Then she paused, cocking her head. She was listening to a sound she was unaccustomed to.
What was it?
Very odd . . . dripping water?
No, it was mechanical. Metal . . .
Weird. It sounded like a ticking clock. Where was it coming from? The workshop had a large wall clock in the back but it was electric and didn't tick. Joanne looked around. The noise, she decided, was coming from a small, windowless work area just beyond the refrigerated room. She'd check it out in a minute.
Joanne bent down to repair the hook.
Chapter 13
Amelia Sachs skidded to a stop in front of Ron Pulaski. After he jumped in she pointed the car north and gunned the engine.
The rookie gave her the details of the meeting with Jordan Kessler. He added, "He seemed legit. Nice guy. But I just thought I ought to check with Mrs. Creeley myself to confirm everything--about what Kessler gets because of Creeley's death. She said she trusts him and everything's on the up-and-up. But I still wasn't sure so I called Creeley's lawyer. Hope that was okay."
"Why wouldn't it be okay?"
"Don't know. Just thought I'd ask."
"It's always okay to do too much work in this business," Sachs told him. "The problems're when somebody doesn't do enough."
Pulaski shook his head. "Hard to imagine somebody working for Lincoln and being lazy."
She gave a cryptic laugh. "And what'd the lawyer say?"
"Basically the same thing Kessler and the wife said. He buys out Creeley's share at fair market value. It's all legit. Kessler said his partner had been drinking more and had taken up gambling. His wife told me she was surprised he did that. Never was an Atlantic City kind of guy."
Sachs nodded. "Gambling--maybe some mob connections there. Dealing to them, or just taking along recreational drugs. Money laundering maybe. He win or lose, you know?"
"Dropped some big money, seems like. I was wondering if he hit a loan shark to cover the loss. But his wife said the losses were no big deal, what with his income and everything. A couple hundred thousand didn't hurt much. She wasn't real happy about it, you can imagine. . . . Kessler said he had a good relationship with all his clients. But I asked for a list. I think we ought to talk to them ourselves."
"Good," Sachs told him. Then she added, "Things're getting gluier. There was another death. Murder/robbery, maybe." She explained about her meeting with Gerte and told him about Frank Sarkowski. "I need you to track down the file."
"You bet."
"I--"
She stopped speaking. She'd glanced into the rearview mirror and felt a tug in her gut. "Hm."
"What?" Pulaski asked.
She didn't answer but made a leisurely turn to the right, went several blocks more and then made a sharp left. "Okay, we may have a tail. Saw it a few minutes ago. Merc made those turns with us just now. No, don't look."
It was a black Mercedes with darkened windows.
She turned again, abruptly, and braked to a stop. The rookie grunted at the tug from the belt. The Merc kept going. Sachs glanced back, missed the tag but saw that the car was an AMG, the expensive, souped-up version of the German car.
She spun the Camaro in a U-turn but just then a delivery truck double-parked in front of her. By the time she got around it the Merc was gone.
"Who do you think it was?"
Sachs shifted hard. "Probably a coincidence. Real rare to get tailed. And, believe me, it never happens by some dude in a hundred-and-forty-thousand-dollar car."
Touching the cold body, the florist lying on the concrete, her face as pale as white roses scattered on the floor.
The cold body, cold as the Cold Moon, but still soft; the hardness of death had not yet set in.
Cutting the cloth off, the blouse, the bra . . .
Touching . . .
Tasting . . .
These were the images cascading through Vincent Reynolds's thoughts as he sat in the driver's seat of the Band-Aid-mobile, staring into the dark workshop across the street, breathing fast, anticipating what he was about to do to Joanne. Consumed with hunger.
Noise intruded. "Traffic Forty-two, can you . . . they want to add some barriers at Nassau and Pine. By the reviewing stand."
"Sure, we can do that. Over."
The words represented no threat to him or Gerald Duncan and so Vincent continued his fantasy.
Tasting, touching . . .
Vincent imagined that the killer would probably be pulling Joanne down on the floor, trussing her up right now. Then he frowned. Would Duncan be touching her in certain places? Her chest, between her legs?
Vincent was jealous.
Joanne was his girlfriend, not Duncan's. Goddamn it! If he wanted to fuck something, let him go find a nice girl on his own. . . .
But then he told himself to calm down. The hunger did that to you. It made you crazy, possessed you like the people in those gory zombie films Vincent watched. Duncan's your friend. If he wants to play around with her, let him. They could share her.
Vincent looked at his watch impatiently. It was taking soooo long. Duncan had told him that time wasn't absolute. Some scientists once did an experiment where they put one clock way high in the air on a tower and one at sea level. The higher one ran more quickly than the one on the ground. Some law of physics. Psychologically, Duncan had added, time is relative too. If you're doing something you love, it goes by fast. If you're waiting for something, it moves slowly.
Just like now. Come on, come on.
The radio sitting on the dashboard crackled again. More traffic info, he assumed.
But Vincent was wrong.
"Central to any available unit in lower Manhattan. Proceed to Spring Street, east of Broadway. Be advised, looking for florist shops in the vicinity, in connection with the homicides on the pier at Two Two Street and the alley off Cedar Street last night. Proceed with caution."
"Jesus, Lord," Vincent muttered aloud, staring at the scanner. Hitting REDIAL on the phone, he glanced up the street--no sign of any police yet.
One ring, two . . .
"Pick up!"
Click. Duncan didn't say anything--this was according to their plans. But Vincent knew he was on the line.
"Get out, now! Move! The cops're coming."
Vincent heard a faint gasp. The phone disconnected.
"This is RMP Three Three Seven. We're three minutes from scene."
"Roger that, Three Three Seven . . . Further to that call--we have a report, a ten-three-four, assault in progress, at four-one-eight Spring. All available units respond."
"Roger."
"RMP Four Six One, we're on the way too."
"Come on, for Christ sake," Vincent muttered. He put the Explorer in gear.
Then a huge crash as a ceramic urn slammed through the glass front door of the florist's workshop. Duncan came charging outside. He sprinted over the shattered glass shards, nearly fell on the ice and then raced to the Explorer, leaping into the passenger seat. Vincent sped away.
"Slow down," the killer commanded. "Turn at the next street."
Vincent eased off the gas. It was just as well he brought the speed down because, just as he did, a squad car skidded around the corner in front of them.
Two more converged on the street, the officers leaping out.
"Stop at the light," Duncan said calmly. "Don't panic."
Vincent felt a quiver run through his body. He wanted to punch it, just take the chance. Duncan sensed this. "No. Just behave like everybody else here. You're curious. Look at the police cars. That's okay to do."
Vincent looked.
The light changed.
"Slow."
He eased away from the light.
More cop cars streaked past, responding to the call.
The scanner reported several other cars were en route. An officer radioed that there was no ID of the suspected perp. No one said anything about the Band-Aid-mobile. Vincent's hands were shaking but he kept the big SUV steady, square in the
middle of his lane, speed never wavering. Finally, after they'd put some distance between them and the florist shop, Vincent said softly, "They knew it was us."
Duncan turned to him. "They what?"
"The police. They were sending cars to look for florists around here, like it had something to do with the murders last night."
Gerald Duncan considered this. He didn't seem shaken or mad. He frowned. "They knew we were there? That's curious. How could they possibly know?"
"Where should I go?" Vincent asked.
His friend didn't answer. He continued to look out at the streets. Finally he said in a calm voice, "For now, just drive. I have to think."
"He got away?" Rhyme's voice snapped through the speaker of the Motorola. "What happened?"
Standing beside Sachs at the scene in front of the florist shop, Lon Sellitto replied, "Timing. Luck. Who the fuck knows?"
"Luck?" Rhyme snapped harshly, as if it were a foreign word he didn't understand. Then he paused. "Wait . . . Are you using a scrambled frequency?"
Sellitto said, "We are for tactical, but Central isn't, not for nine-one-one calls. He must've heard the initial call. Shit. Okay, we'll make sure they're all scrambled on the Watchmaker case."
Rhyme then asked, "What does the scene say, Sachs?"
"I just got here."
"Well, search it."
Click.
Brother . . . Sellitto and Sachs glanced at each other. As soon as she'd gotten the call about the 10-34 on Spring, she'd dropped Pulaski off to find the Sarkowski homicide file and sped here to search the scene.
I can do both.
Let's hope, Sachs. . . .
She tossed her purse onto the backseat of the Camaro, locked the door and headed to the florist shop. She saw Kathryn Dance walking up the street from the main retail shop, where she'd interviewed the owner, Joanne Harper, who'd narrowly escaped being the Watchmaker's third victim.
An unmarked car pulled up to the curb, the emergency lights in the grille flashing. Dennis Baker shut them off and climbed out. He hurried toward Sachs.
"It was him?" Baker asked.
"Yep," Sellitto told him. "Respondings found another clock inside. Same kind."
Three down, Sachs thought grimly. Seven to go . . .
"Another love note?"
"Not this time. But we were real close. I'm guessing he didn't have a chance to leave one."
"I heard the call," Baker said. "How'd you figure out it was him?"
"There'd been an environmental agency bust a block from here--a spill at an exterminating company stockpiling illegal thallium sulfate, rat poison. Then Lincoln learned the main use of the fish protein found at the Adams killing was fertilizer for orchids. Lon had dispatch send out cars to florists and landscaping companies near the extermination operation."
"Rat poison." Baker gave a laugh. "That Rhyme, he thinks of everything, doesn't he?"
"And then some," Sellitto added.
Dance joined them. She explained what she'd learned from the interview: Joanne Harper had returned from coffee and found some wire misplaced in the store. "That didn't bother her too much. But she heard this ticking and then thought she heard somebody in a back room. She called nine-one-one."
Sellitto continued, "And since we had squad cars headed to the area anyway, we got there before he killed her. But just before."
Dance added that the florist had no clue why anyone would want to hurt her. She'd been through a divorce a long time ago but hadn't heard from her ex in years. She had no enemies that she could think of.
Joanne also told Dance that she'd seen someone watching her through the window earlier that day, a heavyset white man in a cream-colored parka, old-style sunglasses and baseball cap. She hadn't seen much else because of the dirty windows. Dance wondered if there was a connection with Adams, the first victim, but Joanne had never heard of him.
Sachs asked, "How's she doing?"
"Shook up. But going back to work. Not in the workshop, though. At her store on Broadway."
Sellitto said, "Until we get this guy or figure out a motive I'll order a car outside the store." He pulled out his radio and arranged for it.
Nancy Simpson and Frank Rettig, the CS officers, walked up to Sachs. Between them was a young man in a stocking cap and baggy jacket. He was skinny and looked freezing cold. "Gentleman here wants to help," Simpson said. "Came up to us at the RRV."
With a glance at Sachs, who nodded, Dance turned to him and asked what he'd seen. There was no need for a kinesics expert, though. The kid was happy to play good citizen. He explained that he'd been walking down the street and saw somebody jump out the florist's workshop. He was a middle-aged man in a dark jacket. Glancing at the EFIT composite Sellitto and Dance had made at the clock store, he said, "Yeah, could be him."
He'd run to a tan SUV, driven by a white guy with a round face and wearing sunglasses. But he hadn't seen anything more specific about the driver.
"There're two of them?" Baker sighed. "He's got a partner."
Probably the one Joanne had seen at her workshop earlier.
"Was it an Explorer?"
"I don't know an Explorer from a . . . any other kind of SUV."
Sellitto asked about the license number. The witness hadn't seen it.
"Well, we've got the color at least." Sellitto put out an Emergency Vehicle Locator. An EVL would alert all Radio Mobile Patrol cars as well as most other law enforcers and traffic cops in the area to look for a tan Explorer with two white men inside.
"Okay, let's move on this," Sellitto called.
Simpson and Rettig helped Sachs assemble equipment to run the scenes. There were several of them: the store itself, the alley, the sidewalk area where he'd escaped, as well as where the Explorer had been parked.
Kathryn Dance and Sellitto returned to Rhyme's, while Baker kept canvassing for witnesses, showing pictures of the Watchmaker's composite to people on the street and workers in the warehouses and businesses along Spring.
Sachs collected what evidence she could locate. Since the first clock hadn't been an explosive device, there was no need to get the bomb squad involved; a simple field test for nitrates was sufficient to make sure. She packed it up, along with the remaining evidence, then stripped off the Tyvek and pulled on her leather jacket. She hurried up the street and dropped into the front seat of the Camaro, fired the car up and turned on the heater full blast.
She reached behind the passenger seat for her purse to get her gloves. But when she picked up the leather bag, the contents spilled out.
Sachs frowned. She was very careful always to keep the purse latched. She couldn't afford to lose the contents, which included two extra ammunition clips for her Glock, as well as a can of tear gas. She clearly remembered twisting the latch when she'd arrived.
She looked at the passenger-side window. Smears on the glass made by gloves were consistent with somebody using a slimjim to pop the door lock. And some of the insulating fuzz around the window was pushed aside.
Burglarized while doing a crime scene. This's a first.
She looked through the bag, item by item. Nothing was gone. The money and charge cards were all there--though she'd have to call the credit card companies in case the thief had jotted down the numbers. The ammunition and CS tear-gas spray were intact. Hand straying to her Glock, she looked around. There was a small crowd gathered nearby, curious about the police activity. She climbed out and approached them, asking if anybody had seen the break-in. Nobody had.
Returning to the Chevy, Sachs got her bare-bones crime scene kit from the trunk and ran the car just like any other crime scene--checking for footprints, fingerprints and trace inside and out. She found nothing. She replaced the equipment and dropped into the front seat once again.
Then she saw, a half block away, a big black car edge out of an alleyway. She thought of the Mercedes she'd seen earlier, when she'd picked up Pulaski. She couldn't see the make, though, and the car disappeared in traffic before she could
turn her vehicle around and head after it.
Coincidence or not? she wondered.
The big Chevy engine began to push heat into the car and she strapped in. She pushed the transmission into first. Easing forward, she thought to herself, Well, no harm done.
She was halfway up the block, shoving the shifter into third, though, when the thought hit her: What was he looking for? The fact that her money and plastic were still there suggested that the perp was after something else.
Amelia Sachs knew that it's the people with motives you can't figure out who are always the most dangerous.
Chapter 14
At Rhyme's, Sachs delivered the evidence to Mel Cooper.
Before she put on her latex gloves, she walked to a canister and pulled out a few dog biscuits, fed them to Jackson. He ate them down fast.
"You ever think about getting a helper dog?" Kathryn Dance asked Rhyme.
"He is a helper dog."
"Jackson?" Sachs frowned.
"Yep. He helps plenty. He distracts people so I don't have to entertain them."
The women laughed. "I mean a real one."
One of his therapists had suggested a dog. Many paraplegics and quadriplegics had helper animals. Not long after the accident, when the counselor had first brought it up, he'd resisted the idea. He couldn't explain why, exactly, but believed it had to do with his reluctance to depend on something, or someone, else. Now, the idea didn't seem so bad.
He frowned. "Can you train them to pour whiskey?" The criminalist looked from the dog to Sachs. "Oh, you got a call when you were at the scene. Someone named Jordan Kessler."
"Who?
"He said you'd know."
"Oh, wait--sure, Creeley's partner."
"He wanted to talk to you. I told him you weren't here so he left a message. He said that he talked to the rest of the company employees and that Creeley definitely had been depressed lately. And Kessler's still putting together a client list. But it'll take a day or two."
"A couple of days?"
"What he said."
Rhyme's eyes were on the evidence she was assembling on an examination table next to Cooper. His mind drifted away from the St. James situation--what he was calling the "Other Case." As opposed to "His Case," the Watchmaker. "Let's get to the evidence," he announced.
Sachs pulled on latex gloves and began unpacking the boxes and bag.
The clock was the same as the first two, ticking and showing the correct time. The moon face just slightly past full.