And how better to snare a man whose strength - and weakness - was time and timepieces than by using a rare watch?
Rhyme had found out that a Bronnikov, one of the few in existence, was in London, though not for sale. But he'd charmed the owner into changing his mind (charm plus twenty thousand dollars, that is) and spent another ten thousand to fly the watch to New York. Ron Pulaski had been the courier.
Rhyme had called Fred Dellray and learned that there was an art dealer under indictment for tax evasion, Jason Heatherly. Dellray got the US attorney to drop a few of the charges if Heatherly cooperated; the feds wanted the Watchmaker back in the slammer as much as Rhyme and the NYPD did.
Heatherly agreed and the watch was delivered to him and put on display in a case in his Upper East Side antiques store/art gallery.
In his conversation with the Watchmaker a week ago Rhyme had brought up the Bone Collector and then casually segued to the Bronnikov watch, mentioning that it was in a gallery in Manhattan. He'd tried to be nonchalant and hoped his delivery was more fluid than Ron Pulaski's.
Apparently it was.
Several days after the conversation, Heatherly reported that a man had called, inquiring about any watches the gallery might have for sale - though asking nothing specific about the Bronnikov. Heatherly had told him the inventory, including a mention of the bone watch, and the man had thanked him and hung up. Caller ID was Unknown.
Rhyme and a task force had debated how to handle it. The bureau wanted surveillance and a take-down team near the gallery, ready to move in as soon as somebody came in to buy or steal the watch. Rhyme said no. The Watchmaker would spot them instantly. They should take a different approach, more subtle.
So FBI and NYPD surveillance experts had installed a miniature tracker in the metal fob of the watch. The device would remain powered down, undetectable by any radio wave sensors, most of the time. Every two days, it would - for a millisecond - beam its location to the ICGSN, the International Consolidated Geopositioning Satellite Network, which blanketed nearly every populated area on earth. Then go quiescent.
The positioning data would be sent directly to the task force's mainframe. If the Watchmaker was on the move, they could narrow down the country and region he was traveling through and alert border authorities. Or, if luck was with them, they might find him stationary, enjoying a cool wine on a beach and admiring his stolen bone watch.
Or maybe he'd immediately separate the watch from its duplicitous fob, which he'd mail to Sri Lanka and go on with his plans for whatever heist or murder he was plotting.
So my knowing about this is a gear or a spring or a flywheel in the timepiece of your plan ...
The gallery owner continued to be exercised about the break-in. He said breathlessly, 'It's impossible. The alarms. The locks. The video cameras.'
Rhyme had insisted that there be no lapses in security to make it easier for the Watchmaker to steal the bait; the man would have grown suspicious in an instant and balked.
Heatherly continued, 'There's simply no way anybody could have gotten inside.'
But we aren't dealing with just anybody, Rhyme reflected, and without comment he muttered goodbye to the gallery owner and disconnected the call.
Now, we wait.
A day, a month, a year ...
He wheeled away from the examination tables, glancing at another watch - the Breguet that the Watchmaker had given to Rhyme some years ago.
Rhyme now said to Sachs, 'Call Pulaski. I want him on the grid at the art gallery.'
She spoke with the officer and sent him to run the scene at Heatherly's. Rhyme didn't hold out many hopes of getting any evidence from the theft. Still, the j's needed to be dotted.
'Thom,' Rhyme said, 'before we go to visit Lon, I'll have one for the road - a double, if you please.'
He braced for defense. But, for some reason, the aide didn't object to the consumption of fine, aged - and poison-free - single-malt whisky. Perhaps he was sympathetic to the fact that, while the criminalist had prevented a terrorist attack, the Watchmaker had slipped away. And Rhyme would probably lose a slick thirty grand in the process.
A glass appeared in the cup holder.
Rhyme sipped the smoky liquor. Good, good.
He sent and answered several emails, to and from tattoo artist TT Gordon, whom Rhyme had taken a liking to. The man was coming over to hang out with the dude in a wheelchair next week. They'd talk about grammar and Samoan culture and life in hipster New York. And who knew what other topics, and projects, might arise?
Mt. Everest and falcons perhaps.
He cocked his head. A crunch of feet on the ice outside. Then a click, the front-door lock, more footsteps.
Rhyme took another sip. The sound told the story. Sachs, however, didn't interpret the sonic evidence and remained wary ... until Pam Willoughby turned the corner and paused in the archway.
'Hey.' The teen nodded to everyone, unwrapping an impressive scarf from her neck. The day was wind-and sleet-free but must've been cold. Her pretty nose was pink and her shoulders hunched.
Amelia Sachs's shoulders, on the other hand, sagged but she managed a smile. She'd be recalling that Pam was going to borrow her foster father's car to pick up the last of her possessions in the bedroom upstairs.
Silence for a moment. Sachs seemed to take a deep breath. 'How's it going?'
'Okay. Good. Play opens officially next week. Busy. Victorian costumes. They weigh a ton. The dresses.'
Small talk. Pointless talk.
Silence. Sachs said, 'I'll help you get your things.' Nodding toward the stairs.
Pam glanced around the parlor, avoiding eyes. 'Well, actually, I mean, do you think it'd be okay if I moved back? Just for a while, till I can find someplace new? Didn't really want to go back to my place in the Heights. Just, you know, everything that happened there. And the Olivettis - they're great. Only.' She looked at the floor. Then up. 'Would that be okay?'
Sachs strode forward and hugged her hard. 'That's a question you never need to ask.'
Thom said, 'You've got some things outside to bring in?'
'In the car. Yeah, I could use some help, sure.'
Thom suited up, donning his own scarf and a faux-fur Russian Cossack hat. He followed Pam out to the car.
Sachs pulled on her coat and gloves and followed. She got as far as the arched doorway separating the parlor from the hall. She turned to Rhyme. 'Wait a minute.'
'Wait?' he asked.
She walked closer, tilted her head as if she were gazing at a gangbanger she'd just collared, and looked down. In a soft voice: 'Thom changed the locks last week. After Billy broke in.'
Rhyme shrugged. A sip of single malt. 'Uhm.'
'Well?'
'Well what?' he muttered.
'Pam didn't knock just now. She let herself in. That means she had one of the new keys.'
'New keys?'
'Why are you repeating what I say? How did Pam get a new key? She hasn't been here for over a week.'
'Hm. I don't know. That's a mystery.'
She shot him a coy glance. 'Rhyme, if I were to look over your phone log would I find any outgoing calls to Pam recently?'
'When would I possibly have had time to chat with anybody? Anyway, I'm hardly a chatterer. Do I seem like a chatterer to you?'
'That's evading the question.'
'If you looked at my log, no, you wouldn't find any calls to Pam. Recently or unrecently.'
This was true; he'd deleted them.
Of course, he'd forgotten that Sachs might pick up on the conspiracy after he'd messengered Pam the new key a few days ago, after their, all right, 'chat'.
Sachs gave a laugh, leaned forward and kissed him hard, then headed out the door to help with the move.
Leaving Rhyme to do what he'd been looking forward to for some hours. He wheeled back to the examination table.
On a sterile tray sat a small bit of off-white resin or plastic or clay, which had been discovered lodged in the
wristwatch band of a banker murdered last night on the Upper East Side. The murder itself wasn't remarkable - Rhyme was solidly in View of Death Number One mode here - but what struck him as unusual was that the body was found near a construction site between Madison and Park Avenues: The western wall of the foundation was about ten feet from an underground tunnel that led, after some maze-like twists, directly to the Metropolitan Museum of Art's underground archives.
The crime scene indicated that there had been a fierce struggle. It seemed likely that the source of the beige evidence in the watchband had been the killer and that it could tell reams about the man or woman who'd taken the victim's life.
But until the material was identified and its source determined, that tentative conclusion was a mere wisp of supposition. It had to be either proven valid and recorded on a whiteboard, or proven false and discarded like the autumn leaves now largely stripped from the trees outside his window. Rhyme now prepared a sample for the chromatograph and wheeled to the humming machine, to see which of those two alternatives might prove to be the case.
Acknowledgments
With undying gratitude to: Will and Tina Anderson, Sophie Baker, Sonya Cheuse, Jane Davis, Julie Deaver, Jenna Dolan, Cathy Gleason, Jamie Hodder-Williams, Mitch Hoffman, Kerry Hood, Emma Knight, Carolyn Mays, Claire Nozieres, Hazel Orme, Michael Pietsch, Jamie Raab, Betsy Robbins, Lindsey Rose, Katy Rouse, Marissa Sangiacomo, Roberto Santachiara, Deborah Schneider, Vivienne Schuster, Madelyn Warcholik. You're the best!
About the Author
A former journalist, folksinger and attorney, Jeffery Deaver is an international number-one bestselling author. His novels have appeared on bestseller lists around the world, including the New York Times, The Times of London, Italy's Corriere della Sera, the Sydney Morning Herald and the Los Angeles Times. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into twenty-five languages.
The author of thirty-two novels, three collections of short stories and a nonfiction law book, he's received or been shortlisted for a number of awards around the world. His The Bodies Left Behind was named Novel of the Year by the International Thriller Writers Association, and his Lincoln Rhyme thriller The Broken Window and a stand-alone, Edge, were also nominated for that prize. He has been awarded the Steel Dagger and the Short Story Dagger from the British Crime Writers' Association and the Nero Wolfe Award, and he is a three-time recipient of the Ellery Queen Readers Award for Best Short Story of the Year and a winner of the British Thumping Good Read Award. The Cold Moon was recently named the Book of the Year by the Mystery Writers Association of Japan, as well as by Kono Mystery Wa Sugoi magazine. In addition, the Japanese Adventure Fiction Association awarded The Cold Moon and Carte Blanche their annual Grand Prix award.
He contributed to the anthology Books to Die For, which won the Agatha Award this year.
His most recent novels are The October List, a thriller told in reverse; The Kill Room, a Lincoln Rhyme novel; XO, a Kathryn Dance thriller, for which he wrote an album of country-western songs, available on iTunes and as a CD; and before that, Carte Blanche, the 2011 James Bond continuation novel, a number-one international bestseller.
Deaver has been nominated for seven Edgar Awards from the Mystery Writers of America, an Anthony, a Shamus and a Gumshoe. He was recently shortlisted for the ITV3 Crime Thriller Award for Best International Author. Roadside Crosses was on the shortlist for the Prix Polar International 2013.
His book A Maiden's Grave was made into an HBO movie starring James Garner and Marlee Matlin, and his novel The Bone Collector was a feature release from Universal Pictures, starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. And, yes, the rumors are true: He did appear as a corrupt reporter on his favorite soap opera, As the World Turns.
He was born outside Chicago and has a bachelor of journalism degree from the University of Missouri and a law degree from Fordham University.
Readers can visit his website at www.jefferydeaver.com.
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