Rhyme glanced up expectantly.
"That was Haumann. He just got a call from the manager of a delivery service on the same floor as the company that the Watchmaker broke into in Midtown. He said a customer just called. A package they were supposed to deliver yesterday never showed up. Looks like somebody broke in and stole it around the time that we were sweeping the offices looking for the perp. The manager asked if we knew anything about it."
Rhyme's eyes slipped to the photographs that Sachs had taken of the hallway. Bless her, she'd taken pictures of the entire floor. Below the name of the delivery service were the words High Security--Valuable Deliveries Guaranteed. Licensed and Bonded.
Rhyme heard the white noise of people talking around him. But he didn't hear the words themselves. He stared at the photograph and then at the other evidence.
"Access," he whispered.
"What?" Sellitto asked, frowning.
"We were so focused on the Watchmaker and the fake killings--and then on his scheme to flush out Baker--we never looked at what else was going on."
"Which was?" Sachs asked.
"Breaking and entering. The crime he actually committed was trespass. All of the offices on that floor were unguarded for a time. When they evacuated the building, they left the doors unlocked?"
"Well, yeah, I suppose," the big detective said.
Sachs said, "So while we were focused on the flooring company the Watchmaker might've put on a uniform or just hung a badge over his neck then strolled right inside the delivery service and helped himself to that package."
Access . . .
"Call the service. Find out what was in the package, who sent it and where it was going. Now."
Chapter 36
A taxicab pulled up in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, on Fifth Avenue. The huge building was decorated for Christmas, dolled up in the tasteful Victorian regalia that you'd expect on the Upper East Side. Subdued festive.
Out of this cab climbed Charles Vespasian Hale, who looked around carefully on the remote chance that the police were following him. It would have been exceedingly unlikely that he'd be under surveillance. Still, Hale took his time, looked everywhere for anyone showing him the least attention. He saw nothing troubling.
He leaned down to the open taxi window and paid the driver--tendering the cash in gloved hands--and, hooking a black canvas bag over his shoulder, he climbed the stairs into the large cathedral-like lobby, which echoed with the sound of voices, most of them young; the place was lousy with kids freed from school. Evergreens and gold and ornaments and tulle were everywhere. Bach two-part inventions plucked away cheerily on a recorded harpsichord, echoing in the cavernous entryway.
'Tis the season . . .
Hale left the black bag at the coat check, though he kept his coat and hat. The clerk looked inside the bag, noted the four art books, then zipped it back up and told Hale to have a nice day. He took the claim check and paid admission. He nodded a smile at the guards at the entrance and walked past them into the museum itself.
"The Delphic Mechanism?" Rhyme was talking to the director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art via speakerphone. "It's still on display there?"
"Yes, Detective," the man replied uncertainly. "We've had it here for two weeks. It's part of a multicity tour--"
"Fine, fine, fine. Is it guarded?"
"Yes, of course. I--"
"There's a possibility that a thief's trying to steal it."
"Steal it? Are you sure? It's a one-of-a-kind objet. Whoever took possession could never show it in public."
"He doesn't intend to sell it," Rhyme said. "I think he wants it for himself."
The criminalist explained: The package stolen from the delivery service in the building on Thirty-second Street was from a wealthy patron of the arts and was destined for the Metropolitan Museum. It contained a large portfolio of some antiques being offered to the museum's furniture collection.
The Metropolitan Museum? Rhyme had wondered. He'd then recalled the museum programs found in the church. He'd asked Vincent Reynolds and the clock dealer, Victor Hallerstein, if Duncan had mentioned anything about the Met. He had, apparently--spending considerable time there--and he'd expressed particular interest in the Delphic Mechanism.
Rhyme now told the director, "We think he may have stolen the package to smuggle something into the museum. Maybe tools, maybe software to disable alarms. We don't know. I can't figure it out at this point. But I think we have to be cautious."
"My God . . . All right. What do we do?"