The Cold Moon

Cooper said, "As for the note itself, it's generic paper from a computer printer. Hewlett-Packard LaserJet ink, nothing distinctive."

Rhyme shook his head, frustrated at the absence of leads. If the Watchmaker was in fact a cyclical killer he could be somewhere right now, checking out-or even murdering-his next victim.

A moment later Amelia Sachs arrived, pulled off her jacket. She was introduced to De

Rhyme briefed her on what they'd learned from the evidence so far.

"Not much," she muttered. "He's good."

"What's the story on the suspect?" Baker asked.

Sachs nodded toward the door. "He'll be here in a minute. He took off when we tried to get him but I don't think he's our boy. I checked him out. Married, been a broker with the same firm for five years, no warrants. I don't even think he could carry it." She nodded at the iron span.

There was a knock on the door.

Behind her, two uniformed officers brought in an unhappy-looking man in handcuffs. Ari Cobb was in his midthirties, good-looking in a dime-a-dozen businessman way. The slightly built man was wearing a nice coat, probably cashmere, though it was stained with what looked like street sludge, presumably from his arrest.

"What's the story?" Sellitto asked him gruffly.

"As I told her"-a cool nod toward Sachs-"I was just walking to the subway on Cedar Street last night and I dropped some money. That's it right there." He nodded toward the bills and money clip. "This morning I realized what happened and came back to look for it. I saw the police there. I don't know, I just didn't want to get involved. I'm a broker. I have clients who're real sensitive about publicity. It could hurt my business." It was only then that the man seemed to realize that Rhyme was in a wheelchair. He blinked once, got over it, and resumed his indignant visage once more.

A search of his clothing found none of the fine-grained sand, blood or other trace to link him to the killings. Like Sachs, Rhyme doubted this was the Watchmaker, but given the gravity of the crimes he wasn't going to be careless. "Print him," Rhyme ordered.

Cooper did so and found that the friction ridges on the money clip were his. A check of DMV revealed that Cobb didn't own a car, and a call to his credit card companies showed that he hadn't rented one recently using his plastic.

"When did you drop the money?" Sellitto asked.

He explained that he'd left work about seven thirty the previous night. He'd had some drinks with friends, then left about nine and walked to the subway. He remembered pulling a subway pass out of his pocket when he was walking along Cedar, which was probably when he lost the clip. He continued on to the station and returned home, the Upper East Side, about 9:45. His wife was on a business trip so he went to a bar near his apartment for di

Sellitto made some calls to check out his story. The night guard at his office confirmed he'd left at seven thirty, a credit card receipt showed he was at a bar down on Water Street around nine, and the doorman in his building and a neighbor confirmed that he had returned to his apartment at the time that he said. It seemed impossible for him to have abducted two victims, killed one at the pier and then arranged the death of Theodore Adams in the alley, all between nine fifteen and eleven.

Sellitto said, "We're investigating a very serious crime here. It happened near where you were last night. Did you notice anything that could help us?"

"No, nothing at all. I swear I'd help if I could."

"The killer could be going to strike again, you know."

"I'm sorry about that," he said, not sounding very sorry at all. "But I panicked. That's not a crime."

Sellitto glanced at his guards. "Take him outside for a minute."

After he was gone, Baker muttered, "Waste of time."

Sachs shook her head. "He knows something. I've got a hunch."

Rhyme deferred to Sachs when it came to what he called-with some condescension-the "people" side of being a cop: witnesses, psychology and, God forbid, hunches.

"Okay," he said. "But what do we do with your hunch?"

It wasn't Sachs who responded, though, but Lon Sellitto. He said, "Got an idea." He opened his jacket, revealing an impossibly wrinkled shirt, and fished out his cell phone.

Chapter 6

Vincent Reynolds was walking down the chilly streets of SoHo, in the blue light of this deserted part of the neighborhood, east of Broadway, some blocks from the area's chic restaurants and boutiques. He was fifty feet behind his flower girl-Joa

His eyes were on her, and he felt a hunger, keen and electric, as intense as the one he'd felt the night he met Gerald Duncan for the first time, which had proved to be a very important moment for Vincent Reynolds.

After the Sally A

Well, that was his theory. But in the past year it'd been getting harder and harder to control the hunger. Impulse would take over and he'd see a woman by herself on the street and think, I have to have her. Now! I don't care if anybody sees me.

The hunger does that to you.

Two weeks earlier he'd been having a piece of chocolate cake and a Coke at a diner up the street from the office where he regularly temped. He glanced at the waitress, a new one. She had a round face and a slim figure, curls of golden hair. He noticed her tight blue blouse that was two buttons open and, in his soul, the hunger erupted.

She smiled at him as she brought his check and he decided he had to have her. Right away.

He heard her say to her boss she was going into the alley for a cigarette. Vincent paid and stepped outside. He walked to the alley and then glanced into it. There she was, in her coat, leaning against the wall, looking away from him. It was late-he preferred the 3 to 11 P.M. shift-and though there were some passersby on the sidewalk, the alley was completely empty. The air was cold, the cobblestones would be colder, but he didn't care; her body would keep him warm.

It was then that he heard a voice whisper in his ear, "Wait five minutes."

Vincent jumped and swiveled around to look at a man with a round face and lean body, in his fifties, with a calm way about him. He was gazing past Vincent into the alley.

"What?"

"Wait."

"Who're you?" Vincent wasn't afraid, exactly-he was two inches taller, fifty pounds heavier-but the odd look in the man's shockingly blue eyes spooked him.

"That doesn't matter. Pretend we're just friends, talking."

"Fuck that." Heart pounding, hands shaking, Vincent started to walk away.

"Wait," the man said softly once more. His voice was almost hypnotic.

The rapist waited.

A minute later he saw a door open in a building across the alley from the back of the restaurant. The waitress walked to the doorway and spoke to two men. One was in a suit, the other was in a police uniform.

"Jesus," Vincent whispered.

"It's a sting," the man said. "She's a cop. The owner's ru