Yes, he’d failed. But, as he told Vincent Reynolds, that wasn’t significant in the great scheme of things. He wasn’t concerned about the arrest of Charlotte Allerton. They knew nothing of his real identity (they’d believed all along his real name was Duncan) and their initial contacts had been through extremely discreet individuals.
Moreover, there was actually a positive side to the failure here—Hale had learned something that had changed his life. He’d created the persona of the Watchmaker simply because the character seemed spooky and would snag the attention of a populace and police turned on by made-for-TV criminals.
But as he got into the role, Hale found to his surprise that this character was the embodiment of his true personality. Playing the part was like coming home. He had indeed grown fascinated with watches and clocks and time. (He’d also developed an abiding interest in the Delphic Mechanism; stealing it at some point in the future was a distinct possibility.)
The Watchmaker . . .
Charles Hale was himself simply a timepiece. You could use a watch for something joyous like checking contractions for the birth of a baby. Or heinous: coordinating the time of a raid to slaughter women and children.
Time transcends morality.
He now looked down at what sat on the seat next to him, the gold Breguet pocket watch. In his gloved hands, he picked it up, wound it slowly—always better to underwind than over-—and carefully slipped it between the sheets of bubble wrap in a large white envelope.
Hale sealed the self-adhesive flap and started the car.
There were no clear leads.
Rhyme, Sellitto, Cooper and Pulaski were sitting in the lab on Central Park West, going over the few things found in the perp’s Brooklyn safe house.
Amelia Sachs was not present at the moment. She hadn’t announced where she was going. But she didn’t need to. She’d mentioned to Thom that she’d be nearby, if they needed her—at a meeting on Fifty-seventh and Sixth. Rhyme had checked the phone directory. That was the location of the Argyle Security headquarters.
Rhyme simply couldn’t think about that, and he was concentrating on how to continue the search for the Watchmaker, whoever he might be.
Working backward, Rhyme constructed a rough scenario of the events. The ceremony had been announced on October 15, so Carol and Bud had contacted the Watchmaker sometime around then. He’d come to New York around November 1, the date of the lease on the Brooklyn safe house. A few weeks later, Amelia Sachs had taken over the Creeley case and soon after, Baker and Wallace decided to have her killed.
“Then they hooked up with the Watchmaker. What’d he tell us, when we thought he was Duncan? About their meeting?”
Sellitto said, “Just that somebody at the club put them together—the club where Baker put the touch on his friend.”
“But he was lying. There was no club. . . .” Rhyme shook his head. “Somebody put them together, somebody who knows the Watchmaker—probably somebody in the area. If we can find them, there could be some solid leads. Is Baker talking?”
“Nope, not a word. Nobody is.”
The rookie was shaking his head. “That’s going to be a tough one. I mean, how many OC crews are there in the metro area? Take forever to track down the right one. Not like they’re going to be volunteering to help us out.”
The criminalist frowned. “What’re you talking about? What’s an organized crime posse got to do with anything?”
“Well, I just assumed somebody with an OC connection was the one who’d put them together.”
“Why?”
“Baker wants to have a cop killed, right? But he can’t do it in a way that’ll make him look suspicious so he has to hire somebody. He goes to some mob connection he has. The mob’s not going to clip a cop so he puts Baker in touch with somebody who might: the Watchmaker.”
When nobody said anything, Pulaski blushed and looked down. “I don’t know. Just a thought.”
“And a fucking good one, kid,” Sellitto said.
“Really?”
Rhyme nodded. “Not bad . . . Let’s call the OC task force downtown and see if their snitches can tell us anything. Call Dellray too . . . Now, let’s get back to the evidence.”
They’d located some friction ridges in the safe house in Brooklyn but none of the fingerprints came back positive from the Bureau’s IAFIS system and none matched prints from prior scenes. The lease for the house had been executed under yet another fake name and the man had given a phony prior address. It had been a cash transaction. An exhaustive search of Internet activity in the neighborhood revealed that the man had apparently logged on occasionally through several nearby wireless networks. There were no records of emails, only Web browsing. The site he’d visited most often was a bookstore that sold continuing-education course texts for certain medical specialties.
Sellitto said, “Shit, maybe somebody else’s hired him.”
You bet, Rhyme thought, nodding. “He’ll be targeting another victim—or victims. Probably coming up with his plan right now. Think of the damage he could do pretending to be a doctor.”
And I let him get away.
An examination of the trace evidence Sachs had collected revealed little more than shearling fibers and a few bits of a green vegetative material containing evaporated seawater—which didn’t, it turned out, match the seaweed and ocean water found around Robert Wallace’s boat on Long Island.
The deputy inspector at the Brooklyn precinct called to report that further canvassing of the neighborhood had been useless. A half dozen people remembered seeing the Watchmaker but nobody knew anything about him.
As for Charlotte and her late husband, Bud Allerton, the investigative efforts were much more successful. The couple had not been nearly as careful as the Watchmaker. Sachs had found a great deal of evidence about the underground militia groups they’d been harbored by, including a large one in Missouri and the infamous Patriot Assembly in upstate New York, which Rhyme and Sachs had tangled with in the past. Phone calls, fingerprints and emails would give the FBI and local police plenty of leads to pursue.
The doorbell rang and Thom left the room to answer it. A moment later he returned with a woman in a military uniform. This would be Lucy Richter, the Watchmaker’s fourth “victim.” Rhyme noted that she was more surprised at the forensic lab in his town house than his disability. Then it occurred to him that this was a woman involved in a type of combat where bombs were the weapon of choice; she’d undoubtedly seen missing limbs and para- and quadriplegia of all sorts. Rhyme’s condition didn’t faze her.
She explained that she’d called Kathryn Dance not long ago to say she wanted to speak to the investigators; the California detective had suggested she call or stop by Rhyme’s.
Thom zipped in and offered her coffee or tea. Normally piqued about visitors and reluctant to give anyone an incentive to linger, Rhyme now, to the contrary, glared at the aide. “She might be hungry, Thom. Or might want something more substantial. Scotch, for instance.”
“There’s just no figuring you out,” Thom said. “Didn’t know there was an armed forces hospitality rule in the Lincoln Rhyme edition of Emily Post.”
“Thanks, but nothing for me,” Lucy said. “I can’t stay long. First, I want to thank you. For saving my life—twice.”
“Actually,” Sellitto pointed out, “you weren’t in any danger the first time. He was never going to hurt you—or any of the victims. The second time? Well, okay, accepted—since he wanted to blow the conference room to smithereens.”
“My family was there too,” she said. “I can’t thank you enough.”
Rhyme was, as always, uneasy with the gratitude, though he nodded with what he thought was an appropriate acknowledgment.
“The other reason is that I found out something that might be helpful. I’ve been talking to my neighbors about when he broke in. One man, he lives three buildings down the street, told me something. He said that yesterday he was getting a delivery at the back of the bu
ilding and he found a rope dangling into the alley from the roof. You can get there from my roof pretty easily. I was thinking that maybe that was how he escaped.”
“Interesting,” Rhyme said.
“But there’s something else. My husband took a look. Bob was a Navy SEAL for two years—”
“Navy? And you’re army?” Pulaski asked, laughing.
She smiled. “We have some . . . interesting discussions from time to time. Especially during football season. Anyway, he looked at the rope and said whoever tied it knew what he was doing. It was a rare knot used in abseiling—you know, rappelling. It’s called a dead man’s knot. You don’t see it much in this country, mostly in Europe. He must’ve had some experience rock climbing or mountaineering overseas.”
“Ah, some hard information.” Rhyme glanced darkly at Pulaski. “A shame the victim had to find the evidence, don’t you think? That really is in our job description.” He turned toward Lucy. “The rope’s still there?”
“Yes.”
“Good . . . You in town for a while?” Rhyme asked. “If we catch him, we might need you to testify at his trial.”
“I’m going back overseas soon. But I’m sure I can come back for a trial. I could get a special leave for that.”
“How long will you be there?”
“I reenlisted for two years.”
“You did?” Sellitto asked.
“I wasn’t going to. It’s tough over there. But I decided to go back.”
“Because of the bomb at the ceremony?”
“No, it was just before that. I was looking at the families and the other soldiers there and thinking it’s funny how life puts you in places you never thought you’d be. But there you are and you’re doing something good and important and, basically, it just feels right. So.” She pulled on her jacket. “If you need me, I’ll get a leave home.”
They said good-bye and Thom saw her out the door.
When he returned Rhyme told the aide, “Add that to the profile. A rock climber or mountaineer, possibly European trained.” To Pulaski, Rhyme said, “And have somebody from the CS Unit go collect the rope that you missed in the first place—”
“Actually, I wasn’t really the one who searched—”
“—and then find a climbing expert. I want to know where he might’ve trained. And run the rope too. Where’d he buy it and when?”
“Yessir.”
Fifteen minutes later the doorbell rang again and Thom returned with Kathryn Dance. The white iPod earbuds dangling over her shoulders, she greeted everyone. She was holding a white, eight-and-a-half-by-eleven envelope.
“Hi,” said Pulaski.
Rhyme lifted an eyebrow in greeting.
“I’m on my way to the airport,” Dance explained. “Just wanted to say good-bye. Oh, this was on the doorstep.”
She handed the envelope to Thom.
The aide glanced at it. “No return address.” Frowning.
“Let’s be safe,” Rhyme said. “The basket.”
Sellitto took the envelope and walked to a large bin that was made out of woven steel strips—like a wicker laundry hamper. He set the envelope inside and clamped the lid shut. As a matter of course, any unidentified packages went into the bomb basket, which was designed to diffuse the force of a small-to-medium-sized improvised explosive device. It contained sensors that would pick up any trace of nitrates and other common explosives.
The computer sniffed the vapors emanating from the envelope and reported that it wasn’t a bomb.
Wearing latex gloves, Cooper retrieved and examined it. The envelope bore a computer-generated label, reading only, Lincoln Rhyme.
“Self-sticking,” the tech added with a resigned grimace. Criminalists preferred old-style envelopes that perps had to lick; the adhesive was a good source of DNA. Cooper added that he was familiar with the brand of envelope; it was sold in stores all over the country and virtually untraceable.
Rhyme wheeled closer and, with Dance beside him, watched the tech extract a pocket watch and a note, also the product of a computer printer. “It’s from him,” Cooper announced.
The envelope had been there for no more than a quarter of an hour—the time between Lucy Richter’s departure and Dance’s arrival. Sellitto called Central to have some cars from the nearby Twentieth Precinct sweep the neighborhood. Cooper emailed the Watchmaker’s composite to the house.
The timepiece was ticking and showed the accurate time. It was gold and there were several small dials set in the face.
“Heavy,” Cooper said. He pulled on magnifying goggles and examined it closely. “Looks old, signs of wear . . . no personalized engravings.” He took a camel hair brush and dusted the watch over a piece of newsprint. The envelope too. No trace was dislodged.
“Here’s the note, Lincoln.” He mounted it on an overhead projector.
Dear Mr. Rhyme:
I will be gone by the time you receive this. I have by now, of course, learned that none of the attendees at the conference was injured. I concluded you had anticipated my plans. I then anticipated yours and delayed my trip to Charlotte’s hotel, which gave me the chance to spot your officers. I assume you saved her daughter. I am pleased about that. She deserves better than that pair.
So congratulations. I thought the plan was perfect. But I was apparently wrong.
The pocket watch is a Breguet. It is the favorite of the many timepieces I have come across. It was made in the early 1800s and features a ruby cylinder escapement, perpetual calendar and parachute antishock device. I hope you appreciate the phases-of-the-moon window, in light of our recent adventures. There are few specimens like this watch in the world. I give it to you as a present, out of respect. No one has ever stopped me from finishing a job; you’re as good as they get. (I would say you’re as good as I, but that is not quite true. You did not, after all, catch me.) Keep the Breguet wound (but gently); it will be counting the time until we meet again.
Some advice: If I were you, I would make every one of those seconds count.
—The Watchmaker
Sellitto grimaced.
“What?” Rhyme asked.
“You get classier threats than me, Linc. Usually my perps just say, ‘I’m gonna kill you.’ And what the hell is that?” He pointed to the note. “A semicolon? He’s threatening you and he’s using semicolons. That’s fucked up.”
Rhyme didn’t laugh. He was still furious about the man’s escape—and furious too that he apparently had no desire to retire. “When you get tired of making bad jokes, Lon, you might want to notice that his grammar and syntax are perfect. That tells us something else about him. Good education. Private school? Classically trained? Scholarships? Valedictorian? Put those on the chart, Thom.”
Sellitto was unfazed. “Fucking semicolons.”
“Got something here,” Cooper said, looking up from the computer. “The green material from his place in Brooklyn? I’m pretty sure it’s Caulerpa taxifolia. A noxious weed.”
“A what?”
“It’s a seaweed that spreads uncontrollably. Causes all kinds of problems. It’s been banned in the U.S.”
“And presumably, if it spreads, you can find it everywhere,” Rhyme said sourly. “Useless as evidence.”
“Actually, no,” Cooper explained. “So far, it’s been found only on the Pacific Coast of North America.”
“Mexico to Canada?”
“Pretty much.”
Rhyme added sarcastically, “That’s virtually a street address. Call out the SWAT team.”
It was then that Kathryn Dance frowned. “The West Coast?” She considered something for a moment. Then she asked, “Where’s the interview with him?”
Mel Cooper found the file. He hit PLAY and for the dozenth time they watched the killer look into the camera and lie to them all. Dance leaned forward intently. She reminded Rhyme of himself gazing at evidence.
He’d been through the interview so often he was numb to the words; it provided nothing helpful now
that he could tell. But Dance gave a sudden laugh. “Got a thought.”
“What?”
“Well, I can’t give you an address but I can give you a state. My guess is that he comes from California. Or lived there for some time.”
“Why do you think that?”
She backed up with the rewind command. Then played part of the interview again, the portion where he talked about driving to Long Island to take delivery of the confiscated SUV.
Dance stopped the tape and said, “I’ve studied regional expressions. People in California usually refer to their interstate highways with the article ‘the.’ The four-oh-five in L.A., for instance. In the interview he referred to ‘the four ninety-five’ here in New York. And did you hear him say freeway? That’s common in California too, more so than expressway or interstate. Which is what you hear on the East Coast.”
Possibly helpful, Rhyme thought. Another brick in the wall of evidence. “On the chart,” he said.
“When I get back I’ll open a formal investigation in my office,” she said. “I’ll put out everything we’ve got statewide. We’ll see what happens. Okay, I better be going. . . . Oh, I’ll be expecting you both out in California sometime soon.”
The aide glanced at Rhyme. “He needs to travel more. He pretends he doesn’t like to but the fact is, once he gets someplace he enjoys it. As long as there’s scotch and some good crime to keep him interested.”
“It’s Northern California,” Dance said. “Wine country, mostly, but not to worry, we have plenty of crime.”
“We’ll see,” Rhyme said noncommittally. Then he added, “But one thing—do me a favor?”
“Sure.
“Shut your cell phone off. I’ll probably be tempted to call you again on the way to the airport if something else comes up.”
“If I didn’t have the children to get back to I might just pick up.”
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 131
