The Cold Moon

never ate much either and he still loved her.
    The killer made coffee for himself. While the water was heating he took the jar of beans out of the refrigerator and measured out exactly two spoons’ worth. These clattered as he poured them into the hand grinder and turned the handle a dozen times until the noise stopped. He carefully poured the grounds into a paper cone filter inside a drip funnel. He tapped it to make sure the grounds were level. Vincent loved watching Gerald Duncan make coffee.
    Meticulous . . .
    Duncan looked at his gold pocket watch. He wound the stem very carefully. He finished the coffee—he drank it fast like medicine—and then looked at Vincent. “Our flower girl,” he said, “Joanne. Will you go check on her?”
    A thud in his gut. So long, Clever Vincent.
    “Sure.”
    “I’m going to the alley on Cedar Street. The police will be there by now. I want to see whom we’re up against.”
    Whom . . .
    Duncan pulled his jacket on and slung his bag over his shoulder. “You ready?”
    Vincent nodded and donned his cream-colored parka, hat and sunglasses.
    Duncan was saying, “Let me know if people are coming by the workshop to pick up orders or if she’s working alone.”
    The Watchmaker had learned that Joanne spent a lot of time in her workshop, a few blocks away from her retail flower store. The workshop was quiet and dark. Picturing the woman, her curly brown hair, her long but pretty face, Hungry Vincent couldn’t get her out of his mind.
    They walked downstairs and into the alley behind the church.
    Duncan hooked the padlock. He said, “Oh, I wanted to say something. The one for tomorrow? She’s a woman too. That’d be two in a row. I don’t know how often you like to have your . . . what do you call it? A heart-to-heart?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Why do you say that?” Duncan asked. The killer, Vincent had learned, had a tireless curiosity.
    That phrase too came from Dr. Jenkins, his buddy the detention center doc, who’d tell him to come to his office anytime he wanted and talk about how he was feeling; they’d have themselves a good old heart-to-heart.
    For some reason, Vincent liked the words. The phrase also sounded a lot better than “rape.”
    “I don’t know. I just do.” He added that he’d have no problem with two women in a row.
    Sometimes eating makes you even hungrier, Dr. Jenkins.
    Don’t you agree?
    As they stepped carefully over the icy patches on the sidewalk, Vincent asked, “Um, what are you going to do with Joanne?”
    In killing his victims Duncan had one rule: Their deaths could not be quick. This wasn’t as easy as it sounded, he’d explained in that precise, detached voice of his. Duncan had a book titled Extreme Interrogation Techniques. It was about terrifying prisoners into talking by subjecting them to tortures that would eventually kill them if they didn’t confess: putting weights over their throats, cutting their wrists and letting them bleed, a dozen others.
    Duncan explained, “I don’t want to take too long, in her case. I’ll gag her and tie her hands behind her. Then get her on her stomach and wrap a wire around her neck and her ankles.”
    “Her knees’ll be bent?” Vincent could picture it.
    “That’s right. It was in the book. Did you see the illustrations?”
    Vincent shook his head.
    “She won’t be able to keep her legs at that angle for very long. When they start to straighten, it pulls the wire around her neck taut and she’llstrangle herself. It’ll take about eight, ten minutes, I’d guess.” He smiled. “I’m going to time it. As you suggested. When it’s over I’ll call you and she’s all yours.”
    A good old heart-to-heart . . .
    They stepped out of the alley as a blast of freezing wind struck them. Vincent’s parka, which was unzipped, blew open.
    He stopped, alarmed. On the sidewalk a few feet away was a young man. He had a scrawny beard and wore a threadbare jacket. A backpack was slung over a shoulder. A student, Vincent guessed. Head down, he kept walking briskly.
    Duncan glanced at his partner. “What’s the matter?”
    Vincent nodded at his side, where the hunting knife, in a scabbard, was stuck into his waistband. “I think he saw it. I’m . . . I’m sorry. I should’ve zipped my jacket, but . . .”
    Duncan’s lips pressed together.
    No, no . . . Vincent hoped he hadn’t made Duncan unhappy. “I’ll go take care of him, if you want. I’ll—”
    The