The Cold Moon

the fake fire extinguisher bomb and learned that they’d provided carpeting and tile for the HUD offices.
    “I sent our rookie downtown to look around. He found a building across Cedar Street that was being renovated. The crews had tarred the roof a week ago, just before the cold spell. Flakes of tar matched those found on our perp’s shoes. The roof was a perfect place to check out HUD.”
    This also explained why he’d poured sand on the ground at the crime scene and swept it up—to make absolutely certain they didn’t find trace that’d help anyone identify him later when he came back to assemble and arm the bombs.
    Rhyme also found that the other victims had a connection to the building. Lucy Richter was being recognized there today, and she’d had the speciallyissued passes and IDs to get into all parts of the building. She also had a classified memo on security and evacuation procedures.
    As for Joanne Harper, it turned out that she’d done the flower arrangements for the ceremony—a good way to smuggle something into the building.
    “A bomb, I guessed. We got the mayor involved and he called the press, had them hold off on the story that we were evacuating HUD so the perps wouldn’t rabbit. But the device blew before the bomb squad could disarm it.” Rhyme shook his head. “Just hate it when good evidence blows up. You know how hard it is to lift prints off pieces of metal that’ve been flying through the air at thirty thousand feet a second?”
    “How’dja get Miss Congeniality here?” Dellray asked, nodding at Charlotte.
    Rhyme said dismissively, “That was easy. She was careless. If Duncan was fake, then the woman helping him at the first scene in the alley had to be fake too. Our rookie got all the tag numbers of cars in the vicinity of the alley off Cedar. The car the supposed sister was driving was an Avis, rented to Charlotte Allerton. We checked all the hotels in the city until we found her.”
    Dellray shook his head. “An’ what about yo’ perp? Mr. Clockmaker?”
    “It’s ‘Watchmaker,’” the criminalist grumbled. “And that’s a different story.” He explained that Charlotte’s daughter, Pam, had heard that he had a place in Brooklyn but she didn’t know where it was. “No other leads.”
    Dellray bent down. “Where in Brooklyn? Need to know. And now.”
    Charlotte replied defiantly, “You’re pathetic! All of you! You’re just lackeys for the bureaucracy in Washington. You’re selling out the heart of our country and—”
    Dellray leaned forward, right into her face. He clicked his tongue. “Uh-uh. No politics, no phi lo sophy . . . All we want’re answers to the questions. We all together on that?”
    “Fuck you” was Charlotte’s response.
    Dellray blew air through his cheeks like a trumpet player. He moaned, “I am no match for this intellect.”
    Rhyme wished Kathryn Dance was here to interrogate the woman, though he guessed it would take a long time to pry information from her. He eased forward in the wheelchair and said in a whisper, so Pam couldn’t hear, “If you help us out I can make sure you see your daughter from time to time when you’re in prison. If you don’t cooperate, I will guarantee that you never see her again as long as you live.”
    Charlotte glanced into the hallway, where Pam sat on a chair, defiantly clutching her Harry Potter. The dark-haired girl was pretty, with fragile features, but very slim. She wore faded jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt. The skin around her eyes was dark. She clicked her fingernails together compulsively. The girl seemed needy in a hundred different ways.
    Charlotte turned back to Rhyme. “Then I’ll never see her again,” she said calmly.
    Dellray blinked at this, his usually unrevealing face tightening in revulsion.
    Rhyme himself could think of nothing more to say to the woman.
    It was then that Ron Pulaski came running into the room. He paused to catch his breath.
    “What?” Rhyme asked.
    It took a moment for him to be able to answer. Finally, he said, “The phones . . . The Watchmaker . . .”
    “Out with it, Ron.”
    “Sorry . . .” A deep breath. “We couldn’t trace his mobile but a hotel clerk saw her, Charlotte, making calls around midnight every night over the past four or five days. I called the phone company. I got the number she called. They traced it. It’s to a pay phone in Brooklyn. At this intersection.” He handed the slip of paper to Sellitto, who