The Cold Moon

guy.”
    Her name’s Sally Anne, fat boy. She escaped and called the police and told us all about you. . . .
    “That’s not me! I haven’t done anything. You’re wrong. You’re so wrong.”
    “Yeah,” one of the uniformed cops said with an amused expression, “we hear that a lot. Let’s go.”
    They gripped him by the upper arms and hauled him roughly to the squad car. He heard Gerald Duncan’s voice in his mind.
    I’m sorry. I’ve let you down. I’ll make it up to you. . . .
    And something hardened within pudgy Vincent Reynolds. He decided that nothing they could do to him would ever make him betray his friend.

    The large, pear-shaped man sat next to the front window of Lincoln Rhyme’s laboratory, hands cuffed behind him.
    His driver’s license and DMV records revealed that he wasn’t Tony Parsons but Vincent Reynolds, a twenty-eight-year-old word-processing operator who lived in New Jersey and worked for a half dozen temp agencies, none of which knew much about him, other than what the basic employment checks and résumé verification had revealed; he was a model, if unmemorable, employee.
    With a mix of anger and uneasiness, Vincent alternated glances between the floor and the officers around him—Rhyme, Sachs, Dance, Baker and Sellitto.
    There were no priors or warrants out on him and a search of his shabby apartment in New Jersey revealed no obvious connection to the Watchmaker. Nor evidence of a lover, close friends or parents. The officers found a letter he was writing to his sister in Detroit. Sellitto got her number from Michigan State Police and called. He left a message for her to call them.
    He was working Monday night, at the time of the pier and Cedar Street killings, but he’d taken time off since then.
    Mel Cooper had emailed a digital picture of him to Joanne Harper at the florist shop. The woman reported that he did resemble the man staring in her window, but she couldn’t be certain, because of the glare, the dirty glass in the front windows of her workshop and his sunglasses.
    Though they suspected him of being the Watchmaker’s accomplice, the evidence linking him to the scenes was sketchy. The shoe print from the garage where the SUV had been abandoned was the same size as his shoes, thirteen, but there were no distinguishing marks to make a clear match. Among the groceries—which Rhyme suspected he’d bought as a cover to get close to Dance or another investigator—were chips, cookies and other junk food. But these packages were unopened and a search of his clothes revealed no crumbs that might specifically match what had been recovered in the SUV.
    They were holding him only for possession of an illegal knife and interfering with a police operation—the usual charge when a phony witness comes forward.
    Still, a good portion of City Hall and Police Plaza wanted to pull an Abu Ghraib on Vincent and browbeat or threaten him until he squealed. This was Dennis Baker’s preference; the lieutenant had been getting pressure from City Hall to find the perp.
    But Kathryn Dance said, “Doesn’t work. They curl up like rolly bugsand give you garbage.” She added, “For the record, torture’s very inefficient at getting accurate information.”
    And so Rhyme and Baker had asked her to handle Vincent’s interview. They needed to find the Watchmaker as fast as possible and, if rubber hoses were out, they wanted an expert.
    The California special agent now drew the curtains closed and sat down across from Vincent, nothing between them. She scooted the chair forward until she was about three feet away. Rhyme supposed this was to get into his space and help break down his resistance. But he also realized that if Vincent flipped out he could lunge forward and injure her severely with his head or teeth.
    She was undoubtedly aware of this too but gave no indication of feeling in danger. She offered a reserved smile and said calmly, “Hello, Vincent. I know you’ve been informed of your rights and you’ve agreed to talk to us. We appreciate that.”
    “Absolutely. Anything I can do. This is a big . . .” he shrugged . . . “misunderstanding, you know.”
    “Then we’ll get everything straightened out. I just need some basic information first.” She asked his full name, address, age, where he worked, if he’d ever been arrested.
    He frowned. “I already told him this.” A look at Sellitto.
    “I’m sorry. Left hand, right hand, you know. If you wouldn’t