Jeffery Deaver - The Cold Moon

Now, with a curious, low tone in his voice, Rhyme said, "I love cars, Ron. They tell us so much. They're like books."

Pulaski remembered the pages of Rhyme's text that echoed his comments. He didn't quote them but said, "Sure, the VIN, the tags, bumper stickers, dealer stickers, inspection-"

A laugh. " If the owner's the perp. But ours was stolen, so the Jiffy Lube location where he changed the oil or the fact he has an honor student at John Adams Middle School aren't really helpful, now, are they?"

"Guess not."

"Guess not," Rhyme repeated. "What information can a stolen car tell us?"

"Well, fingerprints."

"Very good. There're so many things to touch in a car-the steering wheel, gearshift, heater, radio, hand grips, hundreds of them. And they're such shiny surfaces. Thank you, Detroit… Well, Tokyo or Hamburg or wherever. And another point: Most people consider cars their attaché cases and utility drawers-you know, those kitchen drawers that you throw everything into? Effluvia of personal effects. Almost like a diary where no one thinks to lie. Search for that first. The PE."

Physical evidence, Pulaski recalled.

As the young cop bent forward he heard a scrape of metal from somewhere behind him. He jumped back and looked around, into the gloom of the garage. He knew Rhyme's rule about searching crime scenes alone and so he'd sent all the backup away. The noise was just from a rat, maybe. Ice melting and falling. Then he heard a click. It reminded him of a ticking clock.

Get on with it, Pulaski told himself. Probably just the hot spotlights. Don't be such a wuss. You wanted the job, remember?

He studied the front seats. "We've got crumbs. Lots of them."

"Crumbs?"

"Junk food, mostly, I'd guess. Look like cookie crumbs, corn chips, potato chips, bits of chocolate. Some sticky stains. Soda, I'd say. Oh, wait, here's something, under the backseat… This's good. A box of bullets."

"What kind?"

"Remington. Thirty-two caliber."

"What's inside the box?"

"Uhm, well, bullets?"

"You sure?"

"I didn't open it. Should I?"

The silence said yes.

"Yep. Bullets. Thirty-twos. But it's not full."

"How many're missing?"

"Seven."

"Ah. That's helpful."

"Why?"

"Later."

"And get this-"

"Get what? " Rhyme snapped.

"Sorry. Something else. A book on interrogation. But it looks more like it's about torture."

"Torture?"

"That's right."

"Purchased? Library?"

"No sticker on it, no receipt inside, no library marks. And whosever it is, he's been reading it a lot."

"Well said, Ron. You're not assuming it's the perps'. Keep an open mind. Always keep an open mind."

It wasn't much praise but the young man enjoyed it.

Pulaski then rolled up trace from the floor and vacuumed it out from the space between and underneath the seats.

"I think I've got everything."

"Glove compartment."

"Checked it. Empty."

"Pedals?"

"Scraped them. Not much trace."

Rhyme asked, "Headrests?"

"Oh, didn't get those."

"Could be hair or lotion transfer."

"People wear hats," Pulaski pointed out.

Rhyme shot back, "On the remote chance that the Watchmaker isn't a Sikh, nun, astronaut, sponge diver or somebody else with a head completely covered, humor me and check the headrests."

"Will do."

A moment later Pulaski found himself looking at a strand of gray-and-black hair. He confessed this to Rhyme. The criminalist didn't play I-told-you-so. "Good," he said. "Seal it in plastic. Now fingerprints. I'm dying to find out who our Watchmaker really is."

Pulaski, sweating even in the freezing, damp air, labored for ten minutes with a Magna Brush, powders and sprays, alternative light sources and goggles.

When Rhyme asked impatiently, "How's it going?" the rookie had to admit, "Actually, there are none."

"You mean no whole prints. That's okay. Partials'll do."

"No, I mean there're none, sir. Anywhere. In the entire car."

"Impossible."

From Rhyme's book Pulaski remembered that there were three types of prints-plastic, which are three-dimensional impressions, such as those in mud or clay; visible, which you can see with the naked eye; and latent, visible only with special equipment. You rarely find plastic prints, and visible are rare, but latents are common everywhere.

Except in the Watchmaker's Explorer.

"Smears?"

"No."

"This is crazy. They wouldn't've had time to clean-wipe an entire car in five minutes. Do the outside, everything. Especially near the doors and the gas tank lid."

With unsteady hands, Pulaski kept searching. Had he handled the Magna Brush clumsily? Had he sprayed the chemicals on the wrong way? Was he wearing the wrong goggles?

The terrible head injury he'd suffered not long ago was having lingering effects, including post-traumatic stress and panic attacks. He also suffered from a condition he'd explained to Jenny as "this real complicated, technical medical thing-fuzzy thinking." It haunted him that, after the accident, he just wasn't the same, that he was somehow damaged goods, no longer as smart as his brother, though they'd once had the same IQ. He particularly worried that he wasn't as smart as the perps he was going up against in his jobs for Lincoln Rhyme.

But then he thought to himself: Time-out. You're thinking it's your screwup. Goddamn, you were top 5 percent at the academy. You know what you're doing. You work twice as hard as most cops. He said, "I'm positive, Detective. Somehow they've managed not to leave any prints… Wait, hold on."

"I'm not going anywhere, Ron."

Pulaski put on magnifying goggles. "Okay, got something. I'm looking at cotton fibers. Beige ones. Sort of flesh-colored."

"Sort of," Rhyme chided.

"Flesh-colored. From gloves, I'm betting."

"So he and his assistant are careful and smart." There was an uneasiness in Rhyme's voice that troubled Pulaski. He didn't like the idea that Lincoln Rhyme was uncomfortable. A chill trickled down his spine. He remembered the scraping sound. The clicking.

Tick, tock…

"Anything in the tire treads and the grille? On the sideview mirror?"

He searched there. "Mostly slush and soil."

"Take samples."

After he'd done this, Pulaski said, "Finished."

"Snapshots and video-you know how?"

He did. Pulaski had been the photographer at his brother's wedding.

"Then process the probable escape routes."

Pulaski looked around him again. Was that another scraping, a footstep? Water was dripping. It too sounded like the ticking of a clock, which set him even more on edge. He started on the grid again, back and forth as he made his way toward the exit, looking up as well as down, the way Rhyme had written in his book.

A crime scene is three-dimensional…

"Nothing so far."

Another grunt from Rhyme.

Pulaski heard what sounded like a footstep.

His hand strayed to his hip. It was then that he realized his Glock was inside his Tyvek overalls, out of reach. Stupid. Should he unzip and strap it around the outside of the suit?

But if he did that, it could contaminate the scene.

Ron Pulaski decided to leave the gun where it was.

It's just an old garage; of course there're going to be noises. Relax.

The inscrutable moon faces on the front of the Watchmaker's calling cards stared at Lincoln Rhyme.

The eerie eyes, giving nothing away.

The ticking was all that he heard; from the radio there was only silence. Then some curious sounds. Scrapes, a clatter. Or was it just static?

"Ron? You copy?"

Nothing but the tick…tick…tick.

"Ron?"

Then a crash, loud. Metal.