The Cold Moon

used the phrase himself—when he’d told his wife he wanted a divorce, not long after his accident. Their relationship had been rocky for some time and he had decided that whether or not he survived the broken neck, he was going to go forward on his own and not tie her down to the difficult life of a gimp’s wife.
    But back then “moving on” meant something very different from what Rhyme was facing now. The life he’d constructed over the past few years, a precarious life, was about to change in a big way. The problem, of course, was that by going to Argyle Security, Sachs wasn’t really moving on. She was moving back.
    Sellitto and Cooper were gone and Rhyme and Pulaski were alone in the downstairs lab, parked in front of an examination table, organizing evidence in the 118th Precinct scandal cases. Finally confronted with the evidence—and the fact they’d unwittingly hired a domestic terrorist—Baker, Wallace and Henson copped pleas and were diming out everybody involved at the 118th. (Though nobody would say a word about who’d hooked the Watchmaker up with Baker. Understandable. You simply don’t give up thename of a senior member of an OC crew when you’re headed off to the same prison he might end up in, thanks to your testimony.)
    Preparing himself for Sachs’s departure, Rhyme had concluded that Ron Pulaski would eventually be a fine crime scene cop. He had ingenuity and intelligence and was as dogged as Lon Sellitto. Rhyme could wear the rough edges off him in eight months or a year. Together, he and the rookie would run scenes, analyze evidence and find perps, who’d go to jail or die trying not to. The system would keep going. The process of policing was bigger than just one man or woman; it had to be.
    Yes, the system would keep going. . . . But it was impossibly hard to imagine that system without Amelia Sachs.
    Well, fuck the goddamn sentiment, Rhyme said to himself, and get back to work. He glanced at the evidence board. The Watchmaker’s out there somewhere; I’m going to find him. He is . . . not . . . getting . . . away.
    “What?” Pulaski asked.
    “I didn’t say anything,” Rhyme snapped.
    “Yeah, you did. I just . . . “He fell silent under Rhyme’s withering glare.
    Returning to his tasks, Pulaski asked, “The notes I found in Baker’s office? They’re on cheap paper. Should I use ninhydrin to raise the latents?”
    Rhyme started to respond.
    A woman’s voice said, “No. First you try iodine fuming. Then ninhydrin, then silver nitrate. You have to do it in that order.”
    Rhyme looked up to see Sachs in the doorway. He slapped a benign look on his face. Putting on a good front, he praised himself. Being generous. Being mature.
    She continued, “If not, the chemicals can react and you can ruin the prints.”
    Well, this is awkward, the criminalist thought angrily. He stared at the evidence boards as the silence between them roared like the December wind outside.
    She said, “I’m sorry.”
    Unusual to hear those words from her; the woman apologized about as often as Lincoln Rhyme did. Which was close to never.
    Rhyme didn’t respond. He kept his eyes on the charts.
    “Really, I’m sorry.”
    Irritated at the greeting card sentiment, he glanced sideways, frowning, barely able to control his anger.
    But he saw that she wasn’t speaking to him.
    Her eyes were fixed on Pulaski. “I’ll make it up to you somehow. You can run the next scene. I’ll be copilot. Or the next couple of scenes.”
    “How’s that?” the rookie asked.
    “I know you heard I was leaving.”
    He nodded.
    “But I’ve changed my mind.”
    “You’re not quitting?” Pulaski asked.
    “No.”
    “Hey, not a problem,” Pulaski said. “Wouldn’t mind sharing the job for a little while more, you know.” His relief at not being the only ant under Lincoln Rhyme’s magnifying glass clearly outweighed any disappointment at getting busted back down to assistant.
    Sachs tugged a chair around to face Rhyme.
    He said, “I thought you were at Argyle.”
    “I was. To turn them down.”
    “Can I ask why?”
    “I got a call. From Suzanne Creeley. Ben Creeley’s wife. She thanked me for believing her, for finding out who’d really killed her husband. She was crying. She told me that she just couldn’t bear the thought that her husband had killed himself. Murder was terrible but a suicide—that would’ve undermined everything they’d had together over the years.”
    Sachs