The Cold Moon

didn’t really register.
    “You find anything on him?” Rhyme asked.
    “Just the thirty-two and latex gloves,” Pulaski said. “And some personal effects.”
    A moment later Amelia Sachs joined them, holding a carton containing a dozen plastic evidence bags. She’d been searching Baker’s car. “It’s getting better by the minute, Rhyme. Check this out.” She showed Rhyme and Sellitto the bags one by one. They contained cocaine, fifty thousand in cash, some old clothing, receipts from clubs and bars in Manhattan, including the St. James. She lifted one bag that seemed to contain nothing. On closer examination, though, he could see fine fibers.
    “Carpeting?” he asked.
    “Yep. Brown.”
    “Bet they match the Explorer’s.”
    “That’s what I’m thinking.”
    Another link to the Watchmaker.
    Rhyme nodded, staring at the plastic bag, which rippled in the chill wind. He felt that burst of satisfaction that occurred when the pieces of the puzzle started to come together. He turned to the squad car where Baker sat and called through the half-open window. “When were you assigned to the One One Eight?”
    The man stared back at the criminalist. “Fuck you. You think I’m saying anything to you pricks? This is bullshit. Somebody planted all that on me.”
    Rhyme said to Sellitto, “Call Personnel. I want to know his prior assignments.”
    Sellitto did and, after a brief conversation, looked up and said, “Bingo. He was at the One One Eight for two years. Narcotics and Homicide. Promoted out to the Big Building three years ago.”
    “How did you meet Duncan?”
    Baker hunkered down in the backseat and returned to his job of staring straight ahead.
    “Well, isn’t this a tidy little confluence of our cases,” Rhyme said, in good humor.
    “A what?” Sellitto barked.
    “Confluence. A coming together, Lon. A merger. Don’t you do crosswords?”
    Sellitto grunted. “What cases?”
    “Obviously, Sachs’s case at the One One Eight and the Watchmaker situation. They weren’t separate at all. Opposite sides of the same knife blade, you could say.” He was pleased with the metaphor.
    His Case and the Other Case . . .
    “You want to explain?”
    Did he really need to?
    Amelia Sachs said, “Baker was a player in the corruption at the One One Eight. He hired the Watchmaker—well, Duncan—to take me out ’cause I was getting close to him.”
    “Which pretty much proves there is indeed something rotten in Denmark.”
    Now it was Pulaski’s chance not to get it. “Denmark? The one in Europe?”
    “The one in Shakespeare, Ron,” the criminalist said impatiently. And when the young officer grinned blankly Rhyme gave up.
    Sachs took over again. “He means it’s proof there was major corruption at the One One Eight. Obviously they’re doing more than just sitting on investigations for some crew out of Baltimore or Bay Ridge.”
    Looking up absently at the office building, Rhyme nodded, oblivious to the cold and the wind. There were some unanswered questions, of course. For instance, Rhyme wasn’t sure if Vincent Reynolds really was a partner or was just being set up.
    Then there was the matter of where the extortion money was, and Rhyme now asked, “Who’s the one in Maryland? Who’re you working with? Was it OC or something else?”
    “Are you deaf?” Baker snapped. “Not a fucking word.”
    “Take him to CB,” Sellitto said to the patrol officers standing beside the car. “Book him on assault with intent for the time being. We’ll add some other ornaments later.” As they watched the RMP drive away, Sellitto shook his head. “Jesus,” the detective muttered. “Were we lucky.”
    “Lucky?” Rhyme grumbled, recalling that he’d said something similar earlier.
    “Yeah, that Duncan didn’t kill any more vics. And here too—Amelia was a sitting duck. If that piece hadn’t misfired . . .” His voice faded before he described the tragedy that had nearly occurred.
    Lincoln Rhyme believed in luck about as much as he believed in ghosts and flying saucers. He started to ask what the hell did luck have to do with anything, but the words never came out of his mouth.
    Luck . . .
    Suddenly a dozen thoughts, like bees escaping from a jostled hive, zipped around him. He was frowning. “That’s odd. . . .” His voice faded. Finally he whispered, “Duncan.”
    “Something wrong, Linc? You okay?”
    “Rhyme?” Sachs asked.
    “Shhhhh.”
    Using the touch-pad controller he