The Cold Moon

mind going over it again.”
    “Oh, all right.”
    Rhyme figured that since he was giving her verified facts, she’d be creating a baseline kinesic reading. Now that Kathryn Dance had altered the criminalist’s opinion about interviewing and witnesses, he was intrigued by the process.
    Dance nodded pleasantly as she jotted down Vincent’s responses and thanked him from time to time for his cooperation. Her politeness confused Rhyme. He himself would be a hell of a lot tougher.
    Vincent grimaced. “Look, I can, you know, talk to you for as long as you want. But I hope you sent somebody to look for that man I saw. You don’t want him to get away. I’m worried about that. I try to help, and look what happens—this’s the story of my life.”
    Though what he’d told Dance and the officers on the scene about the suspect wasn’t helpful. The building he claimed the killer disappeared into showed no signs that anyone had been inside recently.
    “Now if you could go through the facts once more. Tell me what happened. Only, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to tell it to me in reverse order.”
    “What?”
    “Reverse chronological order. It’s a good way to jump-start memories. Start with the last event first and go back in time from there. The suspect—he’s going through the doorway of that old building in the alley. . . . Let’s begin with some specifics. The color of the door.”
    Vincent shifted in his chair, frowned. After a moment he gave his account, starting with the man pushing through the doorway (he couldn’t remember the color). Vincent then explained what happened just before that—the man running down the alley. Then entering it. And before that he was running down the street. Finally Vincent told them about spotting a man on Barrow, looking around uneasily, then breaking into a run.
    “Okay,” Dance said, jotting notes. “Thank you, Vincent.” She gave a faint frown. “But why did you tell me your name was Tony Parsons?”
    “Because I was scared. I did a good deed, I told you what I saw, but I was afraid the killer would murder me if he found out my name.” His jaw trembled. “I wished I hadn’t said anything about what I’d seen. But I did and got scared. I told you I was afraid.”
    The man’s whining irritated Rhyme. Grill him, he silently urged Kathryn Dance.
    But she asked pleasantly, “Tell me about the knife.”
    “Okay, I shouldn’t’ve had it. But I was mugged a few years ago. It was terrible. I’m so stupid. I should’ve just left it at home. I usually do that. I just don’t think. And then it gets me in trouble.”
    Then she slipped her jacket off and set it on the chair next to her.
    He continued. “Everybody else is smart enough not to get involved. I say something and look what happens.” Gazing at the floor, disgust twitching at the corners of his mouth.
    Dance asked details of how he learned about the Watchmaker’s killings and where he was at the times of the other attacks.
    The questions were curious to Rhyme. Superficial. She wasn’t probing the way he would have, demanding alibis and pulling apart his story. What seemed to be some good leads, she let drop. Dance never once asked if there was another reason he’d been leading her into the alley, which they all suspected was to murder her—perhaps even to torture her into telling what the police might know about the Watchmaker.
    The agent gave no reaction to his answers but merely jotted notes. Finally the agent looked behind Vincent at Sachs. “Amelia, could you do me a favor?”
    “Sure.”
    “Could you show Vincent the footprint we found?”
    Sachs rose and got the electrostatic image. She held it up for Vincent to look at.
    “What about it?” he asked.
    “That’s your size shoe, isn’t it?”
    “About.”
    She continued to stare at him, saying nothing. Rhyme sensed she was setting up a brilliant trap. He watched them both closely. . . .
    “Thanks,” Dance said to Sachs, who sat down again.
    The agent eased forward, slightly more into the suspect’s personal space. “Vincent, I’m curious. Where’d you get the groceries?”
    A brief hesitation. “Well, at the Food Emporium.”
    Rhyme finally understood. She was going to draw him out about the groceries and then ask him why he’d bought them in Manhattan if he lived in New Jersey—since everything in the cart would be available closer to home and probably cheaper. She leaned forward, pulling off her