The Cold Moon

Dennis Baker barked.
    “There was somebody else he was going to . . .” Vincent’s voice faded.
    “Kill?”
    The suspect nodded.
    “Where?”
    “I don’t know exactly. He said Midtown, I think. He didn’t tell me. Really.”
    They glanced at Kathryn Dance, who apparently sensed no deception and nodded.
    “I don’t know whether he’s there now or the church.”
    He gave the address.
    Sachs said, “I know it. Closed a while ago.”
    Sellitto called ESU and had Haumann put together some tactical teams.
    “He was going to meet me back in the Village in an hour or so. Near that building in the alley.”
    Where, Rhyme reflected, Vincent had been going to kill and rape Kathryn Dance. Sellitto ordered unmarked cars stationed near the building.
    “Who’s the next victim?” Baker asked.
    “I don’t know. I really don’t. He didn’t tell me anything about her because . . .”
    “Why?” Dance asked.
    “I wasn’t going to have anything to do with her.”
    Do with her . . .
    Rhyme understood. “So you were helping him out and in exchange he’d let you have the victims.”
    “Only the women,” Vincent said quickly, shaking his head in disgust. “Not men. I’m not weird or anything. . . . And only after they were dead, so it wasn’t really rape. It’s not. Gerald told me that. He looked it up.”
    Dance and Sellitto seemed unmoved by this but Baker blinked. Sachs was trying to control her temper.
    Baker asked, “Why weren’t you going to do anything with the next one?”
    “Because . . . he was going to burn her to death.”
    “Jesus,” Baker muttered.
    “Is he armed?” Rhyme asked.
    Vincent nodded. “He’s got a gun. A pistol.”
    “A thirty-two?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “What’s he driving?” Sellitto asked.
    “It’s a dark blue Buiek. It’s stolen. A couple years old.”
    “License plates?”
    “I don’t know. Really. He just stole it.”
    “Put out an EVL,” Rhyme ordered. Sellitto called it in.
    Dance leapt in with, “And what else?” She sensed something.
    “What do you mean?”
    “What about the car upsets you?”
    He looked down. “I think he killed the owner. I didn’t know he was going to. I really didn’t.”
    “Where?”
    “He didn’t tell me.”
    Cooper sent out a request for any reports of recent carjackings, homicides or missing persons.
    “And . . .” Vincent swallowed. His leg was bouncing faintly again.
    “What?” Baker asked.
    “He killed somebody else too. This college student, I think, a kid. In an alley around the corner from the church, near Tenth Avenue.”
    “Why?”
    “He saw us coming out of the church. Duncan stabbed him and put the body in a Dumpster.”
    Cooper phoned the local precinct house to check this out.
    “Let’s have him call Duncan,” Sellitto said, nodding at Vincent. “We could trace his mobile.”
    “His phone won’t work. He takes the battery and SIM chip out when we’re not actually . . . you know, working.”
    Working . . .
    “He said you can’t trace it that way.”
    “Is the phone in his name?”
    “No. It’s one of those prepaid ones. He buys a new one every few days and throws out the old one.”
    “Get the number,” Rhyme ordered. “Run it with the service providers.”
    Mel Cooper called the major mobile companies in the area and had several brief conversations. He hung up and reported, “East Coast Communications. Prepaid, like he said. Cash purchase. No way to trace it if the battery’s out.”
    “Hell,” Rhyme muttered.
    Sellitto’s phone rang. Bo Haumann’s Emergency Service Unit teams were on their way. They’d be at the church in a few minutes.
    “Sounds like that’s our only hope,” Baker said.
    He, Sachs and Pulaski hurried out the door to join the tactical operation.
    Rhyme, Dance and Sellitto remained in his lab, to try to learn more about Gerald Duncan from Vincent, while Cooper searched databases for any information on him.
    “What’s his interest in clocks and time and the lunar calendar?” Rhyme asked.
    “He collects old clocks and watches. He really was a watchmaker—a hobby, you know. It’s not like he has a shop or anything.”
    Rhyme said, “But he might’ve worked for one at some point. Find out the professional organization of watchmakers. Collectors too.”
    Cooper typed on his keyboard. He asked, “America only?”
    Dance asked Vincent, “What’s his nationality?”
    “He’s American, I guess. He doesn’t have an accent or