Jeffery Deaver - The Cold Moon

"Check out the store," Rhyme instructed.

Cooper searched online. Hallerstein's didn't have its own website but was listed in several sites that sold antique clocks and watches. It had been in operation for years. The owner was a man named Victor Hallerstein. A check on him revealed no record. Sellitto punched in caller ID block and called, not identifying himself, just to check on the store hours. He pretended he'd been in before and asked if he was speaking to Hallerstein himself. The man said he was. Sellitto thanked him and hung up.

"I'll go talk to him, see what he has to say." Sellitto pulled on his coat. It was always better to drop in on witnesses unexpectedly. Phoning ahead gave them a chance to think up lies, whether or not they had anything to hide.

"Wait, Lon," Rhyme said.

The big detective glanced his way.

"What if he didn't sell the clock to the Watchmaker?"

Sellitto nodded. "Yeah, I thought of that-what if he is the Watchmaker or a partner or buddy of his?"

"Or maybe he's behind the whole thing and the Watchmaker's working for him."

"Thought of that too. But, hey, not to worry. I've got it covered."

With a sound track of Irish harp music pulsing in her ears, California Bureau of Investigation agent Kathryn Dance was absently watching the streets of lower Manhattan stream past, en route to Kennedy Airport.

Christmas decorations, tiny lights and tacky cardboard.

Lovers too. Arm in arm, gloved hands in gloved hands. Out shopping. On vacation.

She was thinking of Bill. Wondered if he would've liked it here.

Funny, the small things you remember so perfectly-even after two and a half years, which is such a huge gulf of time under other circumstances.

Mrs. Swenson?

This is Kathryn Dance. My husband's name is Swenson.

Oh. Well, this is Sergeant Wilkins. CHP.

Why would the Highway Patrol call her at home and not refer to her as Agent Dance?

Forever challenged in the kitchen, Dance had been making dinner, singing a Roberta Flack song, sotto voce, and trying to figure out a food processor attachment. She was making split pea soup.

I'm afraid I have to tell you something, Mrs. Dance. It's about your husband.

Holding the phone in one hand, the cookbook in the other, she'd stopped moving and stared at the recipe as she took in his words. Dance could still picture the page in the cookbook perfectly, though she'd read it only that one time. She even remembered the caption under the picture. A hearty, tasty soup that you can whip up in no time. And it's nutritious too.

She could make the soup from memory.

Though she never had.

Kathryn Dance knew it would still be some time before she healed-well, "heal" was the word her grief counselor used. But that wasn't right, because you never did heal, she'd come to realize. A scar that replaces slashed skin is still a scar. In time a numbness replaces the pain. But the flesh is forever changed.

Dance smiled to herself now, in the cab, as she noted that she'd crossed her arms and curled up her feet. A kinesics expert knows what those gestures are all about.

The streets seemed identical to her-dark canyons, gray and dim brown, punctuated with bright neon: ATM. Salad Bar. Nails $9.95. Such a contrast to the Monterey Peninsula, with the pine and oak and eucalyptus and sandy patches dotted with succulent groundcover. The passage of the smelly Chevy taxi was slow. The town she lived in, Pacific Grove, was a Victorian village 120 miles south of San Francisco. Populated with eighteen thousand souls and nestled between chic Carmel and hardworking Monterey, of Steinbeck's Cannery Row fame, Pacific Grove could be traversed in the time it had taken the cab to drive four blocks.

Gazing at the city streets, she was thinking, dark and congested, chaotic, utterly frantic, yes…Still, she loved New York City. (She was, after all, a people addict, and she'd never seen so many of them in one place.) Dance wondered how the children would respond to the city.

Maggie would go for it, Dance knew without doubt. She could easily picture the ten-year-old, her pigtail sweeping back and forth as she stood in the middle of Times Square and glanced from billboards to passersby to hawkers to traffic to Broadway theaters, enthralled.

Wes? He'd be different. He was twelve and had had a tough time since his father died. But finally his humor and confidence seemed to be returning. At last Dance had been comfortable enough to leave him with his grandparents while she went to Mexico on the kidnapper extradition, her first international trip since Bill's death. According to Dance's mother, he'd seemed fine when she was away and so she'd scheduled a seminar here; the NYPD and state police had been after her for a year to present one in the area.

Still, though, she knew she'd have to keep an eye on the lean, handsome boy with curly hair and Dance's green eyes. He continued to grow sullen at times, detached and angry. Some of it typical male adolescence, some of it the residue of losing his father at a young age. Typical behavior, her counselor had explained, nothing to worry about. But Dance felt that it might take a little time before he'd be ready for the chaos of New York, and she'd never push him. When she got home she'd ask him whether he wanted to visit. Dance couldn't understand parents who seemed to believe they needed magic incantations or psychotherapy to find out what their children wanted. All you really needed to do was ask and listen carefully to their answers.

Yep, Dance decided that, if he was comfortable, she'd bring them here on vacation next year, before Christmas. A Boston girl, born and bred, Dance's main objection to the central California coast was the lack of seasons. The weather was lovely-but for the holidays you longed for the bite of the cold in your nose and mouth, the snowstorms, the glowing logs in the fireplace, the frost spiderwebbing the windows.

Dance was now pulled from her reverie by her cell phone's musical chirp, which changed frequently-a joke by the children (though the number-one rule-Never program a cop's phone to SILENT-was adhered to).

She looked at caller ID.

Hm. Interesting. Yes or no?

Kathryn Dance gave in to impulse and hit the ANSWER button.

As he drove, the big detective fidgeted, he touched his belly, he tugged at his collar.

Kathryn Dance took in the body language of Lon Sellitto as he drove the unmarked Crown Vic-the same official vehicle she had in California-fast through the streets of New York, grille lights flashing, no siren.

The call she'd taken in the cab was from him, once again asking if she'd help them in the case. "I know you've got a flight, I know you've got to get home, but…"

He explained that they'd discovered a possible source for the clocks left at the Watchmaker's crime scenes and wanted her to interview the man who might've sold them. There was a possibility, though slight, that he had some connection with the Watchmaker and they wanted her opinion about him.

Dance had debated only a brief moment before agreeing. She'd regretted her abrupt departure from Lincoln Rhyme's town house earlier; Kathryn Dance hated leaving a case unfinished, even if it wasn't hers. She'd had the cab turn around and return to Rhyme's, where Lon Sellitto was waiting for her.

Now, in the detective's car, Dance asked, "It was your idea to call me, wasn't it?"

"How's that?" Sellitto asked.

"Not Lincoln's. He's not sure what to make of me."

His one-second pause was a flashing sign. Sellitto said, "You did a good job with that witness, Cobb."