The Cold Moon

her.
    Now, in the detective’s car, Dance asked, “It was your idea to call me, wasn’t it?”
    “How’s that?” Sellitto asked.
    “Not Lincoln’s. He’s not sure what to make of me.”
    His one-second pause was a flashing sign. Sellitto said, “You did a good job with that witness, Cobb.”
    Dance smiled. “I know I did. But he’s not sure what to make of me.”
    Another pause. “He likes his evidence.”
    “Everybody has their weaknesses.”
    The detective laughed. He hit the siren button and they sped through a red light.
    As he drove, Dance glanced at him, watched his hands and eyes, listened to his voice. She assessed: He’s truly obsessed with getting the Watchmaker, and the other cases undoubtedly sitting on his desk now are as insubstantial as steam. And, as she’d observed when he was in her class yesterday, he was dogged and savvy, with no problem taking as much time as he needed to understand a problem or to get an interrogation technique right; if anybody grew impatient with him, well, that was their problem.
    His energy’s nervous but very different from that of Amelia Sachs, who has harm issues. He grumbles out of habit but he’s essentially a very content man.
    This was something Dance did automically, the analysis. A gesture, a glance, an offhand statement became to her another piece of that miraculous puzzle that was a human being. She was usually able to shut it off when she wished—it’s no fun to be out for a Pinot Grigio or Anchor Steam beer and finding yourself analyzing your drinking buddies (and it’s a lot less fun for them). But sometimes the thoughts just flowed; this habit went with the territory of being Kathryn Dance.
    The people addict . . .
    “You have a family?” he asked.
    “Two children, yes.”
    “And what’s your husband do?”
    “I’m a widow.” Dance’s job was recognizing the effect of different tones of voice, and she now delivered these words in a particular way, both offhand and grave, which he would take to mean “I don’t want to talk about it.” A woman might grip her arm in sympathy; Sellitto did what most of his sex would: muttered a genuine but awkward “sorry” and moved on. He began talking about the evidence they’d found in the case and the leads—which were primarily nonleads. He was funny and gruff.
    Ah, Bill . . . Know what? I think you’d’ve liked this guy. Dance knew that she did.
    He told her about the store where it was likely the clocks came from. “I was saying, we don’t think this Hallerstein’s the doer. But that doesn’t mean he’s not involved. There’s a chance this could get a little, you know, hairy.”
    “I’m not armed,” Dance pointed out.
    The laws about carrying guns from one jurisdiction to another are very strict and most cops are prohibited from bringing weapons from their home state to another. Not that it mattered; Dance had never fired her Glock except on the range and hoped to be able to say the same at her retirement party.
    “I’ll stay close,” Sellitto reassured.
    Hallerstein’s Timepieces sat by itself in the middle of a gloomy block next to some wholesaler storefronts and warehouses. She eyed the place. The facade of the building was covered with scabby paint and grime but inside Hallerstein’s shop window, protected by thick steel bars, the displayed clocks and watches were immaculate.
    As they walked to the door Dance said, “If you don’t mind, Detective, you establish the credentials, then let me handle things. That okay?”
    Some cops, on their local turf, would’ve had a problem with her taking over. She’d sensed, though, that Sellitto would not (he had self-confidence to burn) but she needed to ask the question. He replied, “It’s your, you know, ball game. That’s why we called you.”
    “I’m going to say some things that sound a little odd. But it’s part of the plan. Now, if I sense he’s the perp, I’ll lean forward and intertwine my fingers.” A gesture that would make her more vulnerable and put the killer subconsciously at ease—less likely to go for a weapon. “If I think he’s innocent, I’ll take my purse off my shoulder and put it on the counter.”
    “Got it.”
    “Ready?”
    “After you.”
    Dance pushed a button and they were buzzed into the shop. It was a small place, filled with every kind of clock imaginable: tall grandfather clocks, similar but smaller tabletop clocks, ornate sculptures containing timepieces, sleek,