Jeffery Deaver - The Cold Moon

"Sorry," she scoffed. "You need to go public with it."

The detectives glanced at each other. Sellitto nodded. "We will. I'll have Public Affairs make an announcement on the local news."

Sachs said, "I'd like to search your apartment for evidence he might've left. And ask you a few questions about what happened."

"In a minute. I have to make some calls. My family'll hear about this on the news. I don't want them to worry."

"This is pretty important," Sellitto said.

The soldier opened her cell phone. In a firm voice she added, "Like I said, in a minute."

"Rhyme, you there?"

"Go ahead, Sachs." The criminalist was in his laboratory, connected to Sachs via radio. He recalled that in the next month or so they'd planned to try a high-definition video camera mounted to her head or shoulder, broadcasting to Rhyme's lab, which would let him see everything that she saw. They'd joked and called it a James Bond toy. He felt a pang that it would not be Sachs inaugurating this device with him.

Then he forced the sentiment away. What he often told those working for him he now told himself: There's a perp out there; nothing matters but catching him and you can't do that if you're not concentrating 100 percent.

"We showed Lucy the composite of the Watchmaker. She didn't recognize him."

"How'd he get inside today?"

"Not sure. If he's sticking to his M.O. he picked the front door lock. But then I think he went up to the roof and climbed down the fire escape to the vic's window. He got inside, left the clock and was waiting for her. But for some reason he climbed back outside. That's when the wit outside saw him and the Watchmaker booked on out of here. Went back up the fire escape."

"Where was he inside her apartment?"

"He left the clock in the bathroom. The fire escape is off the master bedroom so he was in there too." She paused. Then came on a moment later. "They've been canvassing for witnesses but nobody saw him or his car. Maybe he and his partner are on foot since we've got his SUV." A half dozen different subway lines serve Greenwich Village and they could easily have escaped via any of them.

"I don't think so." Rhyme explained that he felt the Watchmaker and his assistant would prefer wheels. The choice of using vehicles or not when committing a crime is a consistent pattern in a criminal's M.O. It rarely changes.

Sachs searched the bedroom, the fire escape, the bathroom and the routes he would've taken to get to those places. She checked the roof too. It had not been recently tarred, she reported.

"Nothing, Rhyme. It's like he's wearing a Tyvek suit of his own. He's just not leaving anything behind."

Edmond Locard, the famed French criminalist, developed what he called the exchange principle, which stated that whenever a physical crime occurs, there is some transfer of evidence between the criminal and the location. He leaves something of himself at the scene and he takes some of the scene with him when he departs. The principle is deceptively optimistic, though, because sometimes the trace is so minuscule it's missed and sometimes it's easily located but provides no helpful leads for investigators. Still Locard's principle holds that there would be some transfer of materials.

Rhyme often wondered, though, if there existed the rare criminal who was as smart as, or smarter than, Rhyme himself and if such a person could learn enough about forensic science to commit a crime and yet flaunt Locard's principle-leave behind no evidence and pick up none himself. Was the Watchmaker such a person?

"Think, Sachs… There's got to be more. Something we're missing. What does the vic say?"

"She's pretty shaken up. Not really concentrating."

After a pause Rhyme said, "I'm sending down our secret weapon."

Kathryn Dance sat across from Lucy Richter in the living room of her apartment.

The soldier was beneath a Jimi Hendrix poster and a wedding photo of Lucy and her husband, a round-faced, cheerful man in a dress military uniform.

Dance noted the woman was pretty calm, considering the circumstances, though, as Amelia Sachs had said, something was clearly troubling her. Dance had the impression that it was partly something other than the attack. She didn't exhibit the post-traumatic stress reactions of a near miss; she was troubled in a more fundamental way.

"If you don't mind, could you go through the details again?"

"If it'll help catch that son of a bitch, anything." Lucy explained that she'd gone to the gym to work out that morning. When she returned she found the clock.

"I was upset. The ticking…" Her face now revealed a subtle fear reaction. Fight-or-flight. At Dance's prompting she explained about the bombs overseas. "I guessed it was a present or something but it kind of freaked me out. Then I felt a breeze and went to look. I found the bedroom window open. That's when the police showed up."

"Nothing else unusual?"

"No. Not that I can remember."

Danced asked her a number of other questions. Lucy Richter didn't know Theodore Adams or Joanne Harper. She couldn't think of anyone who'd want to hurt her. She'd been trying to recall something else that could help the police but was drawing a blank.

The woman was outwardly brave ("that son of a bitch") but Dance believed that something in Lucy's mind was preventing her, subconsciously, from focusing on what had just happened. The classic defensive crossing of her arms and legs was a sign, indicating not deception but a barrier against whatever was threatening her.

The agent needed a different approach. She put her notebook down.

"What are you doing in town?" she asked conversationally.

Lucy explained that she was here on leave from her duty in the Middle East. Normally she'd have met her husband, Bob, in Germany, where they had friends, but she was getting a commendation on Thursday.

"Oh, part of that parade, supporting the troops?"

"Right afterward."

"Congratulations."

Her smile fluttered. Dance noticed the minuscule reaction.

And she noted one in herself, as well; Kathryn Dance's husband had been recognized for bravery under fire by the Bureau four days before he'd died. But that was a crackle of static that Dance immediately tuned out.

Shaking her head, the agent continued. "You come back to the States and look what happens-you run into this guy. That's pretty shitty. Especially after being overseas."

"It's not that bad over there. Sounds worse on the news."

"Still…But it looks like you're coping pretty well."

Her body was telling a very different story.

"Oh, yeah. You do what you have to. No big deal." Her fingers were-entwined.

"What do you do there?"

"I manage fuelers. Basically it's running supply trucks."

"Important job."

A shrug. "I guess."

"Good to be here on leave, I'll bet."

"You ever in the service?"

"No," Dance answered.

"Well, in the army, remember rule number one: Never pass up R and R. Even if it's just drinking punch with the brass and collecting a wall decoration."

Dance kept drawing her out. "How many other soldiers'll be at the ceremony?"

"Eighteen."

Lucy wasn't comfortable at all. Dance wondered if her underlying uneasiness was because she might have to say a few words in front of the crowd. Public speaking was higher on the fear scale than skydiving. "And how big's the event going to be?"

"I don't know. A hundred. Maybe two."

"Is your family going?"

"Oh, yeah. Everybody. We're going to have a reception here afterward."

"As my daughter says," Dance offered, "parties rock. What's on the menu?"

"Forgeddabout it," Lucy joked. "We're in the Village. It'll be Italian. Baked ziti, scampi, sausage. My mother and aunt're cooking. I'm making dessert."