The Cold Moon (Lincoln Rhyme 7)

How unprofessional can we be? Dance thought angrily. "Fine," she'd said with a fake smile.

Like his neighbors, though, the businessman hadn't seen anything unusual and headed up the street. With a long look back at him, Dance continued her search.

She wanted a lead, wanted to help nail this perp. Like any cop, of course, she wanted to take a sick, dangerous man off the streets. But she also wanted to spend time interviewing him after he'd been collared. The Watchmaker was different from any other perp she'd ever come up against. Kathryn Dance wanted badly to find out what made him tick--and laughed to herself at the unintended choice of words.

She continued stopping people for another block but found no one who could help.

Until she met the shopper.

On the sidewalk a block from Lucy's apartment she stopped a man wheeling a handcart filled with groceries. He glanced at the composite picture of the Watchmaker and said impulsively, "Oh, yeah, I think I saw somebody who looked like him. . . ." Then he hesitated. "But I didn't really pay any attention." He started to leave.

Kathryn Dance, though, knew instantly he'd seen more.

Witnessitis.

"This's really important."

"All I saw was somebody running up the street. That's it."

"Listen, got an idea. Anything perishable in there?" She nodded at the grocery cart.

He hesitated again, trying to anticipate her. "Not really."

"How 'bout if we get some coffee and I ask you a few more questions. You mind?"

She could tell he did mind but just then a blast of icy wind rocked them and he looked like he wouldn't mind getting out of the cold. "I guess. But I really can't tell you anything else."

Oh, we'll see about that.

Amelia Sachs sat in the back of the van.

With Coyle's help, she was struggling to get retired detective Art Snyder into a sitting position on the backseat of the van. He was half conscious, muttering words she couldn't hear.

When Coyle had first opened the door, Snyder had been sprawled out, head back, unconscious, and she thought--to her horror--that he'd killed himself. She soon learned that he was simply drunk, though extremely so. She'd shaken him gently. "Art?" He'd opened his eyes, frowning and disoriented.

Now, the two officers got him on a seat.

"No, just wanna sleep. Leave me alone. Wanna sleep."

"This's his van?"

"Yeah," Coyle answered.

"What happened? How'd he get here?"

"He was up the street at Harry's. They wouldn't serve him--he was drunk already--and he wandered outside. I came in to buy some ciggies just after. The bartender knew I was a cop and told me about him. Didn't want him to drive off and kill himself or somebody else. I found him here, halfway inside. Your card was in his pocket."

Art Snyder shifted groggily. "Leave me alone." His eyes closed.

She glanced at Coyle. "I'll take over from here."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Only, could you flag down a cab, send it over here?"

"Sure."

The cop climbed out of the van and walked away. Sachs crouched down, touched his arm. "Art?"