The Cold Moon

by Jeffery Deaver

  Uneasily he asked, "You want me to go with you?"

  Calmer now, she smiled, though Rhyme could see it was forced. "No, you stay here, Ron. Thanks."

  She grabbed her jacket and, without saying anything else, hurried out.

  As the front door clicked shut behind her, Sellitto's phone rang. He tensed as he listened. Then he looked up, announced, "Get this. There was a hit on the EVL. Tan Explorer, two white males inside. Evading an RMP. They're in pursuit." He listened some more. "Got it." He hung up. "They followed it to that big garage on the river at Houston by the West Side Highway. Exits're sealed. This could be it."

  Rhyme ordered his radio to pick up the scrambled transmissions, and everyone in the lab stared at the small black plastic speakers. Two patrol officers reported that the Explorer had been spotted on the second floor but was abandoned. There was no sign of the men who'd been inside.

  "I know the garage," Sellitto said. "It's a sieve. They could've gotten out anywhere."

  Bo Haumann and a lieutenant reported that they had squads combing the streets around the garage, but there was no sign yet of the Watchmaker or his partner.

  Sellitto shook his head in frustration. "At least we've got their wheels. It'll tell us plenty. We should get Amelia back to run the scene."

  Rhyme debated. He'd been anticipating that the conflict between the two cases might come to a head, though he'd never thought it would happen this fast.

  Sure, they should get her back.

  But the criminalist decided not to. He knew her perhaps even better than he knew himself and he understood that she needed to run with the St. James case.

  There's nothing worse than a crooked cop. . . .

  He'd do this for her.

  "No. Let her go."

  "But, Linc--"

  "We'll find somebody else."

  The tense silence, which seemed to go on forever, was broken with: "I'll do it, sir."

  Rhyme glanced to his right.

  "You, Ron?"

  "Yessir. I can handle it."

  "I don't think so."

  The rookie looked him in the eye and recited, "'It's important to note that the location where the victim's corpse is actually found is often the least important of the many crime scenes created when a homicide occurs--since it is there that conscientious perpetrators will cleanse the scene of trace and plant false evidence to lead off investigators. The more important--'"

  "That's--"

  "Your textbook, sir. I've read it. A couple of times, actually."

  "You memorized it?"

  "Just the important parts."

  "What's not important?"

  "I meant I memorized the specific rules."

  Rhyme debated. He was young, inexperienced. But he at least knew the players and he had a sharp eye. "All right, Ron. But you don't take a single step into the scene unless we're online with each other."

  "That's fine, sir."

  "Oh, it's fine?" Rhyme asked wryly. "Thanks for your approval, rookie. Now, get going."

  They were out of breath from the run.

  Duncan and Vincent, both carrying large canvas bags containing the contents of the Band-Aid-mobile, slowed to a walk at a park near the Hudson River. They were two blocks from the garage where they'd abandoned the SUV in their flight from the cops.

  So wearing the gloves--which Vincent had first thought of as way too paranoid--had paid off after all.

  Vincent looked back. "They're not following. They didn't see us."

  Duncan leaned against a sapling, hawked and spit into the grass. Vincent pressed his chest, which ached from the run. Steam flowed from their mouths and noses. The killer still wasn't angry but was even more curious than before. "The Explorer too. They knew about the car. I don't understand it. How did they know? And who's after us? . . . That red-haired policewoman I saw on Cedar Street--maybe it's she."

  She . . .

  Then Duncan looked down at his side and frowned. The canvas bag was open. "Oh, no," he whispered.

  "What?"

  The killer dropped to his knees and began to rummage through it. "Some things're missing. The book and ammunition are still in the car."

  "Nothing with our names on it. Or fingerprints, right?"

  "No. They won't identify us." He glanced at Vincent. "All your food wrappers and the cans? You wore gloves, right?"

  Vincent lived in terror of disappointing his friend and was always careful. He nodded.

  Duncan looked back at the garage. "But still . . . every bit of evidence they get is like finding another gear from a watch. With enough of them, if you're smart, you can understand how it works. You can even figure out who made it." He pulled his jacket off, handed it to Vincent. He wore a gray sweatshirt underneath. He took a baseball cap out of the bag and pulled it on.

  "Meet me back at the church. Go straight there. Don't stop for anything."

  Vincent whispered, "What're you going to do?"

  "The garage's dark and it's big. They won't have enough cops to cover it all. And that side door we used, it's almost impossible to see from outside. They might not have anybody stationed there. . . . If we're lucky they might not've found the Explorer yet. I'll get the things we left."

  He took out the box cutter and slipped it into his sock. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his small pistol and checked to make sure it was loaded. He replaced it.

  Vincent asked, "But what if they have? Found it, I mean."

  In his calm voice Duncan answered, "Depending, I may try to get them anyway."

  Chapter 17

  Ron Pulaski didn't believe he'd ever felt pressure like this, standing in the freezing-cold garage, staring at the tan Explorer, brilliantly lit by spotlights.

  He was alone. Lon Sellitto and Bo Haumann--two legends in the NYPD--were at the command post, downstairs from this level. Two crime scene techs had set up the lights, thrust suitcases into his hands and left, wishing him good luck in what seemed like a pretty ominous tone of voice.

  He was dressed in a Tyvek suit, without a jacket, and he was shivering.

  Come on, Jenny, he said silently to his wife, as he often did in moments of stress, think good thoughts for me. He added, though speaking only to himself, Let me not fuck this up, which is what he'd share with his brother.

  Headsets sat on his ears and he was told he was being patched into a secure frequency directly to Lincoln Rhyme, though so far he'd heard nothing but static.

  Then abruptly: "So what've you got?" Lincoln Rhyme's voice snapped through the headsets.

  Pulaski jumped. He turned the volume down. "Well, sir, there's the SUV in front of me. Approximately twenty feet away. It's parked in a pretty deserted part of the--"

  "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 footprint
s?"

  "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 attache 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.

  When Rhyme asked impatiently, "How's it going?" the rookie had to admit, "Actually, there are none."

  "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 mos
t 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--"