The Cold Moon

growing accustomed to the dimness and as he walked closer he noticed a burning desk lamp inside a small room. There was one other thing he could see, as well.
    One of the black, moon-faced clocks—the Watchmaker’s calling cards.
    Baker started forward.
    Which is when he stepped on a large patch of grease he hadn’t been able to see in the darkness and went down hard on his side, gasping. He dropped his pistol, which slid away across the filthy concrete floor. He winced in pain.
    It was at this moment that a man jogged up fast behind him from one of the side corridors.
    Baker glanced up into the eyes of Gerald Duncan, the Watchmaker.
    The killer bent down.
    And he offered his hand, helping Baker up. “You all right?”
    “Just got the wind knocked out of me. Careless. Thanks, Gerry.”
    Duncan stepped away, retrieved Baker’s pistol and handed it to him. “You didn’t really need that.” He laughed.
    Baker put the gun back in his holster. “Wasn’t sure who else I might run into, other than you. Spooky place.”
    The Watchmaker gestured toward the office. “Come on inside. I’ll tell you exactly what’s going to happen to her.”
    What was going to happen meant how the men were going to commit murder.
    And the “her” he was referring to was an NYPD detective named Amelia Sachs.

Chapter 29
    Sitting on one of the chairs in the warehouse office, Dennis Baker brushed at his slacks, now stained from the fall.
    Italian, expensive. Shit.
    He said to Duncan, “We’ve got Vincent Reynolds in custody and we took the church.”
    Duncan would know this, of course, since he himself had made the call alerting the police that the Watchmaker’s partner was wheeling a grocery cart around the West Village (Baker had been surprised, and impressed, that Kathryn Dance had tipped to Vincent even before Duncan dimed out his supposed partner).
    And Duncan had known too that the rapist would give up the church under pressure.
    “Took a little longer than I thought,” said Baker, “but he caved.”
    “Of course he did,” Duncan said. “He’s a worm.”
    Duncan had planned the sick fuck’s capture all long; it was necessary to feed the cops the information to make them believe that the Watchmaker was a vengeful psychopath, not the hired murderer he actually was. And Vincent was key to pointing the police in the right direction for the completion of Duncan’s plan.
    And that plan was as elaborate and elegant as the finest timepiece. Its purpose was to halt Amelia Sachs’s investigation threatening to unearth an extortion ring that Baker had been running from the 118th Precinct.
    Dennis Baker came from a family of law enforcers. His father had been a transit cop, who retired early after he took a spill down a subway stationstairwell. An older brother worked for the Department of Corrections and Baker’s uncle was a cop in a small town in Suffolk County, where the family was from. Initially he’d had no interest in the profession—the handsome, well-built young man wanted big bucks. But after losing every penny in a failed recycling business, Baker decided to join up. He moved from Long Island to New York City and tried to reinvent himself as a policeman.
    But coming to the job later in life—and the cocky, TV-cop style he adopted—worked against him, alienating brass and fellow officers. Even his family history in law enforcement didn’t help (his relatives fell low in the blue hierarchy). Baker could make a living as a cop but he wasn’t destined for a corner office in the Big Building.
    So he decided to go for the bucks after all. But not via business. He’d use his badge.
    When he first started shaking down businessmen he wondered if he’d feel guilty about it.
    Uh-uh. Not a bit.
    The only problem was that to support his lifestyle—which included a taste for wine, food and beautiful women—he needed more than just a thousand or so a week from Korean wholesalers and fat men who owned pizza parlors in Queens. So Baker, a former partner and some cops from the 118th came up with a plan for a lucrative extortion ring. Baker’s cohorts would steal a small amount of drugs from the evidence lockers or would score some coke or smack on the street. They’d target the children of rich businessmen in Manhattan clubs and plant the drugs on them. Baker would talk to the parents, who’d be told that for a six-figure payment, the arrest reports would disappear. If they didn’t pay, the kids’d go to jail. He’d