutes about mutual acquaintances and colleagues past and present. She asked about the Watchmaker case and he gave her a synopsis.

  The inspector then pulled Sachs aside and asked about the status of the investigation, meaning, of course, the Other Case. Rhyme couldn't help overhearing Sachs tell her that she'd found nothing conclusive. There'd been no major drug thefts from the evidence room of the 118th Precinct. Creeley's partner and his employees confirmed t
he businessman's depression and reported that he'd been drinking more lately. It turned out that he'd been going to Vegas and/or Atlantic City recently.

  "Possible organized crime connection," Flaherty pointed out.

  "That's what I was thinking," Sachs said. Then she added that there seemed to be no clients with grudges against Creeley but that she and Pulaski were awaiting the client list from Jordan Kessler to check it out themselves.

  Suzanne Creeley, though, remained convinced that he'd had nothing to do with drugs or criminal activity and that he hadn't killed himself.

  "And," Sachs said, "we've got another death."

  "Another one?"

  "A man who came to the St. James a few times. Maybe met with the same people that Creeley did."

  Another death? Rhyme reflected. He had to admit that the Other Case was developing some very interesting angles.

  "Who?" Flaherty asked.

  "Another businessman. Frank Sarkowski. Lived in Manhattan."

  Flaherty was looking over the lab, the evidence charts, the equipment, frowning. "Any clue who killed him?"

  "I think it was during a robbery. But I won't know until I read the file."

  Rhyme could see the frustration in Flaherty's face.

  Sachs too was tense. He soon realized why. As soon as Flaherty said, "I'm going to hold off on Internal Affairs for the time being," Sachs relaxed. They weren't going to take the case away from her. Well, Lincoln Rhyme was happy for Sachs, though in his heart he would have preferred that she hand off the Other Case to Internal Affairs and get back to working on His Case.

  Flaherty asked, "That young officer? Ron Pulaski? He's working out okay?"

  "He's doing a good job."

  "I'm going to report to Wallace, Detective." The inspector nodded at Rhyme. "Lincoln, it was good seeing you again. Take care."

  "So long, Inspector."

  Flaherty walked to the door and let herself out, walking just like a general on a parade ground.

  Amelia Sachs was about to call Pulaski and find out what he'd learned about Sarkowski when she heard a voice near her ear. "The Grand Inquisitor."

  Sachs turned to look at Sellitto, dumping sugar in his coffee. He said, "Hey, step into my office." And gestured toward the front hallway of Rhyme's town house.

  Leaving the others, the two detectives walked into the low-lit entryway.

  "Inquisitor. That's what they call Flaherty?" Sachs asked.

  "Yup. Not that she isn't good."

  "I know. I checked her out."

  "Uhm." The big detective sipped coffee and finished a Danish. "Look, I'm up to my ass in psycho clockmakers so I don't know what's up with this St. James thing. But if you got cops maybe're on the take, how come it's you and not Internal Affairs running the case?"

  "Flaherty didn't want to bring them in yet. Wallace agreed."

  "Wallace?"

  "Robert Wallace. The deputy mayor."

  "Yeah, I know him. Stand-up guy. And it's the right call, bringing in IAD. Why didn't she want to?"

  "She wanted to give it to somebody in her command. She said the One One Eight's too close to the Big Building. Somebody'd find out Internal Affairs was involved and they'd cut and run."

  Sellitto jutted his lower lip out in concession. "That could be." Then his voice lowered even further. "And you didn't argue too much 'cause you wanted the case."

  She looked him in the eye. "That's right."

  "So you asked and you got." He gave a cool laugh.

  "What?"

  "Now you're walking point."

  "What's wrong with that?"

  "Just, you gotta know the score. Now, anything goes bad, anything at all--good people get burned, bad guys get away--the fuckup's on your shoulders, even if you do everything right. Flaherty's protected and IAD's smelling like roses. On the other hand, you get righteous collars, they take over and suddenly everybody forgets your name."

  "You're saying I got set up?" Sachs shook her head. "But Flaherty didn't want me to take the case. She was going to hand it off."

  "Amelia, come on. End of a date, a guy says, 'Hey, had a great time but it's probably better if I don't ask you upstairs.' What's the first thing the girl says?"

  " 'Let's go upstairs.' What he had in mind all along. You're saying Flaherty was playing me?"

  "All I'm saying is she didn't take the case away from you, right? Which she could've done in, like, five seconds."

  Sachs's nail dug absently into her scalp. Her gut twisted at the idea of department politics at this high level--largely uncharted territory for her.

  "Now, my point is, I wish you weren't lead on a case like this, not now in your career. But you are. So you have to remember--keep your head down. I mean stay fucking invisible."

  "I--"

  "Lemme finish. Invisible for two reasons. One, people find out you're after bad cops, rumors're going start--about this shield taking cash or that shield losing evidence, whatever. Fact they're not doesn't mean shit. Rumors're like the flu. You can't wish 'em away. They run their course and they take people's careers with 'em."

  She nodded. "What's the second reason?"

  "Just because you got a shield, don't think you're immune. A bad uniform in the One One Eight, yeah, he's not going to clip you. That doesn't happen. But the civilians he's dealing with won't want to hear his opinion. They won't think twice about tossing your body into the trunk of a car at JFK long-term parking. . . . God bless you, kid. Go get 'em. But be careful. I don't want to have to go breaking any bad news to Lincoln. He'd never forgive me."

  Ron Pulaski returned to Rhyme's, and Sachs met him in the front hallway, as she stood, looking into the kitchen, and thinking about what Sellitto had told her.

  She briefed him about the latest in the Watchmaker case then asked, "What's the Sarkowski situation?"

  He flipped through his notes. "I located his spouse and proceeded to interview her. Now, the decedent was a fifty-seven-year-old white male who owned a business in Manhattan. He had no criminal record. He was murdered on November four of this year and was survived by said wife and two teenage children, one male, one female. Death occurred by gunshot. He--"

  "Ron?" she asked in a certain tone.

  He winced. "Oh, sorry. Streamline, sure."

  His copspeak was a habit Sachs was determined to break.

  Relaxing, the rookie continued. "He was the owner of a building on the West Side, Manhattan. Lived there too. He also owned a company that did maintenance and trash disposal work for big companies and utilities around the city." His business had a clean record--federal, city and state. No organized crime connections, no investigations ongoing. He himself had no warrants or arrests, except a speeding ticket last year."

  "Any suspects in his death?"

  "No."

  "What house ran the case?"

  "The One Three One."

  "He was in Queens when he died, not Manhattan?"

  "That's right."

  "What happened?"

  "The perp got his wallet and cash then shot him three times in the chest."

  "The St. James? Did she ever hear him say anything about it?"

  "Nope."

  "Did he know Creeley?"

  "The wife wasn't sure, didn't think so. I showed her the picture and she didn't recognize him." He grew quiet for a moment and then added, "One thing. I think I saw it again, the Mercedes."

  "You did?"

  "After you dropped me off I crossed the street fast to beat a light and I looked behind me to see if there was traffic. I couldn't get a good look but I thought I saw the Merc. Couldn't see the tag. Just thought I'd mention it."

  Sachs shook her head. "I had a visitor too." She told him about the breakin to her car. And added that she believed she'd seen the Mercedes as well. "That driver's been a busy boy." She then looked at his hands, which held only his thick notebook. "Where's the Sarkowski file?"

  "Okay, that's the problem. No file, no evidence. I went through the entire evidence locker i
n the One Three One. Nothing."

  "Okay, this's getting funky. No evidence?"

  "Missing."

  "The file was checked out?"

  "Might've been but it's not in the computer log. It should've been there if somebody took it or it got sent somewhere. But I got the name of the case detective. He lives in Queens. Just retired. Art Snyder." Pulaski handed her a sheet of paper with the man's name and address on it. "You want me to talk to him?"

  "No, I'll go see him. I want you to stay here and write up our notes on a whiteboard. I want to see the big picture. But don't do it in the lab. There's too much traffic." Crime scene and other officers routinely made deliveries to Rhyme's. With a case involving crooked cops, she didn't want anyone to see what they'd learned. She nodded toward Rhyme's exercise room, where his ergometer and treadmill were located. "We'll keep it in there."

  "Sure. But that won't take long. When I'm done, you want me to meet you at Snyder's?"

  Sachs thought again about the Mercedes. And she heard Sellitto's words looping through her head: . . . The trunk of a car at JFK long-term parking . . .

  "Naw, when you're through, just stay here and help out Lincoln." She laughed. "Maybe it'll improve his mood."

  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

  Location:

  * 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.).