The Cold Moon (Lincoln Rhyme 7)

Tasting . . .

These were the images cascading through Vincent Reynolds's thoughts as he sat in the driver's seat of the Band-Aid-mobile, staring into the dark workshop across the street, breathing fast, anticipating what he was about to do to Joanne. Consumed with hunger.

Noise intruded. "Traffic Forty-two, can you . . . they want to add some barriers at Nassau and Pine. By the reviewing stand."

"Sure, we can do that. Over."

The words represented no threat to him or Gerald Duncan and so Vincent continued his fantasy.

Tasting, touching . . .

Vincent imagined that the killer would probably be pulling Joanne down on the floor, trussing her up right now. Then he frowned. Would Duncan be touching her in certain places? Her chest, between her legs?

Vincent was jealous.

Joanne was his girlfriend, not Duncan's. Goddamn it! If he wanted to fuck something, let him go find a nice girl on his own. . . .

But then he told himself to calm down. The hunger did that to you. It made you crazy, possessed you like the people in those gory zombie films Vincent watched. Duncan's your friend. If he wants to play around with her, let him. They could share her.

Vincent looked at his watch impatiently. It was taking soooo long. Duncan had told him that time wasn't absolute. Some scientists once did an experiment where they put one clock way high in the air on a tower and one at sea level. The higher one ran more quickly than the one on the ground. Some law of physics. Psychologically, Duncan had added, time is relative too. If you're doing something you love, it goes by fast. If you're waiting for something, it moves slowly.

Just like now. Come on, come on.

The radio sitting on the dashboard crackled again. More traffic info, he assumed.

But Vincent was wrong.

"Central to any available unit in lower Manhattan. Proceed to Spring Street, east of Broadway. Be advised, looking for florist shops in the vicinity, in connection with the homicides on the pier at Two Two Street and the alley off Cedar Street last night. Proceed with caution."

"Jesus, Lord," Vincent muttered aloud, staring at the scanner. Hitting REDIAL on the phone, he glanced up the street--no sign of any police yet.

One ring, two . . .

"Pick up!"

Click. Duncan didn't say anything--this was according to their plans. But Vincent knew he was on the line.

"Get out, now! Move! The cops're coming."

Vincent heard a faint gasp. The phone disconnected.

"This is RMP Three Three Seven. We're three minutes from scene."

"Roger that, Three Three Seven . . . Further to that call--we have a report, a ten-three-four, assault in progress, at four-one-eight Spring. All available units respond."

"Roger."

"RMP Four Six One, we're on the way too."

"Come on, for Christ sake," Vincent muttered. He put the Explorer in gear.

Then a huge crash as a ceramic urn slammed through the glass front door of the florist's workshop. Duncan came charging outside. He sprinted over the shattered glass shards, nearly fell on the ice and then raced to the Explorer, leaping into the passenger seat. Vincent sped away.

"Slow down," the killer commanded. "Turn at the next street."

Vincent eased off the gas. It was just as well he brought the speed down because, just as he did, a squad car skidded around the corner in front of them.

Two more converged on the street, the officers leaping out.