The Cold Moon (Lincoln Rhyme 7)

The detective continued. "I heard they lost some serious money, Jefferies and his wife. I mean big money. Money you and me, we can't even find where the decimal point goes. Some business thing his wife was into. He was hoping to run for office--Albany, I think. But you can't go there without big bucks. And she left him after the business fell through. Though with a temper like that, he had to've had issues beforehand."

She was nodding at this information when her phone rang. She answered. "That's right, that's me. . . . Oh, no. Where? . . . I'll be there in ten minutes."

Her face pale and grave, she hurried out the door, saying, "Problem. I'll be back in a half-hour."

"Sachs," Rhyme began. But he heard only the slamming front door in response.

The Camaro eased up over the curb on West Forty-fourth Street, not far from the West Side Highway.

A big man in an overcoat and a fur hat squinted at Sachs as she climbed out of the car. She didn't know him, or he her, but the all-business parking job and the NYPD placard on the dash made it clear she was the one he was waiting for.

The young man's ears and nose were bright red and steam curled from his nose. He stamped his feet to keep the circulation going. "Whoa, this's cold. I'm sicka winter already. You Detective Sachs?"

"Yeah. You're Coyle?"

They shook hands. He had a powerful grip.

"What's the story?" she asked.

"Come on. I'll show you."

"Where?"

"The van. In the lot up the street."

As they walked, briskly in the cold, Sachs asked, "What house you from?" Coyle had identified himself as a cop when he called.

The traffic was loud. He didn't hear.

She repeated her question. "What house you from? Midtown South?"

He blinked at her. "Yeah." Then blew his nose.

"I was there for a while," Sachs told him.

"Hmm." Coyle said nothing else. He directed her through the large parking lot. At the far end Coyle stopped, next to a Windstar van, the windows dark, the motor running.

He glanced around. Then opened the door.

Canvassing apartments and stores in Greenwich Village, near Lucy Richter's, Kathryn Dance was reflecting on the symbiotic relationship between kinesic and forensic sciences.

A practitioner of kinesics requires a human being--a witness, a suspect--the same way a forensic scientist requires evidence. Yet this case was distinguished by a surprising absence of both people and physical clues.

It frustrated her. She'd never been involved in an investigation quite like this one.

Excuse me, sir, madam, hey there, young man, there was some police activity near here earlier today, did you hear about it, ah, good, I wonder if you happened to see anyone in that area, leaving quickly. Or did you see anything suspicious, anything out of the ordinary? Take a look at this picture. . . .

But, nothing.

Dance didn't even recognize chronic witnessitis, the malady where people clearly know something but claim they don't, out of fear for themselves or their families. No, after forty freezing minutes on the street, she'd found the problem was simply that nobody'd seen squat.

Excuse me, sir, yes, it's a California ID but I'm working with the New Yor

k Police Department, you can call this number to verify that, now have you seen . . .

Zero.

Dance was taken aback once, shocked actually, when she approached a man coming out of an apartment. She'd blinked and her thoughts froze as she stared up at him--he was identical to her late husband. She'd controlled herself and run through her litany. He'd sensed something was up, though, and frowned, asking if she was all right.