The Cold Moon

of the team continued to examine the evidence.
    The fax phone rang and Rhyme looked at the unit eagerly in hopes it was something helpful. But the pages were for Amelia Sachs. Rhyme was watching her face closely as she read them. He knew the look. Like a dog after a fox.
    “What, Sachs?”
    She shook her head. “The analysis of the evidence from Ben Creeley’s place in Westchester. No IAFIS hits on the prints but there were leather texture marks on some of the fireplace tools and on Creeley’s desk. Who opens desk drawers wearing gloves?”
    There was, of course, no database of glove marks but if Sachs could find a pair in a suspect’s possession that matched this pattern, that would be solid circumstantial evidence placing him at the scene, nearly as good as a clear friction-ridge print.
    She continued to read. “And the mud I found in front of the fireplace? It doesn’t match the soil in Creeley’s yard. Higher acid content and some pollutants. Like from an industrial site.” Sachs continued. “There were also some traces of burned cocaine in the fireplace.” She looked at Rhyme and gave a wry smile. “A bummer if my first murder vic turns out to be not so innocent.”
    Rhyme shrugged. “Nun or dope dealer, Sachs, murder’s still murder. What else do you have?”
    “The ash I found in the fireplace—the lab couldn’t recover much but they found these.” She held up a photo of financial records, like a spreadsheet or ledger, which seemed to show entries totaling millions of dollars. “They found part of a logo or something on it. The techs’re still checking it out. And they’ll send the entries to a forensic accountant, see if he can make any sense of it. And they also found part of his calendar. Stuff about getting his car oil changed, a haircut appointment—hardly the agenda for the week you’re going to kill yourself, by the way. . . . Then the day before he died he went to the St. James Tavern.” She tapped a sheet—the recovered page from his calendar.
    A note from Nancy Simpson explained about the place. “Bar on East Ninth Street. Sleazy neighborhood. Why’d a rich accountant go there? Seems funny.”
    “Not necessarily.”
    She glanced Rhyme’s way then walked to the corner of the room. He got the message and followed in the red Storm Arrow wheelchair.
    Sachs crouched down beside him. He wondered if she’d take his hand (since some sensation had returned to his right fingers and wrist, holding hands had taken on great importance to them both). But there was a very thin line between their personal and their business lives and she now remained purely professional.
    “Rhyme,” she whispered.
    “I know what—”
    “Let me finish.”
    He grunted.
    “I have to follow up on this.”
    “Priorities. Your case is colder than the Watchmaker, Sachs. Whatever happened to Creeley, even if he was murdered, the perp’s probably not a multiple doer. The Watchmaker is. He has to be our priority. Whatever evidence there is about Creeley’ll still be there after we nail our boy.”
    She was shaking her head. “I don’t think so, Rhyme. I’ve pushed the button. I’ve started asking questions. You know how that works. Word’s starting to spread about the case. Evidence and suspects could be disappearing right now.”
    “And the Watchmaker ’s probably targeting somebody else right now too. He could be killing somebody else right now. . . . And, believe me, if there’s another murder and we drop the ball there’ll be hell to pay. Baker told me the request for us came from the top floor.”
    Insisted . . .
    “I won’t drop the ball. You get another scene, I’ll run it. If Bo Haumann stages a tactical op, I’ll be there.”
    Rhyme gave an exaggerated frown. “Tactical? You don’t get dessert until you finish your vegetables.”
    She laughed, and now he felt the pressure of her hand. “Come on, Rhyme, we’re in cop land. Nobody runs just one case at a time. Most Major Cases desks’re littered with a dozen files. I can handle two. ”
    Troubled by a foreboding he couldn’t articulate, Rhyme hesitated then said, “Let’s hope, Sachs. Let’s hope.”
    It was the best blessing he could give.

Chapter 8
    He came here ?
    Amelia Sachs, standing beside a planter that smelled of urine and sported a dead yellow stalk, glanced through the grimy window.
    She suspected the place would be bad, knowing the address, but not this bad. Sachs was standing outside the St. James