"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?"