The Cold Moon

that didn’t give him any comfort. . . . The hunger was too intense. Nothing was working out! He felt like screaming. Vincent had better luck cruising strip malls in New Jerseyor waiting for a college coed or receptionist jogging through a deserted park. What was the point of—
    In his quiet voice Duncan said, “I’m sorry.”
    “You . . . ?”
    “I’m sorry.”
    Vincent was disarmed. His anger diminished and he wasn’t sure what to say.
    “You’ve been helping me, working hard. And look what’s happened. I’ve let you down.”
    Here was Vincent’s mother, explaining to him, when he was ten, that she’d let him down with Gus, then with her second husband, then with Bart, then with Rachel the experiment, then with her third husband.
    And every time, young Vincent had said just what he said now. “It’s okay.”
    “No, it’s not . . . I talk about the great scheme of things. But that doesn’t minimize our disappointments. I owe you. And I’ll make it up to you.”
    Which is something his mother never said, much less did, leaving Vincent to find what comfort he could in food, TV shows, spying on girls and having his heart-to-hearts.
    No, it was clear that his friend, Duncan, meant what he was saying. He was genuinely remorseful that Vincent hadn’t been able to have Lucy. Vincent still felt the urge to cry but now for a different reason. Not from the hunger, not from frustration. He felt filled with an odd sensation. People hardly ever said nice things to him like this. People hardly ever worried about him.
    “Look,” Duncan said, “the one I’m going to do next. You’re not going to want her.”
    “Is she ugly?”
    “Not really. It’s just the way she’s going to die . . . I’m going to burn her.”
    “Oh.”
    “In the book, remember the alcohol torture?”
    “Not really.”
    The pictures in the book were of men being tortured; they hadn’t interested Vincent.
    “You pour alcohol on the lower half of someone’s body and set fire to it. You can put out an alcohol fire quickly if they confess. Of course, I’m not going to be putting it out.”
    True, Vincent agreed, he wouldn’t want her after that.
    “But I have another idea.”
    Duncan then explained what he had in mind, Vincent’s spirits improving with every word. Duncan asked, “Don’t you think it’ll work out for everybody?”
    Well, not quite everybody, thought Clever Vincent, who was back and in a pretty good mood, all things considered.

    Sitting in front of the evidence charts, Rhyme heard Sachs come back on the line.
    “Okay, Rhyme. We’ve found he was hiding in the closet.”
    “Which one?”
    “In Lucy’s bedroom.”
    Rhyme closed his eyes. “Describe it to me.”
    Sachs gave him the whole scene—the hallway leading to the bedroom, the layout of the bedroom itself then the furniture, pictures on the wall, the Watchmaker’s entrance and exit route and other details. Everything was described in precise, objective detail. Her training and experience shone as sharply as her red hair. If she left the force he wondered how long it would take another cop to walk the grid as well as she did.
    Forever, he thought cynically.
    Anger flared for a moment. Then he forced the emotion away and concentrated again on her words.
    Sachs described the closet. “Six feet four inches wide. Filled with clothes. Men’s on the left, women’s on the right, half and half. Shoes on the floor. Fourteen pair. Four men’s, ten women’s.”
    A typical ratio, Rhyme reflected, for a married couple, thinking of his own closet from years ago. “When he was hiding, was he lying on the floor?”
    “No. Too many boxes.”
    He heard her ask a question. Then she came back on the line. “The clothes’re ordered now but he must’ve moved them. I can see some boxes moved on the floor and a few bits of that roofing tar we found earlier.”
    “What were the clothes he was hiding between?”
    “A suit. And Lucy’s army uniform.”
    “Good.” Certain garments, like uniforms, are particularly good at collecting evidence, thanks to their prominent epaulettes, buttons and decorations. “Was he against the front or back?”
    “Front.”
    “Perfect. Go over every button, medal, bar, decoration.”
    “Okay. Give me a few minutes.”
    Then silence.
    His impatience, laced with anger, was back. He stared at the whiteboards.
    Finally she said, “I found two hairs and some fibers.”
    He was about to tell her to check the hairs