The Cold Moon

against samples in the apartment. But of course he didn’t need to do this. “I compared the hairs to hers. They don’t match.” He began to tell her to find a sample of the woman’s husband’s hair when Sachs said, “But I found her husband’s brush. I’m ninety-nine percent sure they’re his.”
    Good, Sachs. Good.
    “But the fibers . . . they don’t seem to match anything else here.” Sachs paused. “They look like wool, light-colored. Maybe a sweater . . . but they were caught on a pocket button at about shoulder level for a man of the Watchmaker’s height. Could be a shearling collar.”
    A reasonable deduction, though they’d have to examine the fibers more carefully in the lab.
    After a few minutes she said, “That’s about it, Rhyme. Not much but it’s something.”
    “Okay, bring everything in. We’ll go over it here.” He disconnected the line.
    Thom wrote down the information Sachs gave them. After the aide left the room Lincoln Rhyme stared again at the charts. He wondered if the notes he was looking at weren’t simply clues in a homicide case, but evidence of a different sort of murder: the corpse of the last crime scene he and Amelia Sachs would ever work together.

    Lon Sellitto was gone and, inside Lucy Richter’s apartment, Sachs was just finishing packing up the evidence. She turned to Kathryn Dance and thanked her.
    “Hope it’s helpful.”
    “That’s the thing about crime scene work. Only a couple of fibers, but they could be enough for a conviction. We’ll just have to see.” Sachs added, “I’m heading back to Rhyme’s. Listen, I don’t know if you’d be willing but could you do some canvassing in the neighborhood? You’ve sure got the touch when it comes to wits.”
    “You bet.”
    Sachs gave her some printouts with the Watchmaker’s composite picture and left, to head back to Rhyme’s.
    Dance nodded at Lucy Richter. “You’re doing okay?”
    “Fine,” the solider replied and offered a stoic smile. She walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. “You want some tea? Or coffee?”
    “No. I’m going to be outside looking for witnesses.”
    Lucy was staring down at the floor, a good semaphore signal to a kinesics expert. Dance said nothing.
    The soldier said, “You said you were from California. You going back soon?”
    “Tomorrow, probably.”
    “Just wondering if you’d have time for coffee or something.” Lucy played with a potholder. On it were the words 4th Infantry Division. Steadfast and Loyal.
    “Sure. We’ll work it out.” Dance found a card in her purse and wrote her hotel name on it, then circled her mobile on the front.
    Lucy took it.
    “Call me,” Dance said.
    “I will.”
    “Everything okay?”
    “Oh, sure. Just fine.”
    Dance shook the woman’s hand, then left the apartment, reminding herself of an important rule in kinesic analysis: Sometimes you don’t need to uncover the truth behind every deception you’re told.

Chapter 25
    Amelia Sachs returned to Rhyme’s with a small carton of evidence.
    “What do we have?” he asked.
    Sachs went over again what she’d found at the scene, then added details on the boards.
    According to the NYPD crime scene database on fibers, what Sachs had discovered on Lucy’s uniform was from a shearling coat, the sort of collar found on leather jackets that used to be worn by pilots—bomber jackets. Sachs had field-tested the clock for nitrates—this one wasn’t explosive either—and it was identical to the other three, yielding no trace except a recent stain of what turned out to be wood alcohol, the sort used as an antiseptic and for cleaning. As with the florist, the Watchmaker hadn’t had time to leave another poem or had chosen not to.
    Rhyme agreed to go public with the announcement about the calling card of the clock, though he predicted that all the announcement would do would be to guarantee that the killer didn’t leave a clock until he was sure the victim was unable to call for help.
    The trace that Sachs had found along the route where the killer had most likely escaped revealed nothing helpful.
    “There wasn’t anything else,” she explained.
    “Nothing?” Rhyme asked. He shook his head.
    Locard’s principle . . .
    Ron Pulaski arrived, pulling off his coat and hanging it up. Rhyme noticed that Sachs’s eyes turned at once to the rookie.
    The Other Case . . .
    Sachs asked, “Any luck with the Maryland connection?”
    The rookie replied,