The Cold Moon (Lincoln Rhyme 7)

Amelia Sachs was not present at the moment. She hadn't announced where she was going. But she didn't need to. She'd mentioned to Thom that she'd be nearby, if they needed her--at a meeting on Fifty-seventh and Sixth. Rhyme had checked the phone directory. That was the location of the Argyle Security headquarters.

Rhyme simply couldn't think about that, and he was concentrating on how to continue the search for the Watchmaker, whoever he might be.

Working backward, Rhyme constructed a rough scenario of the events. The ceremony had been announced on October 15, so Carol and Bud had contacted the Watchmaker sometime around then. He'd come to New York around November 1, the date of the lease on the Brooklyn safe house. A few weeks later, Amelia Sachs had taken over the Creeley case and soon after, Baker and Wallace decided to have her killed.

"Then they hooked up with the Watchmaker. What'd he tell us, when we thought he was Duncan? About their meeting?"

Sellitto said, "Just that somebody at the club put them together--the club where Baker put the touch on his friend."

"But he was lying. There was no club. . . ." Rhyme shook his head. "Somebody put them together, somebody who knows the Watchmaker--probably somebody in the area. If we can find them, there could be some solid leads. Is Baker talking?"

"Nope

, not a word. Nobody is."

The rookie was shaking his head. "That's going to be a tough one. I mean, how many OC crews are there in the metro area? Take forever to track down the right one. Not like they're going to be volunteering to help us out."

The criminalist frowned. "What're you talking about? What's an organized crime posse got to do with anything?"

"Well, I just assumed somebody with an OC connection was the one who'd put them together."

"Why?"

"Baker wants to have a cop killed, right? But he can't do it in a way that'll make him look suspicious so he has to hire somebody. He goes to some mob connection he has. The mob's not going to clip a cop so he puts Baker in touch with somebody who might: the Watchmaker."

When nobody said anything, Pulaski blushed and looked down. "I don't know. Just a thought."

"And a fucking good one, kid," Sellitto said.

"Really?"

Rhyme nodded. "Not bad . . . Let's call the OC task force downtown and see if their snitches can tell us anything. Call Dellray too . . . Now, let's get back to the evidence."

They'd located some friction ridges in the safe house in Brooklyn but none of the fingerprints came back positive from the Bureau's IAFIS system and none matched prints from prior scenes. The lease for the house had been executed under yet another fake name and the man had given a phony prior address. It had been a cash transaction. An exhaustive search of Internet activity in the neighborhood revealed that the man had apparently logged on occasionally through several nearby wireless networks. There were no records of emails, only Web browsing. The site he'd visited most often was a bookstore that sold continuing-education course texts for certain medical specialties.

Sellitto said, "Shit, maybe somebody else's hired him."

You bet, Rhyme thought, nodding. "He'll be targeting another victim--or victims. Probably coming up with his plan right now. Think of the damage he could do pretending to be a doctor."

And I let him get away.

An examination of the trace evidence Sachs had collected revealed little more than shearling fibers and a few bits of a green vegetative material containing evaporated seawater--which didn't, it turned out, match the seaweed and ocean water found around Robert Wallace's boat on Long Island.

The deputy inspector at the Brooklyn precinct called to report that further canvassing of the neighborhood had been useless. A half dozen people remembered seeing the Watchmaker but nobody knew anything about him.

As for Charlotte and her late husband, Bud Allerton, the investigative efforts were much more successful. The couple had not been nearly as careful as the Watchmaker. Sachs had found a great deal of evidence about the underground militia groups they'd been harbored by, including a large one in Missouri and the infamous Patriot Assembly in upstate New York, which Rhyme and Sachs had tangled with in the past. Phone calls, fingerprints and emails would give the FBI and local police plenty of leads to pursue.

The doorbell rang and Thom left the room to answer it. A moment later he returned with a woman in a military uniform. This would be Lucy Richter, the Watchmaker's fourth "victim." Rhyme noted that she was more surprised at the forensic lab in his town house than his disability. Then it occurred to him that this was a woman involved in a type of combat where bombs were the weapon of choice; she'd undoubtedly seen missing limbs and para-and quadriplegia of all sorts. Rhyme's condition didn't faze her.

She explained that she'd called Kathryn Dance not long ago to say she wanted to speak to the investigators; the California detective had suggested she call or stop by Rhyme's.

Thom zipped in and offered her coffee or tea. Normally piqued about visitors and reluctant to give anyone an incentive to linger, Rhyme now, to the contrary, glared at the aide. "She might be hungry, Thom. Or might want something more substantial. Scotch, for instance."

"There's just no figuring you out," Thom said. "Didn't know there was an armed forces hospitality rule in the Lincoln Rhyme edition of Emily Post."

"Thanks, but nothing for me," Lucy said. "I can't stay long. First, I want to thank you. For saving my life--twice."

"Actually," Sellitto pointed out, "you weren't in any danger the first time. He was never going to hurt you--or any of the victims. The second time? Well, okay, accepted--since he wanted to blow the conference room to smithereens."