Jeffery Deaver - The Cold Moon

The addict wanted more of his drug.

A short time later Hale was involved in a joint venture in Mexico City-building a development of upscale haciendas. But a corrupt politician managed to throw up enough stumbling blocks so the deal was going to collapse. Hale's Mexican counterpart explained that the petty politician had done this a number of times.

"It's a shame he can't be removed," Hale had said coyly.

"Oh, he can never be removed, " the Mexican said. "He is, you would say, invulnerable."

This caught Hale's attention. "Why?"

The crooked Distrito Federal commissioner, the Mexican explained, was obsessed with security. He drove in a huge armored SUV, a Cadillac custom-made for him, and was always with armed guards. His security company constantly planned different routes for him to get to and from his homes and offices and meetings. He moved his family from house to house randomly and often didn't even stay in houses that he owned, but in friends' or rentals. And he often traveled with his young son-the rumors were that he kept the boy near as a shield. The commissioner also had the protection of a senior federal interior minister.

"So, you could say he's invulnerable," the Mexican explained, pouring two glasses of very expensive Patrón tequila.

"Invulnerable," mused Charles Hale in a whisper. He nodded.

Not long after this meeting, five apparently unrelated articles appeared in the October 23 edition of El Heraldo de México.

A fire in the office of Mexicana Seguridad Privado, a security services company, resulted in the evacuation of all employees. No injuries were reported and the damage was minor.

A hacker shut down the main computer of a mobile phone provider, resulting in a disruption of service in a portion of Mexico City and its southern suburbs for about two hours.

A truck caught fire in the middle of Highway 160, south of Mexico City, near Chalco, completely blocking northbound traffic.

Henri Porfirio, the head of the Distrito Federal commercial real estate licensing commission, died when his SUV crashed through a one-lane bridge and plunged forty feet, struck a propane truck parked there and exploded. The incident occurred when drivers were following directions from a flagman to pull off the highway and take a side road to avoid a major traffic jam. Other vehicles had made it successfully over the bridge earlier but the commissioner's vehicle, being armor plated, was too heavy for the old structure, despite a sign that stated it could support the SUV's weight. Porfirio's security chief knew about the traffic jam and had been trying to contact him about a safer route but was unable to because the commissioner's mobile phone was not working. His was the only vehicle that fell.

Porfirio's son was not in the SUV, which he otherwise would have been, because the child came down with a minor case of food poisoning the day before and remained at home with his mother.

Erasmo Saleno, a senior interior official in the Mexican federal government, was arrested after a tip led police to his summer home, where they found a stash of weapons and cocaine (curiously reporters had been alerted too, including a photographer connected with the Los Angeles Times ).

All in a day's news.

A month later Hale's real estate project broke ground and he received from his fellow investors in Mexico a bonus of $500,000 U.S. in cash.

He was pleased with the money. He was more pleased, though, with the connections he'd made through the Mexican businessman. It wasn't long before the man put him in touch with someone in America who needed similar services.

Now, several times a year, between his business projects, he would take on an assignment like this. Usually it was murder, though he'd also engaged in financial scams, insurance fraud and elaborate thefts. Hale would work for anyone, whatever the motive, which was irrelevant to him. He had no interest in why somebody wanted a crime committed. Twice he'd murdered abusive husbands. He killed a child molester one week before he'd murdered a businesswoman who was a major contributor to the United Way.

Good and bad were words whose definitions were different for Charles Vespasian Hale. Good was mental stimulation. Bad was boredom. Good was an elegant plan well executed. Bad was either a sloppy plan or one carelessly carried out.

But his current plot-certainly his most elaborate and far-reaching-was humming along perfectly.

God created the complex mechanism of the universe, then wound it up and started it running…

Hale got off the subway and climbed to the street, his nose stinging from the cold, his eyes watering, and started along the sidewalk. He was about to push the button that would set the hands of his real chronograph in motion.

Lon Sellitto's phone rang and he took the call. Frowning, he had a brief conversation. "I'll look into it."

Rhyme glanced up expectantly.

"That was Haumann. He just got a call from the manager of a delivery service on the same floor as the company that the Watchmaker broke into in Midtown. He said a customer just called. A package they were supposed to deliver yesterday never showed up. Looks like somebody broke in and stole it around the time that we were sweeping the offices looking for the perp. The manager asked if we knew anything about it."

Rhyme's eyes slipped to the photographs that Sachs had taken of the hallway. Bless her, she'd taken pictures of the entire floor. Below the name of the delivery service were the words High Security-Valuable Deliveries Guaranteed. Licensed and Bonded.

Rhyme heard the white noise of people talking around him. But he didn't hear the words themselves. He stared at the photograph and then at the other evidence.

"Access," he whispered.

"What?" Sellitto asked, frowning.

"We were so focused on the Watchmaker and the fake killings-and then on his scheme to flush out Baker-we never looked at what else was going on."

"Which was?" Sachs asked.

"Breaking and entering. The crime he actually committed was trespass. All of the offices on that floor were unguarded for a time. When they evacuated the building, they left the doors unlocked?"

"Well, yeah, I suppose," the big detective said.

Sachs said, "So while we were focused on the flooring company the Watchmaker might've put on a uniform or just hung a badge over his neck then strolled right inside the delivery service and helped himself to that package."

Access…

"Call the service. Find out what was in the package, who sent it and where it was going. Now."

A taxicab pulled up in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, on Fifth Avenue. The huge building was decorated for Christmas, dolled up in the tasteful Victorian regalia that you'd expect on the Upper East Side. Subdued festive.

Out of this cab climbed Charles Vespasian Hale, who looked around carefully on the remote chance that the police were following him. It would have been exceedingly unlikely that he'd be under surveillance. Still, Hale took his time, looked everywhere for anyone showing him the least attention. He saw nothing troubling.

He leaned down to the open taxi window and paid the driver-tendering the cash in gloved hands-and, hooking a black canvas bag over his shoulder, he climbed the stairs into the large cathedral-like lobby, which echoed with the sound of voices, most of them young; the place was lousy with kids freed from school. Evergreens and gold and ornaments and tulle were everywhere. Bach two-part inventions plucked away cheerily on a recorded harpsichord, echoing in the cavernous entryway.