The Cold Moon (Lincoln Rhyme 7)

"Are you deaf?" Baker snapped. "Not a fucking word."

"Take him to CB," Sellitto said to the patrol officers standing beside the car. "Book him on assault with intent for the time being. We'll add some other ornaments later." As they watched the RMP drive away, Sellitto shook his head. "Jesus," the detective muttered. "Were we lucky."

"Lucky?" Rhyme grumbled, recalling that he'd said something similar earlier.

"Yeah, that Duncan didn't kill any more vics. And here too--Amelia was a sitting duck. If that piece hadn't misfired . . ." His voice faded before he described the tragedy that had nearly occurred.

Lincoln Rhyme believed in luck about as much as he believed in ghosts and flying saucers. He started to ask what the hell did luck have to do with anything, but the words never came out of his mouth.

Luck . . .

Suddenly a dozen thoughts, like bees escaping from a jostled hive, zipped around him. He was frowning. "That's odd. . . ." His voice faded. Finally he whispered, "Duncan."

"Something wrong, Linc? You okay?"

"Rhyme?" Sachs asked.

"Shhhhh."

Using the touch-pad controller he turned slowly in a circle, glanced in a nearby alleyway, then at the bags and boxes of evidence Sachs had collected. He gave a faint laugh. He ordered, "I want Baker's gun."

"His service piece?" Pulaski asked.

"Of course not. The other one. The thirty-two. Where is it? Now, hurry!"

Pulaski found the weapon in a plastic bag. He returned with it.

"Field-strip it."

"Me?" the rookie asked.

"Her." Rhyme nodded at Sachs.

Sachs spread out a piece of plastic on the sidewalk, replaced her leather gloves with latex ones and in a few seconds had the gun dismantled, the parts laid out on the ground.

"Hold up the pieces one by one."

Sachs did this. Their eyes met. She said, "Interesting."

"Okay. Rookie?"

"Yessir?"

"I've got to talk to the medical examiner. Track him down for me."

"Well, sure. I should call?"

Rhyme's sigh was accompanied by a stream of breath flowing

from his mouth. "You could try a telegram, you could go knock, knock, knockin' on his door. But I'll bet the best approach is to use . . . your . . . phone. And don't take no for an answer. I need him."

The young man gripped his cell phone and started punching numbers into the keypad.

"Linc," Sellitto said, "what's this--"

"And I need you to do something too, Lon."

"Yeah, what?"